The Thief

No panties. She wasn’t wearing panties.

“Is it working,” she said with a slow turn back toward the door.

“Fuck,” he breathed as she sashayed over and locked things. “Yes.”

“Good. That was the plan.”

Assail didn’t waste any goddamn time. He shoved the light blankets down, yanked up his hospital johnny, and then she was up on the bed straddling him.

“I love you,” she said as she kissed him. “And I didn’t take any chances. In and out. The job was done safely, I swear.”

Just as she lowered herself onto his arousal, he thought he never would have imagined him and the love of his life having such a factual conversation about murdering someone. Then again, who else did he think he’d end up with?

Only a strong female, with a will of her own and the skills to match, would ever capture his heart.

And Marisol Maria Rafaela Carvalho, a.k.a. Sola Morte, was that female exactly.

“I love you,” he said with a groan as they became one.

And then he stopped thinking altogether, and just reveled in the feeling. Surely there were going to be obstacles to surmount and conflicts to be resolved—and he was going to have to find something productive to do with himself.

But if he had learned one thing, in his four hundred years of existence?

With love…all things are possible.