Saved By The Hitman: An Instalove Possessive Age Gap Romance Read online

  CONTENTS

  Saved by the Hitman

  NEWSLETTER

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Extended Epilogue

  Extended Epilogue

  NEWSLETTER

  A MAN WHO KNOWS WHAT HE WANTS

  BRATVA BEAR SHIFTERS

  LAIRDS & LADIES

  RUSSIAN UNDERWORLD

  IRISH WOLF SHIFTERS

  Collaborations

  About the Author

  SAVED BY THE HITMAN

  AN OLDER MAN YOUNGER WOMAN ROMANCE

  _______________________

  A MAN WHO KNOWS WHAT HE WANTS, 227

  FLORA FERRARI

  Copyright © 2021 by Flora Ferrari

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The following story contains mature themes, strong language and sexual situations. It is intended for mature readers.

  SAVED BY THE HITMAN

  I’ve finally found a life worth living when the Bratva targets me for execution. I’m working as an event planner with my best friend, Patricia. I’ve got a beautiful little Chihuahua, Rebel.

  Things are looking up.

  But then my whole world is turned bloody and violent. The Bratva sends a hired killer to take my life—Jett Jackman, a forty-two year old man dripping in experience, his hair iron, his massive body rock hard with muscle.

  I don’t stand a chance against him. This ex-SEAL is going to make quick work of me.

  But instead of carrying out his orders and taking my life, Jett does what a hitman is never supposed to do. He refuses. He rescues me and, together, we go on the run from the Bratva.

  I don’t know why he’d take such a risk for me. With his square jaw and his azure eyes, the faint silver shadow of a beard glistening on his cheeks, he wouldn’t look out of place on the cover of GQ. I’m curvy and shy and naïve and I’ve never even had a boyfriend. I’m a virgin to top it all off.

  What the heck could he want with me?

  All I can do is try to keep myself alive. Or at least that’s what I think at first. Then one night he comes to me, this seven-foot alpha, and he tells me the real reason he took me away from the Bratva. I can hardly believe it when he says that he wants me, all of me, that I belong to him now. He owns me.

  And then Patricia reveals a secret that threatens to shatter everything. I always thought my parents died in a fire when I was young. That’s why I’m an orphan. A terrible mistake. But the truth is much more sinister.

  Can we get through all the heartache and pain to finally claim our star bright future? I don’t know. But I’ll never stop fighting for it.

  *Saved by the Hitman is an insta-everything standalone instalove romance with a HEA, no cheating, and no cliffhanger.

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  CHAPTER ONE

  Jett

  I walk around the ballroom, feeling out of my element. This isn’t my usual kind of job – with the bright chandelier glinting from the ceiling, the happy chatter of the party guests, the jazz band filling the cavernous room with their music from the corner – but it’s my last.

  So I have to do it.

  Then I’m done with this life.

  I make sure to circulate and make small talk with the guests, using my false identity. These are all Wall Street types, and so that’s what I become. My name for the evening is Michael Chandler and I’m a trader of money, just like them.

  I wonder how quickly their faces would change from friendly to terrified if I told them I usually trade in bullets and blood.

  I don’t sip on the champagne which is stuck to all the guests’ hands. I just want to do my job and get out of here as quickly as possible, disappear from the East Coast forever, find somewhere quiet where I can forget about this life.

  I search the men for any signs of depravity as I wander the room, pretending to take sips from my perpetually-full champagne glass. I’ve always drawn the line at killing anyone who doesn’t deserve a bullet between the eyes.

  I take out the trash—the rapists, the killers, the scumbags.

  I do it for a fee, so maybe that makes me no better than my quarry.

  But fuck it. This is the life I’ve chosen.

  I can lie to myself and say I was forced into it, but only weak men make excuses.

  I end up in the far corner of the room, waiting for the burner cell to buzz from my inside pocket.

  Usually, my contact – the contact, the man who runs all the high-level hits on the East Coast – will give me the details several days in advance so that I have a chance to prep. But this job is different.

  Two days ago, he called me, using a voice changer like he – or she – always does.

  “You’re going to attend a party,” I was informed. “You’re going to circulate, smile, be as friendly as a big bastard like you can be. At some point in the night, you’ll get a text with an image attached. That’s your target.”

  “What did they do?” I ask, my usual question.

  I have to be able to live with myself after all the gun smoke has drifted away.

  But this time, my contact wouldn’t tell me.

  “If you do this, you’re free and clear. We won’t hunt you. We won’t kill you. You’ll be a free man, Jett. So just do your goddamned job.”

  “You wouldn’t talk to me like that if you were here,” I noted coldly.

  The alien voice warbled as he laughed. “No, maybe not. But I’m not there, am I? So just do your job.”

  I had to take a few long, deep breaths once the phone call was over, stilling the fire that flares constantly deep inside of me. There are caverns of violence within me, constantly firing, burning deep, my rage bubbling in a hellish boil just beneath the surface.

  But tonight I’m Michael. I wear my most convincing face. I even try to smile.

  The worst of the small talk comes from the women, draped in their glittering dresses, the bodies they’ve starved for the occasion shamelessly on display.

  One of them – a tall redhead who might rock another man’s world, but does absolutely nothing for me – even hits on me in front of her husband. The man is short and balding and looks as if he’d crumble at a weak jab to the face, but that doesn’t excuse the behavior, the disloyalty.

  A woman should be loyal to her man, just as a man should be willing to die for his woman.

  “I guess you work out, hmm?” the redhead says, reaching forward as if she’s going to touch my arm.

  I glance at her husband, waiting for him to do s
omething, say something, but his cheeks just bloom the same color as his wife’s hair and he stares bitterly at the floor.

  Disgusted, I make my excuses and continue my circulation of the room, like the blood pumping around a body.

  Which one of these sorry bastards am I going to put in the dirt tonight?

  I don’t like not knowing what he’s done. It niggles at the edge of my mind, telling me this is wrong. I need to find out if he deserves the punishment I’m going to dish out to him.

  Another circuit of the room brings me close to the stage. The band is taking a short break, the soft background music being played from speakers dotted around the room now.

  I’m already tired of being here and it’s only been forty-five minutes, my patience wearing wire-thin at the prospect of spending even another minute here.

  These people are Olympic-grade shit talkers and it’s starting to piss me the hell off.

  Or maybe it’s that niggle at the edge of my mind, the whisper that this job is wrong. It’s too different from the way I’ve done things for over a decade now. There are too many variables.

  I sigh darkly when I see a couple approaching, a man and woman I was talking with a few minutes ago about the stock price for some business I couldn’t give a damn about. We’re going to talk some more about it, I sense, and there’s nothing I can do but play the game, talking shit with a man I may be ending by the end of the night.

  Wrong, wrong, wrong, a voice hisses in my head, a voice I haven’t heard on any job before now because I’ve always known that the world was a better place without my targets in it.

  I step forward to greet them – I have no choice – when a woman darts into my path, walking unsteadily in heels, and then tumbles forward.

  Time slows down as I take in the full figure of her, curvier than my wildest dreams. She’s wearing black pants and a shirt, but that does nothing to hide the gorgeous gradations of her body.

  Her ass is full, big, beautifully so, the sort of ass that’s begging to be palmed and grabbed. Her tits are just the same, full, round enough to massage as I suck on them. And then my mind leaps to crazy places, like her nipples swelling with my child’s milk, and I don’t know what to make of that. Her hair is a deep oak color, tied up in a ponytail that bobs as she tumbles, in half speed, toward the floor.

  I dart forward because I know at that moment that I’ll never let anything happen to her.

  I’d die, I’d kill before I let anything hurt her.

  I loop my arms around her waist and catch her before she falls, heaving her upright, feeling the blistering warmth of her body.

  My hands come to rest on her wide hips, hips made for gripping as I ram roughly into her, using her voluptuous body in any way I see fit, slamming into her again and again until she’s panting and begging for more.

  I can feel her flesh through her shirt, so hot it’s like my palms are on fire.

  Something strange is happening here, something I’ve never experienced before.

  I want her.

  I need her.

  I can’t begin to explain the explosion that tears through me, shattering everything I thought I knew.

  But as I stand her upright and stare into her bright green eyes, something changes in me, something vital and important.

  Reality flickers and for a second I see her standing in a form hugging dress, our children gathered all around her, her full lips quirked into a content smile, her full, healthy, sexy-as-fuck cheeks red from all the happiness bubbling up inside of her.

  My cock pulses in my pants, suddenly rock hard, so hard it feels like it could explode.

  “Whoah,” the woman says, leaning back in my embrace, her leafy green eyes flitting up and down me. “Thank you for that. These heels make walking so difficult.”

  I keep my hands on her hips. Over her shoulder, the man and woman who’d been coming over to greet me veer off to another group with the casual expertise of career socialites.

  I press my palms against her flesh, thinking I might drag her into a private room and bend her over, tear those pants down and get a proper look at those round ass cheeks of hers.

  She’s shorter than me, but that’s not saying much. I’m almost seven foot. She must be about five nine or ten, which some men think is tall for a woman. But for me, it’s the perfect size.

  I could handle her any damn way I wanted, pick her up, and slam her down onto my lap, my more-than-ready cock grinding into her again and again.

  “Uh,” she whimpers, the sound like something she might do during sex, when I claim her, own her.

  Already, she’s mine.

  She just doesn’t know it yet.

  “Uh, what?” I growl.

  “Do you mind?”

  She gestures to my hands on her hips, but I can tell by the way her cheeks blossom red that she doesn’t want me to let her go. No, she wants me to drag her closer, grind my rock hard manhood against her sex, make her feel a preview of the pleasure I’m going to give her every day for the rest of our lives.

  “Yes,” I smirk, playing the cocky asshole. It’s easier than showing her the power she already has over me. “I do mind. I’m pretty comfortable, actually.”

  She giggles but kills the sound a moment later. She knows she isn’t supposed to be laughing. She should be snapping at me to get the hell away from her. She doesn’t know me.

  And yet her smile lingers even after she stills her laughter, a sassy, beautiful smile that strikes something deep inside of me, a primal chord of compulsion I didn’t even know was there.

  “What if I say pretty please?” she sasses.

  It takes far more effort than it should to let her go, but I do it, taking a small step backward.

  If I hold her for a moment longer, I’ll lose control and ravage her.

  I’ll drag her somewhere nobody else can see us – that body is for my eyes only – and strip down her pants so that I can see how round and full those thighs are when there’s nothing hiding them.

  Then I’ll bite my way up to her sex, tearing off her panties with my teeth, tasting the sweet juiciness of her core.

  My cock gives another urgent pulse.

  I ignore it as best as I can and offer my hand.

  “I’m Jett,” I say. “And you are?”

  “Juliana, but everybody calls me Julia,” she says.

  We shake hands.

  Hers is much smaller than my bear’s paw, and as I feel her hand I can’t stop myself from thinking how perfect it’d feel wrapped around my throbbing dick.

  It’s only after we’ve shaken hands that I realize I’ve fucked up and given her my real name.

  But it doesn’t matter.

  Because this woman belongs to me now.

  She would’ve learned who I really was eventually.

  After I’m done here – when that text finally comes in – I’m going to claim her, to fuck her like she deserves to be fucked.

  Because that’s my goddamned right.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Juliana

  Jett stands before me like a hulking beast, so muscular that he seems to bulge against the fabric of his tuxedo, as though any second it’s going to tear to tiny black petals and reveal his gigantic naked body.

  My body is too hot as I stand here, my heart thumping loudly in my ears.

  He’s so tall, at least six and a half feet, towering over me with stark blue eyes that see right through me. It’s like he’s undressing me with his eyes, but not in a leery way.

  This is like he owns me.

  I warn myself to be careful. This giant silver-haired man – his hair swept to the side, iron with his experience – wouldn’t be interested in me.

  He caught me because he didn’t want me to fall, that’s it.

  But already, impossibly, I feel myself falling for him.

  His jaw is square and clean shaven, his lips smirking or close to a smirk at all times, his eyes never leaving me.

  Even with the madness of the party all
around us – a party I should be entirely focused on – he makes me feel as though we’re completely alone.

  “So what do you do, Julia?” he asks, in that deep rumbling voice of his.

  His accent is hard to place. It’s not East Coast, but it’s not obviously Mid-West or Southern or West Coast, either. It’s a heavy growling voice that’s entirely his own.

  “I’m a party planner,” I say in a rush, the words feeling and sounding clumsy as those azure eyes pin me in place. “An apprentice party planner, really. I helped organize this event with my manager, Patricia.”

  I don’t know why I give her name, or why my whole body is suddenly alight with the heat of a thousand blazing stars. My insides swirl and dance, my sex growing so warm it’s getting difficult to ignore it.

  I get the crazy urge to leap at this giant of a man, wrap my legs around his waist and start grinding against him, feeling his hard manhood against me.

  But I’m not that sort of wild girl.

  Living in my head, losing myself in books and imaginary worlds, that’s my specialty.

  He’s just being polite by asking me this question, making small talk with the silly girl who almost fell flat on her face because she’s not used to walking in heels.

  “What about you?” I ask, barely pushing the words out. “What do you do?”

  Jett’s lips twitch into a near-smile, his glinting predator’s eyes never leaving me. Something gets tight and needy inside of me, and suddenly a crazy image strikes me. I see me and Jett, stood beneath an arch interwoven with fragrant, colorful flowers, declaring our love for each other, binding ourselves together for eternity.

  The image morphs and we’re stood in front of a full-length mirror, my belly swollen with our child, Jett’s hand smoothing down from the bump to my sex, stroking his powerful, large hand over my clit, and then slipping his finger inside of me.

  I almost bite down to force the impossible fantasies away.

  I don’t know what’s gotten into me.

  I never gush like this over men.

  “Me?” Jett says. “I’m a hitman. I kill bad men for money.”

  I giggle at the joke, his smirk flooded with irony, his eyes telling me that he could stay here for the next hour and not get bored of me. I’ve never had a man look at me like that before. In all my twenty-one years, I’ve always been the ignored girl, the one in the back of the classroom, invisible in the hallways, there but not there.