Read Online Last Kiss (Hitman #3) by Jen Frederick, Jessica Clare - Free Book Online

weakness in software programming.
    “What are you doing?” I hear hours later.
    “Reading,” I respond without looking up. I fear my response to her. Already I can feel my heart rate accelerating from just thesound of her voice. This reaction I have to her is strange, terrifying and yet . . . enticing.
    She is like the sirens of old whose voices were so beautiful, sailors followed them on the ocean only to die of heartbreak and longing. I wonder if the songs followed them into the dark, deep waters and if they did, whether the sailors celebrated their watery deaths. A part of me wishes to rise up and walk to Naomi, take her by the hand into the bathroom or the bedroom, and find out what it is like to be touched by her. If her voice quickens me, rouses my base instinct, what would it be like to have my hands on her warm flesh or her quick, clever fingers tripping over my body?
    It is those questions, those wants, that keep me pinned to the sofa, my eyes on the words explaining things like heap, stacks, packets.
    “Programming is a language just like any other, yes?” I say instead.
    “Yes. That’s exactly right. Are you reading a book on software programming?” The sofa cushion beside me dips as she settles her weight next to mine. I resist the urge to slide my arm around the back of the sofa and turn my body toward hers.
    “
The Art of Exploitation
,” I answer.
    “Why did you pick that book?”
    “Should I have chosen another?”
    I feel her shrug. “It’s outdated and rudimentary but I can see how it would be useful as a beginner’s tool. Why did you pick it? You haven’t answered that.”
    “It seemed like it was the right one.”
    “There’s no art to hacking.
Art
implies that there is an emotional return from coding. There is not. Computer programming is simply the application of a series of prompts and commands.”
    Her statement belies her tone, but as I examine her face, she shows only earnestness. This topic of rational arguments designed to produce a specific result interests her like none other. Does she not realize that she has a sensory response to her work? She derives satisfaction and, yes, even pleasure. It is written on every feature of her face, evident in the glow in her eyes, the light smile around her lips and the ease in her shoulders.
    I move closer to her because she is irresistible. A landlocked siren calling me to my doom in this palatial suite high above the ground and far away from the water.
    “You are moved by it,” I say, my words no more than a throaty whisper. Her eyes do not look into mine, but drop down to stare at my lips. She never looks me in the eye, but it does not make her gaze any less intense. Her perusal is as corporeal as a touch and I respond accordingly, leaning toward her, closing the distance between us.
    “How?” she asks.
    “You derive gratification from a well-written line. It is akin to a songwriter penning the perfect harmony or an artist achieving the right color. Your code is your poetry, your art, and you like it.”
    Her eyes widen as she absorbs my words.
    “
Like
is a relative word.”
    “Too tame?” I arch an eyebrow.
    “Too sentimental.” Her eyes are still caressing my lips.
    “Then I’d say you love it.”
    We are but a mouth width away because she has not moved as I slowly advanced. But at the word
love
, her gaze falls to her hands and she mumbles, “I don’t love anything.”

CHAPTER SIX

    NAOMI
    I am fascinated by this man.
    It’s because I cannot predict what he will do, I think. Most men I’ve met are fairly easy to intuit, even for someone like me. If I offer something sexual, I expect it to be gladly accepted. This man watches me, but he will not accept.
    This is not the result I expected from my hypothesis, and I am intrigued. What is it that causes him to hold back? Is it me? Am I the unappealing one? Or is there something else? I ponder this. Perhaps I will need a new hypothesis. Perhaps my old one is too