It’s him, all right. No one has eyes like his. Mint green, like when the gulf’s waters flow so crystal clear, you can catch a hint of seaweed reflected across the placid surface. Such a distinct color. Eyes I could stare into for hours on end, if circumstances were different.
If I weren’t in such an awkward, vulnerable position.
I drop my gaze to his bare chest. Drops of moisture from his shower still cling to him, to the well-defined muscles of his chest, the chiseled planes of his abdomen, the fine line of hair leading from his navel and down into his sweatpants. I remember far too clearly that he’s big, his body a sculpted work of art. My memory doesn’t do him justice. Now he’s harder, more defined. Rock solid, powerful, and a hundred times more drool-worthy. A thousand times more unsettling.
As for dangerous . . .
I bite my lip, completely taken aback by my very physical response to him, my pulse quickening, my breasts feeling heavier, every fiber of my being acutely aware of him, of the tension filling the space between us.
“You could have died,” he says, breaking the silence.
I stiffen and drag my eyes away from his chest. I’m immediately captured by the iciness in his green depths, in such contrast with his concerned tone.
“It’s common to pass out from a hit to the chin. The quick spin of my head when I hit the tile caused my brain to shift into my skull, which causes brain trauma. This overloaded my nervous system and caused me to pass out. It’s your body’s way of coping with pain. I was never seriously at risk of dying.”
He stares at me.
I shrug, then joke, “I can elaborate even more if you want me to.”
For a heartbeat, I think he’s going to crack a smile.
He doesn’t, and I’m left feeling disappointed.
“With me around, there’s nothing but pain,” he replies gruffly. “I’m bad fucking news.”
My eyes widen at the honesty within his tone.
“You cared for me, and my injured chin. I call you and you somehow managed to find me. You’re not bad news.”
You’re my dirtiest, darkest dream. You’re my hero.
“You don’t get it. I’m the last guy someone calls for help. Especially someone like you . . . someone in your position . . .”
He grabs the half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels from the nightstand and drinks straight from the bottle, finishing it off before tossing it onto the carpet, where it rolls and joins the other empty bottle. He sways as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, the liquor hitting him hard.
He’s shit-faced. Wasted. Dangerously virile in a sexy, drunken way.
I watch breathless and a bit unnerved as he prowls over to the chair, dumping my duffle bag onto the floor before falling onto the cushion. I’m suddenly conscious of my position, wearing barely nothing and sprawled across a mattress like a woman well versed in the ways of sex. I struggle to pull the blanket over my barely covered thighs. He ignores this, sitting up and leaning forward, resting his weight on the forearms on his thighs. He stares at me. Long and hard. With a drunken intensity that makes me wonder what this is all about. He answered my call, right? Tracking me all the way to Corpus Christi . . .
“It’s dangerous to trust a man like me.”
There’s no aggression in his tone yet I’m hyperaware of the knife within his reach. Who needs knives when his eyes practically skin me alive?
No. He wouldn’t have answered your call and tracked you to Texas if he meant to harm you.
“Christ. You should be afraid,” he says, his tone low, husky, and harsh. “No one would know. If I wanted to, I could squeeze the life out of you in a minute, tops.”
I shrink away from him as he stands and bends over me, his fingers grazing my jawline. Working the pads of his fingers across the tender spot where a bruise is likely forming. How I dreamed of him touching me. A screwed-up, twisted fantasy based on a sketchy memory and a man I know little about.
He saved you.
“You called me and I goddamn came.”
My time to escape has flickered away along with my perfect, pedestal-worthy recreation of him. I thought he’s what? A friend? A protector? A potential lover?
The perfect man.
I never imagined him like this, with his clenched jaw and fierce manner. More pit bull than German shepherd. I survived Shelby. I made it out of Mexico in one piece, barely. But can I survive this, survive him—the hardcore twin of my wicked fantasy man?
He’s brought his face in close to mine, and I pull away, trying to escape the wicked fumes on his breath.
A deep V is furrowed into his forehead between his brows. I stare at that V, not trusting myself to look anywhere else. Not wanting to see his furious face. Angry about what, I don’t know. I’m the one who should be outraged. Pissed off he’d do such a thing to me. A few seconds pass, until his touch lightens, turning into a feather-like caress. And then, I do look at him.
Something’s changed, causing his harsh, handsome features to soften. Regret?
My eyes drop to his tightly drawn lips. Beautifully shaped, like the rest of the man. Yet soft. Kissable.
Oh my God. What the hell is wrong with me? The harsh reality of my situation is staring me in the face—literally. And I’m thinking about kissing him?
Taking a taste of the only man I ever truly desired.
“Your shirt’s riding up,” he says, in a raspy, liquored-up voice. Still, a shiver of awareness runs up my spin.
“That’s what happens when you tackle someone.”
His eyes rake across my body, slowly. Like he’s counting each inch. My skin heats up beneath his prying eyes, a warm blush spreading from my toes to my cheeks.
“That punk on the beach didn’t know what to do with you.”
“What punk? What beach?” The change in topic causes me to blink stupidly for a second. Brendan comes to mind, but then how would he know about my ten-second wonder back in Cabo? But before I can figure out what he means, he shifts his fingertips off my throat and runs them down across the inside of my arm.
“What are you . . .”
“Why me?” he asks.
I blink, his question catching me by surprise. “I, um, needed you . . .” I forget what I’m about to say, forget everything as I feel his hand skim across my abdomen.
Oh my God. His touch is just as I imagined it . . . maybe slightly rougher with the friction.
“This why?”
“This why . . . ?” I swallow hard. It’s like I’m an open book and he’s reading the naughty, dirty descriptions I’ve written about him . . . about us. And now, he’s putting my words, my desires, into action.
“You called me?”
I gasp, as his palm presses against my skin, firmly like there’s no mistaking it’s there yet not hard enough to be a punishing touch. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Just as well.” He slides his hand lower, his fingertips dipping beneath my bikini bottom.
Oh. OH.
“This what you want from me? To get you off with my fingers. To make you come from my touch. Make you whimper my name and beg for more. Finish what that punk couldn’t manage to do?”
My mind races in a mad dash with my heartbeat. Is this what I want? Now, under these circumstances? “I can’t whimper your name,” I remind him. “I don’t know your name.” And there he goes again . . . what does he mean by “that little punk”?