Page 20 of Secret Mission

And that pisses me the hell off.

The man was made for torturing the other sex. Women probably walk into traffic in his wake. Dazed, confused, and useless.

Dark, serious brows arch over his starkly carved face. They seem to punctuate the beautiful color of navy-blue eyes, his long but crooked nose, and lips that are a little thick and soft, but hard and commanding.

Angels have wept over the creation of this face, I’m sure.

But the scruff on his tense jaw line adds something indescribably sexy. That final swipe of an artist's brush that adds the finishing touch. The feral unapologetic masculinity that makes him lethal.

Listen to me. Who knew I was poetic?

He disappears when I close my eyes and stifle that groan that’s built to a roar.

But he’s still there, seconds later when I surrender to the urge to look at him again.

Without a word, the man stashes his knife somewhere on his leg and shoves a hand in his short, dark-blond hair. Every flicker of muscle hypnotizes me more and somehow fuels my anger.

When he turns away, his bare back comes fully into view, and I jerk my eyes away from the impact.

My god.

His tattoos.

I’ve never been so close to a man with ink like that. Or built like that.

I swallow, roughly. The mouthful of gravel I’ve suddenly got refusing to move.

“There’s food.” He lifts an elbow toward a small table. “You need to eat.”

Hell yes, I do. I’m starving.

Out of nowhere. Out of years of not caring about sex. But now I’m ravenous for a Mortal Kombat action hero that nearly got me killed.

Get a grip on yourself, Allison.

Stomach knotting, I glance around, for the first time really checking out the boat as if the fog of his sex appeal is dissipating by my sheer willpower.

The sight of a lopsided basket of fresh fruit wrenches a thin sound from my chest. “I’m starving.”

For a lot of things, it seems.

Without an ounce of elegance, I pick up a banana, tear open the peel, and nearly shove the whole thing in my mouth.

It’s animalistic and uncouth.

At least I don’t make a nom-nom-nom sound.

When he glances at me, I cover my mouth self-consciously with one hand as I hold the stub of the banana peel in my other hand.

I can barely swallow, my mouth is so full, almost to the point of bursting, with my breath sawing in and out through my nose like I’m some kind of wild animal.

His eyes fixate, dilate, and pin me in place. “Good Christ, deep throat.”

With a muttered curse, he turns away again, leaning his forearm against the canopy over the top of the boat’s small cabin area.

His back is locked straight this time. But it’s the way his cargo pants fall low on his hips, circling the bones of his pelvis that makes my lips press tight.

Oh, my god. He’s so blessed hot.

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