Page 31 of Secret Mission

“So, I’m just supposed to go along with you—” I huff, my anger making my vision sharpen as I take in the boat. “On a self-prescribed vacation where I get no say. Except I get a say on ‘how safe’ I want to be?”

“Yep,” he drawls with a tight smirk that seems to hide some real intent he’s keeping close to his vest. Or in his case, his bare chest.

Before I can stop myself, I flip him off.

Oh, mygod.

I never flip anyone off. I don’t even say the F word. What has this man done to me?

I turn my back on him, clutching the rail of the boat, trying to figure out why standing here in onlyhisshirt, I feel weirdly resilient, but incredibly vulnerable at once. Like a warrior princess that’s been through a battle and is still standing before a man who thinks he is the conqueror.

Or my savior.

Or my friend.

God, he’s so confusing.

If he’s not giving me mental whiplash, he’s causing a mutiny inside my skin.

It’s a real party. The kind you think you should leave because something crazy is going to happen.

The ovarian cheerleading squad jumping up and down below my belly button have decided he’s the winner of the best male candidate for reproduction.

Thanks a lot,naturalselection. You can go home. I don't need your input right now.

But it’s the riddles and unanswered questions that really set me on edge. I can spot them a mile away.

After a lifetime of dealing with my father, I’ve got no patience for games.

His gaze is practically melting the shirt off my back.

The game between us is on pause with the ball in my court. But I refuse to play by his rules.

When I turn, I let a sweet smile soften my lips. “What is your real name?”

Those dark, possessive eyes flash over me, and I can see his defenses rising.

“I don’t tell that to women unless they’re beneath me and I’m about to be balls deep. Otherwise, I keep it simple. Nothing personal, I’ll stick to the call sign.”

Touché.

I didn’t expect that. “You don’t think saving my life multiple times, undressing me, and sleeping next to me is personal?”

“It’s not me fucking you.”

I will not gape. I will not let him see my reaction.

He smolders. “You’d know it, sweetheart, if I was. Trust me.”

It’s an act of sheer determination not to show my shock.

Brain sputtering, I stare at him as if he didn’t just say the most ridiculous thing a man has ever said to me.

“You might still want to call me Truck even then, because it will be like getting hit by one when I bend your lithe, little body until your ankles are on my shoulders and I nail you to the floor.”

“Is that so?”

“Want a demonstration?”

---