Page 21 of Zorro

His head thudded back. His hand went to his forehead, his other arm wrapping instinctively around her waist as he let out a groan and swore in three languages.

“¡Mierda! Caralho! Putang ina?—”

Then, with his eyes squeezed shut, he muttered, “What the fuck kind of blonde missile are you, lady?”

She froze, mortified, breathless, and somehow more aware of every contact point between their bodies than she’d ever been in her entire life.

Still not opening his eyes, he added in a hoarse voice, “There better be someone chasing you. If there is, I’m your man. I’ve got the kind of body that can break your fall and fuck someone up in the same breath.”

Her breath hitched.

Then he groaned again and mumbled, “If not…next time? Just ask if I wanna have a drink. Although…I do enjoy a good tackle. I’m easy.”

She started to laugh.

A small hiccup at first. Then a breathless snort. Then full-on, shaking, undignified laughter that made her ribs hurt.

Oh God, she was losing it.

Of course he was charming, even flat on his back with the wind knocked out of him. Of course he still managed to be hot, witty, and absurdly lovable while she lay there, a human disaster, on top of what felt like a living V-shaped sculpture. The alphabet never looked this good.

Her forehead was throbbing.

Her entire body was throbbing, especially the part currently fused to the deep groove of his hips.

Get off him. Move. Abort. Retreat!

She started to scramble backward, intending to roll off, slap him again maybe, just for effect, then run for her goddamn life while he was still dazed.

Except she missed her window.

SEALs didn’t stay down long.

He opened his eyes. Blinked. Focused. His jaw dropped. “Ev…Everly?” His voice cracked on her name like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud, like it had escaped on instinct.

Her cheeks flushed so hard she felt her bones blush.

She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t do a single rational thing except lie there, tangled on top of him, gasping laughter, shame, and something that felt suspiciously like longing.

“Hola,” she croaked. “I didn’t expect to run into you.”

She was still laughing, sprawled on top of him like a woman who’d lost a bet with gravity, maybe God, and definitely her common sense.

With zero warning, Zorro flipped her. One fluid motion, swift and controlled, turning her body as if it weighed nothing. He rolled them until he was on top for a split second, long enough to make her brain flash every sin known to womankind, then sat up and gathered her into his arms like she was the most natural thing in the world.

Oh no. No no no?—

Lifting her clean off the floor in a power move that could have broken the laws of physics, she held on. Her bag slid off her shoulder, her limbs flailed slightly, her brain short-circuited, and still he kept going. His arms were like iron bands around her back and thighs, his breath steady, warm, tickling her temple.

“Room number?” he asked.

Casual. Deadpan. Like this was a normal thing people did in hotels. Pick each other up off the floor and demand coordinates like it was part of a field op.

Her brain had three oxygenated cells left and all of them were arguing. The part of her with a medical degree was panicking. The part of her with a pulse was melting. The part that had dreamed about his mouth? That one was already halfway to room 408.

“Uh…four-oh…eight,” she mumbled, blinking up at him like a concussed ferret.

He nodded once. “Perfect.” He started walking.

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