Page 73 of Zorro

No one, not even the almighty Rob Quinn, was flawless—far from it. Yeah, Rob, you soul-sucking fucker. I was too damn good for you. End of story. So, fucking end of that story. Her new life waited for her across the hall. None of it written yet. But she was so damn good for him, always for him.

She stepped from the bathroom, picked up her phone. She didn’t need reassurance. All she needed was to see what he had texted back, and there it was. His response. Fierce. Full. Unapologetically Mateo Martinez.

I’m not fucking going anywhere. If you run, you better move fast. Yeah, that’ll be me breathing down your beautiful neck.

She closed her eyes and groaned softly, knees buckling as fire cascaded through her. Her breasts swelled, nipples tightening to the point of near-pain, and a liquid heat coiled low between her thighs, wet, needy, pulsing.

She set down the phone, clutching the hem of his shirt in both fists. She already was his woman and she was going to take him, have him, and make him her man.

11

She grabbed her keycard and his off the side table. Without pausing, she pushed through her hotel room door and straight across the hall. Without hesitation, she pressed the card to the lock. The light flashed green. She slipped inside before it vanished. Her whole body vibrated with such a powerful surge of adrenaline, there was no stopping her.

Or so she thought.

She reached the bed, and there he was. Mateo Martinez. Naked. Hard. Hers. She took a breathless moment to savor the sight of him. Starting from his disheveled hair to the dark stubble on his face that made him look so masculine, so outlaw-dangerous, she wanted to sin, steal, and rob a goddamn train. His jaw, so strong and chiseled, led down to a throat that beckoned her mouth. But her gaze returned to his eyes, the lashes thick like shadowed half-moons on his cheeks, that perfectly sculpted nose, and those knee-melting lips, the kind that could make a woman forget her name, her past, her principles. A flood of weakness surged through her. She hadn’t known her clit could ache like this, throb just from looking at a man’s mouth.

Her breath hitched out at his wide chest, the flat disk of his nipples as hard as her own. She needed them against her tongue, lips curling around them to give him as much pleasure as possible. She trembled as she followed the line of his torso across those rippling abs, down to the part of him that made him so devastatingly male. The hard, velvet-dark length of him was exquisitely formed, a drop of pre-come glistening at the broad, plum-shaped head of his cock.

She wanted to taste him…eventually. But that would come later. For now, she needed this man beneath her hands. Now.

The heat of him. The way he was so magnificently formed, that thick neck, those broad shoulders and biceps sheathed in delineated muscle, the carved pectorals, powerful thighs, and calves that flexed even in sleep. Even his feet were beautiful.

She wanted what had been built for Uncle Sam, the coiled tension shaped by war, forged by purpose, a warrior in repose.

She didn’t want pretty, though he was gorgeous. She wanted power. Every inch of him was a feast, a promise of rough strength that no woman with blood in her veins could ignore.

He was all of it, granite and blood, wrapped in that impossible tenderness he wore like armor.

She wanted him to groan, beg, say her name like he was drowning, and she was the only woman on the planet who could save him, hear his ragged breathing, make him cry out in ecstasy as he jerked beneath her fingertips. Wanted to map the terrain of his strength and claim every inch of it. She wanted those hips moving uncontrollably as she did things to him so intimate and real, he would recover from all she'd put him through to get to this headspace, to get to him.

“What are you waiting for?” she breathed. Fucking him was the only next step, taking him, holding him, giving him her body, that was all that she could think about now. This was her right to want, to take, to fulfill this craving from the moment she laid eyes on him. To be filled with him, not just in the wet, pulsing center of her sex, but everywhere—blood, bones, breasts, mouth, hands. She wanted to be remade by his power.

To feel it inside her, pounding, pulsing, part of her. His cock, his chest, his breath, his hunger, his heart.

She peeled off the T-shirt, let it fall, and lowered her bare body onto the edge of the bed. His breathing was deep and even, and it told her that he was exhausted, so exhausted that he wasn’t aware how close she was to him. Poor sweet, tired darling. She almost wanted to just let him sleep.

He shifted against her as if her skin made him restless, his breath suddenly getting ragged. He groaned softly, the sound vibrating through her. Was he dreaming…about her? Oh, God, that was so, so sexy. She pushed up and traced his lips with her finger, feeling his breath against her skin.

He groaned again. “Everly,” he whispered, his voice saturated with longing. That was all she could handle. She leaned in and pressed her mouth to his. His lips were so firm, but so soft. She remembered how that felt in the hospital when he was semi-unconscious.

This time he was asleep, and she wasn’t even thinking about running. She sank into the kiss, and he moved, his breathing deepening. His hand came up, slipped into her hair, that beautiful healing hand, one who knew how to take life, and preserve it. She went to her knees, and leaning her weight, she straddled him. When she settled her hot, wet core over his hard cock, his hips jerked and he groaned again. God, it was so delicious. His eyes flashed open, and he stared up at her as if he wasn’t quite sure she was real.

“Zorro,” she whispered. “I’m finished waiting. How about you, handsome?” There was that grin, that damn knee-melting grin. He moved so fast she found herself beneath him. She lifted her hand, cupped his goddamned beautiful face and whispered, “Unless you’re too tired, then I’ll hold you while you sleep. I just need to be close to you.” Her skin was alive, breathless with the feel of him, the weight of him, the scent of him, and the sight of him filling her vision.

His face softened. “Fuck, Everly, are you trying to kill me? That’s a tempting offer. But I’m good. Combat naps are very refreshing.”

Her breath caught, lips curling with wicked invitation. “You comparing me to combat?”

His chest rose and fell, breaths shallow and hard, like every word was being pulled from the depths of him. “You are combat,” he rasped. “All heightened senses and life and death, and I need you.”

His eyes blazed, his voice low and guttural. “If you were the enemy…pierce my body with violence of action.”

“Violence of action,” she whispered, the words trembling on her lips because her chest was so tight with emotions, she’d never let herself feel before, need, hunger, power.

This man was madness and muscle, mayhem wrapped in discipline, chaos beneath a warrior’s control.

This was passion. How had she lived without it for so long? How had she ever believed she could be fulfilled by anything less? So fucking less. Zorro was more, and she wanted every inch of him. All that he had to offer. The grit, the sweetness, the surrender of a man built to withstand anything, giving into the fevered honesty of a man laid bare.

---