Page 88 of Zorro

“They’re tiny.”

“They’re tradition.”

“A stripper wears more.”

Zorro grinned wider. “You’ll have to make peace with them, cariño. They’re part of the kit.”

“Do you even wear anything under them?” she asked before her filter could catch it.

He leaned in slowly, lips near her ear. “Ranger panties.”

She choked. Then slapped his chest, which didn’t help because it only reminded her how stupidly built he was.

“You just made that up.”

“I did not. Look it up.”

“I’m too afraid.” She kissed his collarbone, his chuckle a rumble against her breasts. “I think you just have an obsession with short shorts,” she said drily.

He nodded, smug. “Regulation-adjacent. Extremely aerodynamic.”

Her jaw dropped. “So basically you’re running around Rio with nothing but a drawstring and a dream?”

“Relax, Doc.” His voice dropped, rough silk over heat. “They’re compression shorts.”

That did not help.

Her brain, traitorous, filthy thing, immediately conjured up an image of Zorro in tight black compression fabric. Every detail defined. That V-shaped cut of his hips outlined with cruel precision. Thick thighs. Bare skin.

She gripped the tile like it might save her.

He noticed. Of course he did.

“Need a paper bag?” he murmured.

“You’re evil.”

“Guilty as charged.”

She turned slowly, chest rising, hair plastered to her skin, eyes locked on his. “You’re lethal.”

He stepped in, sliding one hand up her waist and the other behind her neck. “You’re all wet.”

“So are you.”

She didn’t remember moving.

Didn’t remember whose mouth found the other first.

But suddenly they were there, kissing under the water, lips slick and urgent, the heat between them igniting with every breath. His hands moved over her body like a man memorizing terrain he’d never get tired of exploring. She arched into him, gasped when he pinned her lightly against the wall with the sheer weight of him.

Zorro reached between them, and when he slid inside her, it was a single breath, a perfect stretch, like her body had been made to take him.

“Everly,” he whispered, as if it meant everything. As if her name was the anchor keeping him steady.

She clung to him, wrapped her legs around his hips, her fingers clutching his shoulders like he was the only truth she had left.

The thrusts were deep and slow, water cascading down their bodies, steam rising in thick tendrils as he moved inside her wildly, fiercely. She moaned into his mouth. He swallowed it like a promise.

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