Page 55 of Where Wild Hearts Dance
“There,” I say, fixing my gaze on the view through the windshield. “The ocean.”
She pushes open the passenger door, then steps outside, straightening her long legs like a cat. I watch curiously as she walks the short distance from the car to the water’s edge where she stretches her arms up and over her head, drawing the hem of her top high up her back until it skims a small tattoo. It must have been covered by her hair when she swam in the pool because I haven’t seen it before. And even though I can’t see what it is, the fact some man has had his inked needle that close to her makes me rigid with tension.
She shakes her hair down her back, blocking the view of the tattoo, and bends down to slip off her sandals. A small gust of wind flips up the skirt of nightmares and gives me a perfect view of her rounded cheeks, a black thong disappearing between them. I lift a curled fist to my mouth and bite down on it, leaving red teeth marks on a white knuckle. Jesus H Christ, what I wouldn’t do to feed my fingers beneath that cotton and grab a handful of her ass.
With her back still turned toward the car, she folds her arms across her middle then pulls the top over her head. Then she reaches behind her back and pulls at the delicate string holding her modesty together. That joins the top on the sand.
I try to blink away because if she turned around, this could signal the end of days for me. If Cristiano were to ever find out that I’ve seen his sister-in-law up close and practically naked, not once, but twice, I’m pretty sure he’d kill me. But, like a man seeing the Aurora Borealis for the first time, I can’t tear my eyes from her.
Seconds pass as she looks out at the ocean, topless, and I hold my breath in anticipation of what’s coming next. My body moves on autopilot and I step out of the car, my gaze glued to her. She hooks her fingers over the waistband of her skirt, then pushes it, and the entirely ineffective thong over heroutlawedass and steps out of them before tossing both to the side.
My jaw unhinges as she walks like some fucking Greek goddess into the waves without looking back. The scene takes me back to when I watched her swimnaked in Cristiano’s pool. She had never looked more authentic, more free. My frown dips. Maybe this is how she copes with all the shit life throws at her.
I swallow. I just became some of that shit. But, I remind myself, I have to be. It’s the only way to assure her safety.
She disappears beneath the waves and, for a second, my heart stops. It only seems to beat again when she pops back up, her jet black hair glistening.
My gaze tracks her for several minutes then I’m forced to avert it when she starts striding out of the water. It’s agony to not look her way. I just know that decadent droplets of water are running over her fucking perfect breasts, dripping off the peaked tips of her nipples, leaving tracks down her stomach, pooling between her legs. I’m suddenly ravenous and thirsty andaching, and my dick is so fucking hard I’m not sure I can walk back to the car.
I can feel her green gaze on my face as she walks slowly toward me,naked. I tip my chin, my hands stuffed into my pockets, training my focus on the swaying branches of tall palms. My voice is croaky and foreign. “Are you trying to get me fired?”
“I’m not trying to get youanything,” she replies, her voice lusty and all kinds of tempting. I keep my gaze averted and let out a breath of relief as she walks straight past me.
When I hear the creak of the car’s suspension, I turn around. She’s lying across the hood of her car, arms resting languidly over the top of the windshield, oneknee propped up. Her black-painted toenails gleam in the sunlight, her long limbs taut with stamina and muscle.
Fucking fuck me.
“What do you want, Contessa?” My words come out on a long exhale.
There’s a long pause filled with breaths that float on the breeze.
“I don’t like being ignored. I want you to look at me.”
What the actual? Ialwayslook at her. Even when she’s not there, the vision of her is front and center of my mind. It won’t fucking leave.
With her permission, I allow my gaze toravageher. Those taut, honed limbs, criminal curves, felonious tits, gorgeous hips flattened on the metal hood. I don’t need to starve myself anymore—I can fucking ogle her like a dirty old man in a trench coat.
Her eyelashes are framed with droplets of saltwater, her lips scandalously plump and parted, waiting.
“I thought you hated me,” I say, my voice soft but with a surprisingly bottomless depth.
I notice her breaths becoming shorter the longer my gaze devours every inch of her.
“I do.”
Fuck. My dick is screaming at me. “How much?” I challenge, in a sunken baritone.
Several seconds pass with nothing between us but rasping breaths.
Her voice cracks. “So much I could cry.”
I take a step toward her and wipe the back of my hand across my mouth. My timbre is rough.
“You wanna cry?”
She hesitates, her eyes widening a fraction. I amnotbluffing.
She wets her lips.
