Page 678 of One More Kiss

He’s an enigma of silent, hungry perusal. His strong posture, lights up under a high sun, flexes like he wants to explore, but knows the risky terrain is uncharted. “Remove your panties,” he finally demands, the texture to his voice smoky and thick.

I glare at his stern expression, wondering what sort of monster demands such a thing. When he swipes his lips with his tongue, my belly flips. The synergy of such an unassuming act so unbearably rousing.

This situation shouldn’t be thrilling. It’s deplorable how my core clenches and how rampant chills electrify every hair on my head. Nonetheless, I continue to undress until I’m utterly naked.

As daunting as it feels to be exposed before him, it’s a relief to discard the unhygienic clothing. It’s freeing to let go of my inhibitions and detect something primal passing over his features. It’s not a threat of death, it’s a promise of something far more alarming—temptation.

“Just so we’re clear, I don’t want anything from you, other than the truth of how you came to be here. Nothing more.”

“Good. I’ll tell you the truth if it means you’ll stay the hell away from me,” I say in a rush of air, embarrassed by how needy I’ve become.

Perhaps I should cover my breasts or cup my private parts. Except when the chilling splash of water hits, I relish the opportunity to wash away the built up grime from the past few days.

A flutter of uncertainty catches in my throat when I hunker down to the gravel and collect the shower gel. His gaze burrows into every move I make, his retinas burning into my soul as he tries to read the secrets bruising my body.

It doesn’t make the act of cleansing any easier. While I lather up soapy suds emanating a hedonistic manly scent, he rolls back his shoulders and dances his fingers over his belt buckle.

I coat the lengths of my hair, suddenly recognizing the familiar aroma. It’s the toxic scent of sin—of him. Virile and domineering. All over me. The fragrance is heavy in my hair and musky on my clean flesh.

On that hateful thought, I lift my lashes to fuse my resentful glower with the supreme Tomás Souza’s assessment. The hottest man I’ve ever encountered, his temperament similar to a freshly lit stick of dynamite. And the fall out of his explosion will surely cost me everything.

“Enjoying the show?” I say with a snide tone, imitating the horrid girls who used to harass me in the playground.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he shoots me a look of pure carnal seduction and aims the water at my sudsy breasts. Haphazard droplets splash in every which way. I turn on the spot, permitting a full three sixty view of my bruised abdomen, spine, and hips, all wonderfully clean and smelling of sin.

Tomás drops the garden hose and twists the faucet before gathering a canvas bag sitting idly nearby. He saunters my way, this time uncaring how perilously intimate we are, his chest merely an inch or two away from my erect nipples. In the heart racing seconds of silence that fall between us, I witness his jaw tick from either anger or something far more dangerous. “Who gave you those bruises?”

I raise my chin to return his stare. “The men who stole me and the men who dropped me off here.”

Something unknown fights for supremacy behind his eyes, giving me the impression it’s a rare hint of concern. “Did they rape you?”

He’s too close, especially when he fixes a damp clump of hair behind my ear and my pulse stutters. The arresting glint in his eyes mixes with the kinetic energy vibrating between us, coaxing the air from my lungs, leaving me breathless.

“They punched me in the stomach until I was sick.” Subconsciously, I palm my belly button, close to blackish bruises. “I was locked in a cellar with no food or water until that nasty woman ordered them to take me away. They took pleasure in overpowering me, spitting on me, kicking the wind out of me when I fought back, and they pumped my veins with drugs. But thankfully, they didn’t sexually abuse me.”

I’m lightheaded when I finish, dizzy from the recent events, hunger, and anger at the cruelty I’ve endured.

He nods curtly. “My father sent men to the Rebello residence in Rio. It’s my understanding that a parked car at the front of the dwelling will explode with all of those men inside it.”

Vengeance.

An eye for an eye.

He says it with such regal composure, unaffected by the lives destroyed or the macabre arrangement of it all. This is him—organized payback and destruction.

“Does that please you?” he adds as a side note.

It does, briefly, then it hits me. My friend, el Fantasma’s savior—Iris. “No!” My palms fly to my temples. “No, it doesn’t.”

He grabs both of my wrists, tight and unyielding, the force slamming our heaving chests together. “Why would that not please you, little liar? Are they your friends? Are you fucking them?”

The bash of our two bodies is powerfully sexual, more so when his chest rises with fury and his strength stirs confusing feelings within me. Despite my hatred for his dominance, I secretly love it.

“I’m not fucking anyone, you asshole. And yes, my friend Iris is in that house. She was kidnapped too. They can’t bomb it with her inside. Please, don’t let them do it. Not yet.”

She’s the only female friend I’ve ever had, even if we’ve only known each for a short time. I value the one thing she gave me—friendship without backhanded compliments or hurtful gossip to ruin me.

His grip falls away and the sweltering air sparking from him to me dissipates when he rears back. With his eyes fixated on my lips, he retrieves his phone, taps the screen, and waits.

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