It’s like porn. There’s no other way to properly describe it. It would only be more perfect if I were watching it in slow-mo and there were a cheesy soundtrack playing in the background.
The swimmer is very muscular, broad through the shoulders and back, but with narrow hips that highlight the bulk of his upper body and thighs. On anyone less well-proportioned, his substantial muscle mass would make him look thick and ungainly, but with his height and that tapered waist, the overall effect is one of balance. Power, perfectly aligned with grace.
Water runs in rivulets over acres of tanned skin, streaming down his back and legs. His wet black swim trunks cling to his spectacularly perfect ass. Even his bare feet are perfect, masculine and brown as a nut against the pale concrete coping.
He reaches for a towel tossed casually on one of the chaise longues that line the pool and proceeds to dry himself, supple as a cat. I watch in fascination. He has no tattoos, no scars, no visible body hair. His virgin skin is completely unblemished, gleaming like rubbed wood in the morning light.
My brain and my ovaries are in total agreement: This man is stunning.
Then he turns around, catches me staring through the wrought iron fence that surrounds the pool, and calls out, “Morning, sweet cheeks. You’re up early.”
Of course. Of course it’s Connor. The universe has decided it would be amusing to watch me grapple with a sexual attraction to a man I want to slap most of the time. When I’m not wanting to roll my eyes in disgust or douse myself in antibacterial spray so I don’t catch one of the virulent strains of STD he’s probably carrying.
The way the blood rushes to flood my face is actually a relief, because it’s diverting some of the blood that was throbbing between my legs.
“Good morning, Marine,” I say coolly. “Just getting in from the strip clubs? Needed some chlorine to get rid of all that rainbow glitter and dime store perfume?”
He grins, slings the towel over his shoulders, and ambles closer to the fence. The light catches the silver chain around his neck, glinting off his dog tags. I try not to look at his abdomen, because I’m pretty sure he’s got an eight-pack—not that it’s even physically possible—and I don’t want to stare.
Any more than I already have.
Don’t notice his hard nipples, don’t look at how perfect and brown they are or how there isn’t a single stray hair on his entire gorgeous chest.
There’s a border of low shrubs planted on the inside of the fence. Connor stops just in front of it. He runs a hand through his wet hair, pushing the dark mass of it off his forehead. I stifle the urge to laugh because I find the simple motion completely erotic and I’m the biggest idiot to ever walk the face of the earth.
His gaze flicks over the length of my body, my sweat-drenched T-shirt and little nylon jogging shorts. His grin dies. A muscle in his jaw flexes. In a different tone than moments before, he says, “We should be on the road within the hour. I’ve spoken to Miranda. She’s expecting us by—”
“I’ll be ready,” I say indifferently. “Meet you at the car in thirty.” I turn and walk away, trying to convince myself I really can’t feel the weight of his stare on my back as I go.
I wake up with a start sometime in the late afternoon with a crick in my neck and my heart pounding. I’d been having a dream that I was falling from a great height, freezing wind tearing at my clothes and snapping through my hair, the air so thin it swallowed my screams the moment they left my lips.
From the driver’s seat, Connor says, “You twitch in your sleep like a dog.”
I mutter, “I was having a nightmare. I dreamt I was you.”
He chuckles. “Aw. Am I annoying you already? You just opened your eyes.”
“You only annoy me when you’re breathing. Where are we?”
“Close to Albuquerque.”
I’m surprised. “New Mexico already? We’re making good time.”
I regret that instantly when Connor smiles. He says, “Of course we are. I’m driving.”
“God. It’s too bad arrogance isn’t painful.”
Another mistake, because it causes Connor to laugh. Loudly.
I sit up straighter, scrub my hands over my face, and take a swig of water from the plastic bottle in the holder between the seats. Right after swallowing, I realize this bottle wasn’t there when I fell asleep however long ago. Connor must have put it there.
For me?
He says, “Sorry there’s no ice or lemon in it.”
He remembered I ordered ice and lemon with my water at the bar in DC. Unsure what to make of that, or that he anticipated I might be thirsty when I awoke, I return the bottle to the cup holder with no comment.
After another few miles of driving in silence, I ask, “So what’s the plan?”
Connor’s dark brows lift. He glances over at me. “Oh, now the Abominable Snow Queen wants to talk plans?”
I exhale a long, pained sigh. “Did your parents ever ask you to run away from home?”
He laughs again. It’s a big, unselfconscious laugh, deep and natural. In spite of myself, I smile.