Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 96167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
She was in Colombia, her parents’ birthplace, with the boy she’d loved and lost—the man who’d become her enemy. The scenery shouldn’t have been this awe-inspiring.
The white travertine floors cooled her bare feet as she stepped forward and followed him to the shower at the far end. But as she passed the separate toilet room, her bladder pinched.
He glanced at her face and waved a hand at the toilet. “Go.”
A year without privacy in Van’s attic made it easy to sit down and pee under Matias’ watchful gaze.
“You haven’t answered my question.” She tore off a wad of toilet paper.
“Do I know why you tortured Larry McGregor for information? Why you killed him and pretended to be his delivery?” He twisted the shower faucet on and spun back toward her with fire in his eyes. “I know everything about you, mi vida.”
How? A chill raced down her back. That meant Nico probably knew her plans, as well. Unless Matias was bluffing. Maybe he didn’t know everything.
She wiped, flushed, and walked toward him, fingers twitching at her sides. “Who took my virginity?”
His gaze flew to her pussy, and his hand shot out and clutched the towel rack on the wall beside him. A second later, the brackets ripped from the woodwork, and metal hurtled through the room and crashed near the doorway.
She jumped, pulse hammering in her throat.
“Get in the shower.” He thrust a finger at the walk-in enclosure.
The tiled space was large enough to wash a harem of women. She tried not to dwell on that as she stepped beneath the warm spray of multiple shower heads.
He tackled the laces on his boots, toed them off, then moved to his socks, shirt, fatigues, and…sweet God in heaven, he wasn’t wearing underwear.
Maybe the steam was distorting her vision, but his cock looked so much longer, thicker, harder than she remembered. Where his body used to be tall, slender, and a little awkward, it was now broad, vascular, and stacked with brawn and power. Every inch of him was pure, raw testosterone.
Her knees loosened, and her skin flushed. Was it possible to sweat in water?
“Why did you tell me the GPS tracker was removed?” She gave him her back and grabbed the shampoo. “You could’ve let me go on thinking I had help coming.”
His footsteps squeaked on the wet floor, closing in. She held her breath.
“The sooner you accept your future with me,” he said, his mouth at her ear, “the easier this will be for you. Turn around.”
She inwardly growled, shaking with the impulse to tell him what he could do with his orders. But she needed to pick her battles.
If she turned around, though, her brain would get all scrambled under the force of his eyes. And his cock, good God, it would be standing proud and right there between them.
Just don’t look at it.
With a tight throat, she pivoted to face him.
WARM WATER RAINED DOWN from the array of shower heads, heating Camila’s skin. Or was it anxiety making her hot and itchy? Keeping her focus above Matias’ waist as she angled her face out of the spray, her gaze landed on another tattoo.
At first glance, it looked like black veins forking over his shoulder. She felt him watching her as he turned to the side, allowing her to see the full image.
The outline of a tree trunk etched across his upper back and spread into leafless branches. The piece was twice the size of her hand and crawled over his shoulder. An orange tree. She’d recognize the rounded, symmetrical shape anywhere.
A closer inspection revealed two images in one, an optical illusion of limbs curving into the figure of a woman with hourglass hips and flowing black hair. Branches formed her slender neck, the bends of her arms behind her, the dip of her waist, all of which stemmed from the V at the apex of her thighs. It was eerily beautiful, unique, and really fucking sexy.
But an orange tree? A woman with long, black hair? Surely, it wasn’t…
“Me?” She looked up and froze in the prison of his eyes.
He gave a terse nod, lifted the shampoo from her hand, and stepped behind her.
She stared at her toes in the swirl of water. He’d tattooed an image of her on his body.
That should’ve ignited her with outrage and confusion and sparked all kinds of questions. But dammit, her nerves were frayed, her body too tired to care. Way too tired to stop him from washing her hair, making her sigh with his distracting fingers, and massaging her scalp as the scent of citrus and lavender wafted around her.
After all these years, she still knew the feel of his strong hands, the muscles that thickened his palms, and the surety of his grip. She’d known how his mouth tasted after a long day in the sun, the way he’d moaned when she kissed that spot beneath his ear, and the intensity of his eye contact as he’d chased his orgasm.