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Muscular creases collide with long, dark stripes inked on his flesh.
His tattoos are one with the night, a warning of sharp, vicious, dangerous things.
Oh, and he’sbig—he must be pressing seven feet in all his giant glory—but he’s so smooth, so sculpted, so graceful.
His skin looks natural, healthy, and real in a way Marnie’s Tangerine Man never will be.
My breath catches.
I know, I know.
I’m living out every awkward smut heroine’s moment where she catches the hot guy half-naked and you can bet he’s about to spin around and chew her out in T-minus one second.
And I know it’s silly to prefer a body cased in ink rather than too much tanned leather, but I can’t help myself.
I cough, deciding we’d better speed this up.
When he starts turning, my eyes almost bug out.
His broad chest could slay a whole gaggle of underwear models—even if they laid their perfect bodies under the world’s best tattoo artists.
More dark stripes slither up his arms, pitch-black flames licking his biceps, and something dark and beastly and menacing covers his broad chest.
A dragon?
The monster sprawls across his skin, guarding what looks like a pitchfork. It kind of reminds me of my gramps’ old Navy patches that Dad keeps hanging in his office. He’s always been proud of them.
Oh, and he’s an older man, but nottoo old.
He’s mature.
Probably somewhere in his mid-twenties, fresh out of college with a dark glint in his eyes that only a heavy life can bring.
Our eyes lock.
His are bright green, set in his chiseled face like sinful emerald framed with just the right amount of cropped sandy dark hair and stubble that could scratch so sweetly on a woman’s skin.
His tight jaw holds the most capable mouth in the world, lips made for kissing and cursing and giving the whole world hell.
Maybe even one especially lucky lady.
“Didn’t know I had an audience. How long you been there gawking while I strip?” he growls, giving his rubber suit a swift kick behind him and marching toward me. “Where’d you come from, princess?”
Oh.
In my little stare down, I forgot I walked out here to remind him he’s trespassing.
Hilariously, the biting tone in his voice makes it sound likeI’mthe intruder.
“Um, you...you’re not supposed to be diving here.” I clear my throat weakly and point at the nearest PRIVATE PROPERTY sign behind me, wondering if he can see it in the deepening darkness.
Mystery Man focuses his eyes through the darkness before he says, “Aw, shit. I thought this whole stretch was public?”
“No. My dad owns it. This is his house.” I shake my head for emphasis.
Why is it so hard to form words?
The man cocks his head and smiles. It’s a lazy, obscene smile like he’s oh-so-amused I’d deign to ask him to do his weird hot stripper diving elsewhere.
