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Thankfully, the movement knocks some sense into us both, and hands slapping, we scurry apart from each other.
“What thefuckwas that?” he demands with wide eyes as if I’ve bewitched him.
I wipe my wrist across my mouth, hating myself for enjoying that more than I should have. The throb between my legs only irritates me more.
“You’re welcome.”
He swings his arms out. “For what!”
Embarrassment floods my face as I cross my arms defensively. “There was a photographer across the street. I-I didn’t want them to get a picture of you in public, so I tried blocking their shot.”
Marcus’s eyes are wild, not with anger, but with a heavy, unmistakable dose of desire.
His jaw clenches as he places his hands on his hips to catch his breath, but I’m too afraid to speak. I can’t believe I did that.
But do I regret it? Nowthat’sthe question.
“It was the paparazzi,” he corrects me, and I don’t dare tell him I know the difference. “How many did you see?”
“Just one,” I say, finding my voice at last. “What the hell are you doing out here in the first place? Are you trying to cause a scene or are you that desperate for attention?”
For the life of me, I can’t understand how he takes me from being so blindly and intoxicatingly turned-on, to spitting mad and wanting to smother him in his sleep.
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Enlighten me,” I counter.
While he scrubs a hand down his face, my gaze daringly falls to the twin barbells, piercing his nipples.
Never in my life would I think they would turn me on, but the mental image of crossing the tent and testing the weight of each one against my tongue has my clit pulsing.
Would they be heavy and cool, or light and warm with the heat from his body?
“Heather, are you listening to a word I’m saying?”
He snaps in front of my face, and I know by the time I leave this island, I’m going to break a tooth.
“Pardon me, your excellence,” I croon. “What did you say?”
“How the hell are we going to get out of here?” he repeats.
I pull the tent flap open enough to peek out at the beach. He’s right. We’re likely trapped, and where one of those paparazzi lurk, there’s bound to be plenty more.
“We need some sort of cover,” I suggest. Like the umbrella Marcus hid behind when I followed him through Tauntuma. “Better yet, a diversion.”
I spot a boy in bright orange swim trunks walking past our hideout while casually licking an ice cream cone.
Waving erratically, I whisper-shout at the freckle-faced boy, “Hey, kid! Come here for a second.”
“This is a terrible idea,” Marcus grumbles over my shoulder.
The boy spins around, takes one look at my half-shielded face and flapping hand, and says, “Uh, sorry, lady. My mom has a rule about me talking to crazy chicks.”
Marcus snorts behind me as my gaze slits. “You’re eleven, tops. What would you know about women?”
I catch an elbow to the ribs, and with a grunt, I try again. “Listen,sweetie.” Attempting my best smile, I add, “I had a bathing suit malfunction, and I don’t have my clothes.”
The brat sizes me up while crossing his arms. “You’re lying.”
