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The sheer masculine perfection of his sculpted face was nearly unbearable to behold, his proximity arousing me to the edge of pain. My entire body throbbed in time with my racing heart.
“Please…”
Was that my breathy plea? I didn’t recognize my own voice in that sultry tone.
“Evelyn…”
I shuddered at the raw need imbued in that one word: my name rasped in his low, masculine rumble.
My lips parted to sigh his name in return, wanting to savor the shape of it on my tongue.
But no sound issued from my throat except for my heavy, panting breaths.
I didn’t know his name.
I didn’t know anything about this dark, beautiful stranger who held me with such aching tenderness, setting my body alight with the barest brush of his masterful hands.
Guilt turned my stomach, souring my lust.
My eyes snapped open, and I blinked several times as I struggled to adjust to reality. The familiar shadows of the cramped bedroom I shared with George coalesced around me.
George. My fiancé.
My insides twisted. I’d been dreaming about the handsome stranger who’d saved me tonight, not the man I was supposed to marry.
And my thighs were still wet with the very real arousal I’d felt in my dirty dream: a sensation I’d never experienced when I had sex with George.
I took a breath and turned to face him, intending to snuggle into his sleeping form and reassure myself that I was right where I belonged: with the man I loved.
His pillow was cool beside me. I was alone in our bed.
“George?” I murmured. My voice hitched on his name, a shadow of guilt constricting my throat.
He didn’t reply.
I rolled over and reached for my phone to check the time. It was still dark outside. Surely, he hadn’t already left for work?
1:27 AM.
“George?” I called out for him, loud enough that he’d hear me if he was in the living room or kitchen.
No reply. The apartment was silent, the only sounds coming from the street outside. It was fairly quiet at this time, but the occasional car passed, and I could hear masculine voices in what sounded like an argument. The tone of one of the voices was familiar, even though I couldn’t understand the words.
George was outside for some reason. Was one of his coworkers in trouble? I’d noticed that more than one of his fellow agents had been fairly tipsy when we’d left the bar, and they’d ordered more drinks as we’d said our goodbyes.
It was considerate of George to keep the conversation outside so that he wouldn’t disturb me, but if someone needed help—a place to crash or even just a glass of water to sober up—they were welcome to come into our apartment.
I got out of bed and grabbed one of George’s big shirts to slip on over my thin camisole. My nipples were still peaked from my illicit dream, and I needed to hide the evidence of my traitorous subconscious. I decided that my silky pink pajama shorts covered me enough to step outside for a moment and invite his coworkers in.
I’d left my sneakers by the door to the apartment, so I slipped them on quickly, not bothering to tie the laces properly before I hurried to join George.
The voices became clearer as I rushed down the short internal corridor toward the exit to the street outside. They were speaking in English, but I noted the familiar Spanish accent in the way some of the others’ voices lilted.
Odd. Most of George’s fellow agents were Americans here in Mexico City, on similar assignments.
I shook the moment of confusion away, recalling that he worked in tandem with local law enforcement. A couple of cops had been at the bar with us tonight. George hadn’t introduced us, but they’d been part of the group.
“I want my money,” I overheard as I exited the building.
