Melissa Cutler

She touched him everywhere she could reach. The rounded hardness of his biceps and chest, the ripped contours of his back, his thick, damp hair, until touching with his hands wasn't enough.

Do not tell me what I think you're going to or I swear to God, I'm going to fly to Brazil and go all black ops on this guy for cheating on you.

I'll carry you." But she was already holding on, and though she knew she'd have to soon, she didn't see how she'd ever be able to let go of him.

Hot damn, Diego Santero looked fine soaking wet. Everything about him radiated potent masculinity, from the slick, dark hair that drew emphasis to the angles of his cheeks and jaw, to the water beading off his forearms and the soaked black shirt and cargo pants that clung to every curve of muscle and flesh below.

Faces close, they breathed into each other, their bodies slick with water and sweat.

Calm down. If I wanted to hurt you, I wouldn't need this knife to do it.

She had a hand on his belt, ready to show him exactly what she had in mind for the night, when he lowered to his knees between her legs, his hands spanning her ribs. Nervousness had vanished from his expression, replaced by eyes that gimmered with tenderness and perhaps even a hint of joy.

Am I in trouble? He chortled, "well, a bunch of not-so-friendly thugs were waiting to ambush you and blow up your apartment. If that doesn't qualify as trouble, I don't know what does.

Tonight, after we're done with the bank, we're going to finish this. Somewhere it's just the two of us. But if I keep kissing you right now, I'm not going to have enough blodd left in my brain to keep you safe at the bank.

We're going balls to the walls, guys. Our sneak and peak just turned inti a hostage rescue.