Stripped Down

He doesn’t say anything, the asshole. Nope. He just keeps on eying me, and I’d pay a fortune I don’t have to know what the man is thinking, because there’s a hot lick of something in his dark eyes. The Mendoza brothers are big, dark men with a family tree rooted in the Spanish conquistadores who claimed vast swaths of California for their own. There’s an almost possessive gleam in his eyes as he stands there.

Watching me.

I’m not sure how much of me is actually on display in the dark, but as he drops into a crouch next to my underwear, he knows damned well that I’m swimming naked. Worse, my awareness of him creates a sweet, hot ache in me that I shouldn’t welcome. I’ve been down this road before, and lusting after my not-quite-stepbrother is an exercise in futility. He doesn’t see me that way, and even if he did, I’ve sworn off men. The sex is never worth it in the end, and I don’t want this one last fantasy smashed. I’m already broken inside, and I don’t need more hurt.

So what if I still dream about Angel? Those dreams happen despite myself, and only now and then. In my dreams, he’s a hot, possessive lover who knows exactly how to make me come, but the real-life cowboy is infuriating.

Instead of going away, however, he leans forward, hands resting on his knees, and the sheer male power of him steals my breath away. He looks sensational, and of course I have to imagine him naked. Mentally stripping away the Levis, the boots, the wash-worn T-shirt, my head goes wild. I’ve always had a good imagination. For example, I imagined all too clearly, before I left Lonesome for the last time, what it might be like to teach Angel a thing or two. On my terms.

“If you don’t want me to teach you a lesson,” he says, as if he’s reading my mind as he reaches down a hand to haul me out, “don’t make me come in there after you.”

He’s not the boss of me, even if he wishes he were, so I ignore that hand and get on with washing the rest of the suds out of my hair.

“I mean it.” His rough growl makes me wetter than I already am. Apparently, I have a secret Neanderthal fetish. You’d think I’d be smarter than that by now.

I recognize the protective, overbearing stance Angel takes all too clearly. This man doesn’t think I should be where I am, and he’s decided to help me out with a little redirect. His intentions might be sweet (although the jury is definitely out on that one, because sweet and Angel have never been used in the same sentence unless it involves kinky sex acts with frosting), but I’m not exactly sweet myself. I’m more used up and bitter, if we’re being honest.

“You won’t come in after me.” Jumping into the water to forcibly fish me out means lowering himself to my level and giving up that much vaunted control of his. Angel guards his control like water in a drought. He’d never play silly games, so I’m safe.

“You sure?” He tosses his hat aside. My libido cheers and urges him to remove another article of clothing. Like his pants. Bad libido.

“I’m naked,” I point out this awkward fact out, just in case he’s missed the Day-Glo pink of my bra and panty set by his boots.

I still can’t read him, but the few months we spent together all those years ago taught me how to rile him up. That knowledge is bittersweet. I’m not the same girl I was, but he hadn’t liked that girl anyhow.

“I’m gonna give you one warning,” he growls. He’s still got just two modes: surly and domineering. Eight years hasn’t changed that. “The next time I see you, I’m making you mine.”

The water’s cold, and I tell myself that’s why I fight back a shiver. It has nothing to do with the way Angel looks at me, like he’s finally seeing me.

“Time to get out, Rose.” He reaches out to me again and temptation beckons. One good tug—he won’t expect that— and I’ll have him in the water. He simply waits there, so big and tough and confident; I want to take him down a notch or two. Put him at a disadvantage. When I shove my hand into his, his fingers wrap around mine, the muscles tensing to pull me out. Instead of letting him, I pull, hard.

His large, hard body hits mine, his rough curse filling my ears as we both go under. The delicious coolness of the water closes over my head, and I sink downwards, letting the weight of his body pull me toward the bottom.

Finally, I’ve gotten to him—the same way he always did to me.

ANGEL

I hit the water hard, twisting to spare Rose my full weight, because damned if I saw this coming. I’m not a small man. The impact traps her slender frame beneath mine and both of us go down deep beneath the surface.