Navy Seal Spy. Carol Ericson
seized at the glow of amusement in the deep green depths of his eyes. The blip of panic returned as she got lost in the rugged male beauty of his face—the chiselled cheekbones, the shadow of stubble on the strong line of his jaw, the tantalising dimple in his chin.
How could any man be this gorgeous? This potently male? It just wasn’t fair on the female of the species.
The sensual lips twitched, as if he were valiantly suppressing a grin.
Get a flipping grip. The man offered to be your snorkel buddy, not your bonk buddy.
‘So we’re all set?’ The rough question echoed in her sex.
‘Unless you need me to return the favour?’ She coughed, when the offer came out on an unladylike squeak. ‘With the sun lotion, I mean. So you don’t burn.’
The suggestion trailed off as his eyebrows lifted a fraction and the edge of his mouth kicked up in one of those sensual, secret smiles that had been making her breathing quicken all morning. It stopped altogether now.
Shut up. You did not just say that? You sad, sad, sex-deprived nymphomaniac.
‘Forget it, that was a silly thing to say.’ She raced to cover the gaff. ‘I don’t know why I suggested it.’ Cooper Delaney’s sun-kissed skin had the healthy glow of a year-round tan weathered by sea air. He’d probably never had to use lotion in his entire life. ‘I’m sure you don’t need to worry about sunburn. Perhaps we should just—’
‘That sounds like a great idea.’ The easy comment cut through her manic babble.
‘It does?’
His lips kicked up another notch. ‘Sure, you can never have enough protection, right?’
Was he mocking her? And could she summon the will to care while she was barely able to breathe?
‘Um, right. I’ll get the lotion, then.’ She dived back into her bag, rummaging around for what felt like several decades as she tried to locate the lotion before he changed his mind. She found it just in time to see him lift the hem of his T-shirt over his head and throw it over the console.
All the blood rushed out of her brain as she stood, poised like the Statue of Liberty, clutching the lotion like Liberty’s torch.
Oh. My. God. His chest is a work of art.
Sun-bleached hair curled around flat copper nipples as if to accentuate the mounds of his exceptionally well-defined pecs. She followed the trail down between the ridged muscles of his six-pack, then swallowed convulsively as the thin strip of hair tapered beneath the waistband of his cut-offs, drawing her attention to the roped sinews that stood out in bold relief against the line of his hip bones.
No wonder it’s called a happy trail. I feel euphoric.
‘Thanks, honey. I appreciate it.’ His gruff words interrupted her reverie as he presented her with an equally breathtaking view of his back.
His spine bisected the slabs of packed muscle, sloping down to the tattoo of a Celtic Cross, inked across the base of his back, which peeked out above his shorts. Her gaze dipped lower, to absorb the sight of a perfectly toned male ass framed in battered denim.
She cleared her throat loudly, before she choked to death on her own drool. ‘Is, um, is factor fifty okay?’
He lifted one muscular shoulder, let it drop. ‘Whatever you’ve got is good.’
The low words seemed to rumble through her torso, making her pulse points vibrate.
She squeezed a lake of the viscous white liquid into unsteady palms. Taking a deep breath, she flattened her palms onto the hot, smooth skin of his back, while her lungs clogged with the tempting scent of cocoa butter and man.
The muscles tensed as she spread the thick lotion, and absorbed the heat of his skin, the steely strength beneath.
Moisture gathered in the secret spot between her thighs, which now felt as if it was swollen to twice its normal size.
As she spread the white liquid over the wide expanse of his back, and massaged it into his skin, she timed her breathing to the beat of the timpani drum in her ear, in a desperate attempt to stop herself from hyperventilating.
And passing out before the job was done.
* * *
Cooper touched Ella’s arm, signalling with his index finger to draw her attention to the blue angel fish darting beneath the shelf of fiery orange coral. Her eyes popped wide behind the mask and her expressive mouth spread into a delighted grin around her mouthpiece.
As they hovered above the reef he watched her admire the brilliant aquamarine of the fish’s scales, the white-tipped fins, and the pretty golden edging on the tail, while he admired the open excitement on her face and the buoyant breasts barely contained by purple spandex.
His groin twitched, the blood pumping south despite the chill of the seawater. The sudden flashback, of her stretching under his hands, her breathing coming out on a strangled groan as he caressed the firm skin, didn’t do much to deter the growing erection.
He adjusted his junk, grateful for the wet denim of his shorts. Which had been holding him in check ever since he’d dived into the ocean, leaving Dwayne to fit Ella’s flippers and snorkelling gear, before she spotted the telltale ridge in his pants.
They’d been out on the reef for over half an hour now, and he’d mostly got himself under control. But the sight of that shy, excited smile, every time he showed her some new species of fish, or the barnacled wreck of the Montana, had been almost as mesmerising as the feel of her fingers fluttering over his bicep whenever she wanted to point something out to him, or the sight of all those lush curves bobbing in the waves.
The woman was killing him. So much so that his golden rule about hooking up with single lady tourists was in danger of being blown right out of the water.
As she pointed delightedly to a shoal of parrot fish flicking past he recalled why he’d made his golden rule in the first place.
Single ladies on holiday generally fell into one of two categories: those on the hunt for no-strings thrills, or those on the look-out for an exotic island romance. As both scenarios invariably involved lots of sex, he’d been more than happy to indulge in hook-ups with the clients when he’d first arrived on the island a decade ago. But back then he’d been eighteen going on thirty with a chip on his shoulder the size of a forest, not a lot of money and even fewer prospects.
In the intervening years, he’d worked his butt off to leave that messed-up kid in the dust. As the owner of a lucrative and growing dive-shop franchise, he sure as hell didn’t need to look for acceptance in casual sex any more—or the hassle of pretending to be interested in more.
Which meant single lady tourists had been off limits for a while, unless he knew for certain they weren’t after more than the one night of fun. Usually, it was easy enough to figure that out. In fact he’d become an expert at deciding whether a woman had lust or stardust in their eyes when they hit on him. But Ella Radley didn’t fit the profile for either.
For starters, she hadn’t exactly hit on him despite the obvious chemistry between them. And he still hadn’t figured out whether that enchanting mix of artless enthusiasm, sweet-natured kookiness and transparent hunger was all part of an act to get into his pants—or was actually real.
Unfortunately, he was fast running out of time to make up his mind on that score. Sonny had two more fully booked tours scheduled right after this one. And with the old guy’s arthritis acting up again, Cooper had agreed to step in and captain them. It was a responsibility he couldn’t and wouldn’t duck out of. Because Sonny and he had a history.
The old guy had offered him a shift crewing on The Jez, when he’d been eighteen and had just spent his last dime on boat fare to the island. He’d been sleeping rough on the quayside and would have sold his soul for a burger and a side order of fries.
He’d done a half-assed