Page 6 of Hit Man

Where did he come from?

There’s enough natural light that, despite the power outage, I get a good look at him.

God created man. And then God createdman. And even from this angle, this guy is as hot as they come.

Midlength midnight black locks of hair tumble haphazardly across his face, covering his eyes and obscuring his forehead and eyes. Bedhead, like he’s just woken up. Except his brisk, calculated movements suggest otherwise. His manner’s rugged, powerful, full of purpose. I’m struck by his handsome profile, the perfectly straight aquiline nose, high cheekbones, and firm, no-nonsense chin. He’s tan, like he spends a lot of time outdoors, his skin the color ofcafé con leche, heavy on the foam.

Lickable.

And his body . . . Lord have mercy,his hands have moved to unbutton his jacket, like he’s ready to show me exactly what’s hidden beneath his finely tailored suit.

He takes off his suit jacket and lays it across a plush white sofa before unfastening the buttons on his blue dress shirt. One button . . . five buttons . . . eight.

What on earth is he doing?

I watch, fascinated, as he kicks off his shoes and strips off his shirt. I’m speechless, probably because my mouth’s gone dry at the sight of his bare chest.

My word, the man is built, with a boxer’s body. Hard in all the right places. A firm, muscled chest. Well-defined arms with thick biceps. Eight-pack abs that flex as he shifts on his feet.

And oh . . . he’s still moving, unzipping the fly of his pants and shimmying out of the expensively tailored material.

He’s not going to . . . yep, he certainly is.

I gasp as his slacks hit the floor.

“Aubrey, you okay over there?” I hear Zoey’s voice. But I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from the strip show going on below. One in progressfor my eyes only.

According toCosmo, there are two kinds of women. Those who love boxers and those who love briefs. Boxers imply that his package might be too big to be contained by all that material. But briefs do not lie. Briefs say “Take a gander, sweetheart; the proof is in the pudding.”

But my stripper turns his back to me, so the verdict is still out. Still, his briefs pull tight across his finely shaped ass.

You’re objectifying, Aubrey. Such a shallow thing to do.

I grin. A second guilty pleasure of mine is replaying on TiVo the dance clips inMagic Mike. And the man standing in his briefs below is a darker, more ruggedly handsome version of Channing Tatum.

Art. In. Motion.

He scoops up his clothing, and I blink. What the heck is he thinking?

“Crap,” Zoey mumbles.

I turn, worriedly.

“I lost a heel.”

“For the love of God, be careful,” I reply, hastily refocusing my attention on the stranger below.

His suit is gone, yet before I can wonder about it’s disappearance, he goes and tucks his thumbs into the waistline of his briefs.

Whoa. WHOA!

I feel hot, like the full force of the Mexican sun is beating down on me. Swallowing hard, I place an open hand on the glass wall, dizzy and light-headed and breathlessly anticipating what happens next.

He slides the waistline of his briefs over his hip bones.

Oh. My. God. This is crazy.

“I’ve never heard someone get so worked up about architecture before. What’s going on over there? Did you just figure out that there’s a waterfall flowing out from the living room wall? Yes, it is crazy,” Zoey asks. “Crazy expensive. Crazy flamboyant. Crazy cool. Have you ever seen such a beautiful sight?”