Page 32 of Secret Mission

Whoa. Wow. So, he’s going for shock and awe.

This guy redefines cocky.

But an unfamiliar sensation clenches inside of me. My mouth opens, my pulse throbs at the base of my throat.

“Well…” I sound way too raspy and want to kick myself in the rear.. “If that’s the case, then Truck it is because you are never manhandling me and definitely not going to beballsdeep. I hate that description, by the way. And from now on, you cannot call me Ally. Or Allison. Come to think of it, I’m Doctor Westerly to you.”

He barks out a rough laugh and leans back on the bench, man-sprawling, letting his eyes drop down to my bare legs.

The corner of his mouth hitches into that sexy, stupid tease of a grin. “Right on, Doc. Whatever you think. Keep lying to yourself for a while longer. I like the anticipation.”

My hands turn into shaking fists. “Oh, for Christ’s sake. Now I wish I had that knife because for the first time in my life, I want to try some target practice.”

I’m enjoying a vision of hurling something dangerous when he shifts his entire frame and stands up.

A sensation skitters through me.

Flames lick at my nerves.

Uh… He’s really big. Bigger than before, somehow.

My betraying eyes slip downward and latch onto the way his cargo pants hug his lean hips.

He’s got that V thing. Below that is a sizeable chunk of man real-estate.

“Like what you see?”

“No.”

Yes.

Stupid ovaries. I’m putting them on leave right now.

The sensation moves through me again. Stronger this time, and I put a name to it. Hunger. A hollow, warm sensation.

I cannot be lusting after this man.

“Don’t come any closer.”

He tilts his head the way he does. “Why’s that?”

“Because…” I half-shout, half-sputter.

An evil little laugh echoes inside my head.

You have no say in this lust thing.

Ugh! All I can think about is his weight pressing down on me, his gigantic cock stretching me open, hitting the places that are aching. Places I didn’t even know existed until he looked at me like I’m his next meal.

Truck, silent and keenly watchful, takes two slow, controlled steps toward me.

I can’t back up. There’s nowhere to go except overboard. Which is starting to have a reckless appeal.

My mouth goes dry when his scent hits me. Spice and a hint of clean sweat invades me like a swarm of honeybees on wildflowers.

“Doctor Westerly,” he murmurs in a low rasp, his blue gaze sliding over me top to bottom and back, making the ovarian cheerleaders go berserk.

That feather-light touch of air from his words across my perspiring skin is so intimate I almost collapse.