You make velocity look good.

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.

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

we're going balls to the wall, guys. Our sneak-and-peak just turned into a hostage rescue.

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.

Her gaze slid up the thick muscles of his arm, imagining her hand doing the same, imagining what it would feel like to explore a body of such raw, masculine energy. No doubt about it, he was man built for battle. Yet she could seein his sharp, dark eyes, and in the glimpses of humor and caring he'd let slip, that there was so much more to him than the fight.

She wanted his strong, capable hands on her blody and those soft lips locked with hers. She wanted to be held tight and kissed until she could forget-if only for a few precious minutes-that her life as she knew it had evaporated in a cloud of smoke and flame and violence.

She dribbled water over his neck and back. The towel didn't quite soak up all of it, and drops raced down his back, trailing the curve of his spine. She loved that curve, framed on either side by ripple after ripple of muscle, and she especially loved the way it dipped in at his waist before flaring onto his perfect, rounded backside.

He liked the sound of her voice, husky and low in a way that got him thinking about pinning her to the rock and setting his mouth to work on the hollow of her throat, proving to her which of them was in control. Then again, feelings didn't get much more out of control that his were at the moment.