“N-no,” she stammered.
“Then what is it, Rita?” he asked, a wicked smile in his tone. “Or have you never seen a naked man before?”
“No,” she lied. “I just shouldn’t have looked. Our agreement...” She trailed off.
“That’s right,” he said, irritation once more bringing stiffness to his voice. “Our agreement. I haven’t forgotten our agreement, Rita. You need not worry that my lack of clothing represents anything beyond an effort to prevent chafing. It will get chilly soon, though. The place I wanted to show you is nearby. We can stay warm there while we await assistance.”
“Assistance?” Rita questioned, turning to face him in her surprise. “We aren’t going to just drive?”
But by the time the words had left her mouth she was no longer interested in the answer.
Her mouth went dry.
She wanted to blame the dust and sand, but that storm had already passed—and had nothing to do with a storm whipping up inside her now.
Jag stood glistening in the moonlight, shirtless, the fastens of his pants undone, the front folds hanging open. His chest and arms were all muscled and gleaming strength, as perfectly formed as any automotive frame she had ever laid eyes on.
Curling hair dotted his pectorals before disappearing among the lines of rigid definition that made up his abdominals, only to reappear below his belly button, this time marching in a straight line that led downward and disappeared beneath the top fabric line of his boxers.
Rita swallowed hard, her entire focus attuned to that line of fabric, her breath coming shallow in her breast.
She had been aware of the fact that Jag was handsome, had noticed how well he filled out his clothing, his hard body a rigid form so perfect it seemed to have been made for the task.
But she’d had no idea that beneath the perfect tailoring and exquisite materials lay a body that was enough to put the works of the great Renaissance masters to shame.
His skin was the exact shade of a perfect white mocha, creamy with a hint of tan, and in the bright moonlight, it glowed as much as the pearl belt she wore.
When she tore her eyes away from his body, yanking them back up to his face, what she saw there stole her breath all over again.
She was used to the eternal burning flame of his eyes, but the fires she saw now raged out of control, hotter than she had ever seen them.
And yet she had the sense that touching those flames would not bring her harm, but the opposite, in fact—the promise of immense pleasure.
Where such an idea came from, she had no idea.
No experience thus far in her life had prepared her for this moment with Jag.
With his gaze glued to her face, his hands came to the top of his pants.
Gasping, Rita ripped her gaze away from him once more, desperate for anything to take her mind off the growing heat in her body.
Casting out for anything to save herself, her eyes landed on the sand-buried form of the Ferrari, and for the millionth time that evening, her mood swung from one extreme to another.
Freed from the entrancement of seeing Jag’s near-naked body, Rita now understood exactly why he said they would be waiting for assistance.
The Ferrari had been sheared by the sand, its light blue paint stripped in a flash by nature’s cruel buffering.
Chipped-out spots, divots left by bits of rock and sand, dotted its surface until the hood resembled a cheese grater.
A massive spiderweb crack crossed the windshield diagonally from corner to corner.
Instead of a grille, there was now a solid brick of sand.
Fist coming to her mouth with a gasp she could not hold back, Rita’s stomach knotted even as her mind continued to catalog the damage.
Dropping into a crouch, she examined the dust and sand-packed undercarriage. She had never seen sand as thick and solid as a brick wall before.
The excessive particulate must also be why her own eyes could not seem to stop welling over.