Page 22 of Extracted

She studied his dark profile. The chiseled line of his jaw, thick with stubble, made her want to pull his face to hers and kiss him like they had in the closet. His lips had a Cupid’s bow shape, and of all her lovers, he had the most gifted mouth.

Dallas packaged up the items and picked up a white bottle from the nightstand. He shook two pills into his palm and held them out. “Here.”

She made a face. Not a chance she was going to put anything else in her stomach. She might be able to get through stitches with him thinking nothing could make her look ugly, but he hadn’t seen her puke yet.

He lifted a shoulder and popped them back in the bottle. “They’re there if you want ’em.” He got up and rounded the bed. Her gaze stuck to him like glue.

Watching him had a calming effect on her. And being around him gave her a fuzzy feeling. Which was ridiculous. They weren’t a couple and nor could they be. He stopped at his side of the bed, and, with his back to her, balled his fist into the material at the back of his neck and pulled his shirt off.

Her insides quivered with need.

So much masculinity. So much muscle. A large tattoo took up the landscape of his back—big waves that stretched from the bottom of his ribcage to the base of his neck. Some of the white-capped swirls reached the backs of his biceps. She’d noticed the markings before but had never mentioned them. It wasn’t as if she spent a whole lot of time viewing his back when they were together. Frontal anatomy was where it was at.

She gave a low whistle. “That’s an incredible tattoo.”

He touched the nape of his neck and glanced over his shoulder. His lips twitched. “Thanks.”

He kicked off his pants, peeled back the blanket, and slid beneath the covers. His arm bumped hers and her body ached to shimmy closer.

He gave the comforter a shake and inhaled a sharp breath. “Ugh. This stinks.”

She settled her head further into the pillow and pulled her side of the blanket over her body. “So gross.”

He leaned over her and clicked off the lamp. “We’ve got two hours, by the way.”

“What do you mean?”

“The plane leaves at 9:00 a.m. Since you’ve now made me an international criminal”—he flipped to his side so he faced her, but she couldn’t make out his features—“We need to get out of the country ASAP.”

Her mind blurred in a violent storm of questions. “I told you. I can’t—”

“Sleep,” he said grumpily.

She rolled her lips together and stared at the ceiling. She needed a plan and she needed one quickly. The buzz of the damn liquor would make that impossible.

She closed her eyes.

Tomorrow, she’d figure something out. But there was absolutely no way she was getting on a plane with Dallas.

No way.

* * *

Dallas folded his arms in front of his chest as he watched the plane taxi down the runway. Even though he stood a good couple hundred feet away, the air around him stirred. He glanced at his watch: 9:03 a.m., and it was already hotter than a motherfucker.

The sun peeked over the mountains, lighting the dewy Amazon jungle in a steamy glow.

“Are you always this functional on two hours’ sleep?” Gemma grumbled.

He smirked.

She’d been adamant she wasn’t going to accompany him on his flight to Ecuador, but common sense prevailed.

He pulled his sunglasses over his eyes and took advantage of the extra shielding, letting his gaze linger on Gemma a little longer. She wore khaki shorts and a navy-blue tank top. Her dark locks were pulled back into a ponytail and her face was free of makeup.

“Two hours is plenty.”

She shuddered. “That’s so messed up.”

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