“Um, yeah.” My throat still feels dry, but I’m definitely feeling better—and more than a little embarrassed about my fainting spell.

“I didn’t realize you’d gotten this dehydrated,” he says, a small frown bisecting his brow. “Why did you push yourself so hard?”

“Because I wanted to win,” I admit, closing my eyes and breathing in the scent of his skin. He smells like sex and sweat, an oddly appealing combination.

“Here, drink some more water,” he says, and I open my eyes again, obediently drinking when he presses a bottle to my lips. The bottle is from the cooler I keep stashed on this side of the island to keep hydrated after my runs.

After a few minutes—and an entire bottle of water—I feel well enough to start walking back. Except Julian doesn’t let me walk. Instead, as soon as I get to my feet, he bends down and lifts me into his arms as effortlessly as if I were a doll. “Hold on to my neck,” he orders, and I wrap my arms around him, letting him carry me back home.

18

Nora

The next morning I wake up to the luxurious sensation of having my feet massaged. It feels so incredible that, for a few seconds, I think I’m dreaming and try to avoid waking up. The feel of strong fingers kneading my foot is all too real, however, and I moan in bliss as each individual toe is rubbed and stroked with just the right amount of pressure.

Opening my eyes, I see Julian sitting on the bed, gloriously naked and holding a bottle of massage oil. Pouring some into his palm, he bends over me and starts massaging my ankles and calves next.

“Good morning,” he purrs, looking at me. I stare back at him, mute with surprise. Julian has given me massages in the past, but usually only as a way to relax me before doing something that would make me scream. He’s never woken me up in this pleasurable way before.

There is a half-smile on his sensuous lips, and I can’t help feeling nervous. “Um, Julian,” I say uncertainly, “what… what are you doing?”

“Giving you a massage,” he says, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “Why don’t you relax and enjoy it?”

I blink, watching as his hands slowly move up my calves. He has large hands—strong and masculine. My legs look impossibly slender and feminine in his grasp, though I have well-defined muscles from all the running. I can feel the calluses on his palms scratching lightly against my skin, and I swallow, the unbidden thought that those hands belong to a killer entering my mind.

“Turn over,” he says, tugging on my legs, and I plop over on my belly, still feeling nervous. What is he up to? I don’t like surprises when it comes to Julian.

He starts kneading the back of my legs, unerringly finding the areas most sore from yesterday’s race, and I groan as tight muscles begin to loosen up under his skilled fingers. Still, I can’t relax completely; Julian is far too unpredictable for my peace of mind.