The Virginity Mission
My eyes are drawn to movement. Someone jumps onto the back of the truck and I blink. Once. Twice. My stomach and pelvic floor collide.
Shoulders loom from a snug khaki singlet that ripples across his stomach as he moves. Camouflage trousers do nothing to disguise the tightly rounded butt as he bends over to grab the first backpack to stow. This military man is all lithe, controlled power. He climbs over the back of the truck holding someone’s gear as if it weighs nothing. Those shoulders are massive bunches of corded strength. His arms aren’t hugely bulging but deliciously defined. A sudden desire to have those arms wrapped tightly around my naked flesh burns my brain. Dear God, I’ve lost my mind.
I’m on a scientific expedition. Learning is the key to the next six weeks in the north Queensland rainforest—it’s not a sex tour. I’ve never been to the tropics before and I’m eager to find out everything I can. I’m here to contribute, not drool, although if someone catches my eye I won’t say no. But the army men are here to work and they’re not allowed to fraternise with us. It was mentioned more than a few times in last night’s briefing.
Standing in line while waiting for my gear to get packed into the truck, nothing can stop my eyes returning to the army guy. People around me are talking but it’s only background noise. My attention is otherwise occupied.
His dark, close-cropped hair shines with exertion but he doesn’t break stride. He keeps lugging another piece of gear, piling it into the truck as if it weighs nothing. Each piece packed neatly and effortlessly.
Each movement is fluid. Every muscle bending and flexing in perfect accord. He’s like a sleek black panther—all coiled muscle ready to pounce. It’s so damn sexy I can’t look away. My mouth is drying as I watch and every drop of moisture is heading south.