The Ruthless Caleb Wilde. Sandra MartonЧитать онлайн книгу.
low. Rough. She stared at him. Then, slowly, a soft pink glow suffused her cheeks.
She knew what he was telling her. She was what had kept him awake.
How would he react if she told him it was the same for her?
Her heart gave an unsteady bump. Their eyes met and held. Then he rose quickly to his feet.
“Almost finished.” His tone had become brusque. “Let me just dry that cut and put a bandage on it.”
“It doesn’t need a bandage.”
“It does. Are they in the medicine cabinet?”
She sighed. “Yes.”
There was no point in arguing with him. By now, she knew that.
Her knight was a determined man. It was, she had to admit, an admirable quality, especially when all that determination was devoted to taking care of her.
Nobody had ever done that before.
Well, except, sometimes, for David—but that wasn’t the same thing at all.
Caleb made her feel … protected. More than that. He made her feel cherished, which was a silly word to use because he was a veritable stranger.
And yet, that was how she felt with him.
She watched as he took a towel from the rack, took the box of bandages from the cabinet, opened one, then squatted in front of her again.
His touch was gentle. Everything about him was gentle. It surprised her, considering his size, considering the way he’d dealt with her attacker and the pair of animals in the entry hall a couple of hours ago.
And he was intensely focused. On her foot, on the inconsequential wound.
Was he always that way?
Would he be so tightly focused on a woman in bed?
She made a little sound in the back of her throat. He looked up.
“Am I hurting you?”
“No,” she said quickly.
“You sure?”
Sage nodded, even though she was no longer sure about anything. How could she be, when one night, one man, had seemingly turned her existence upside down?
She wanted to touch him.
Stretch out her hand. Stroke his hair. It was short. Inky-black.
She wanted to touch his face, too. Trace her finger over those high cheekbones, that strong nose, that sensual mouth.
She wanted to look deep into his eyes, see if they were really blue, or were they black?
And those lashes. The color of soot. Thick. Long.
A woman would kill to claim those lashes.
A woman would kill to claim him.
Heat raced through her again, quick and dangerous. Was she crazy? This wasn’t her thing. Picking up a stranger. Fantasizing about making love with him …
“Don’t,” he said.
His voice was low, the way it had been before. Now it was rough, too, like sandpaper.
Sage blinked. She felt her pulse beating high and fast in her throat. He was watching her, his eyes and mouth narrowed.
“Did you hear me? I said, don’t look at me like that.”
She knew what he meant. The tension in the tiny room had grown thick. She knew what he was doing, too. Warning her. Giving her the chance to turn back.
I don’t know what you mean, was the simple answer, delivered not provocatively but with girlish innocence.
She was an actress. A good one, despite the paucity of credits in her résumé. She could deliver the line and make it believable.
The hell with that.
“Don’t look at you how?” she said, nothing girlish or innocent in the words but rather, a woman’s honest acceptance of what she wanted.
He made a sound that was almost a groan of despair.
“Sage,” he said, “do you know what you’re doing?”
“No,” she whispered. “But I know what I want.”
His eyes turned black as a moonless night. He reached for her, or she reached for him, and when he rose to his feet, she was in his arms.
He kissed her.
Not the sweet whisper of his mouth against hers as it had been before.
This time, his kiss was hungry.
His tongue sought entry and she gave it, willingly, eagerly, wanting his passion. And he gave it. No hesitancy. No caution. He was the man she’d come to know tonight, all male, all heat, all demand.
And she loved it.
She wrapped her arms around his neck. He lifted her off her feet, holding her to him, her breasts soft against his hard chest, her hips pressed to his, his erection powerful against her belly.
Her toes curled with the pleasure of it, and when his mouth left hers, she buried her face against his throat.
“Oh God,” she said. “Oh God, Caleb …”
“Are you sure?” he said hoarsely.
“Yes. Yes. Yes—”
He took her mouth again, carried her into the bedroom, stood her next to the bed.
She reached for the hem of her sweatshirt.
He caught hold of her hands. Kissed them.
“I want to undress you,” he said.
He did. Slowly. Raising her sweatshirt as she raised her arms. Pulling it over her head, then tossing it aside.
She felt the kiss of night air on her breasts, then the heat of his mouth, and she cried out in shocked wonder at the feel of it.
She grabbed his shirt. He shook his head.
“Not yet,” he whispered, knowing that he had to see all of her before this went any further, that his control was slipping away like honey from a spoon.
“Not yet,” he said again, and he hooked his thumbs into her sweatpants and drew them down her hips, down her long legs.
Ah, lord, she was exquisite.
High, rounded breasts. Slender waist. A woman’s hips, lush and lovely. Those long, elegant legs. And at the juncture of her thighs, a mass of gold curls, waiting for his caress.
“Sage. You’re so beautiful….”
She reached for him again. His shirt was half-unbuttoned and now she undid the rest, her eyes never leaving his, their hot glitter burning him like flame.
He shrugged off the shirt. She gave a little hum of delight and skimmed her hands over his muscled shoulders and chest, his six-pack abs.
He’d always taken care of his body, playing sports, training for the Agency, riding his horses. He’d done it because he believed in keeping strong and, yes, he’d done it for vanity, too.
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