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Sculpted muscle flowed like water beneath his smooth tanned skin and dusky brown nipples. She’d think of a snarky comeback if she wasn’t busy trying not to drool.
Her gaze dropped to the t-shirt. No red stains. That was a good sign.
“I’m a doctor.” The reminder was for her as much as him and would have been more effective if she didn’t sound so out of breath.
She’d seen plenty of bare-chested men. So what if this one had abs that looked carved from stone?
The box of examination gloves was mounted on the wall next to his shoulder. Caleb spread his knees just enough that she had to step between them to pull out a pair.
Sandalwood and spice teased her nose. His body heat warmed her—every inch of smooth, bare skin urging her lips closer.
She jerked back. The snap of the rubber on her wrists stung—a small penance for the thoughts she shouldn’t behaving.
Adrenaline let down from her conversation with Vincente. It had to be why she couldn’t focus.
The scar on Caleb’s neck caught her attention again. It arced from behind his left ear and widened to his collarbone, dangerously close to his jugular.
Her fingers itched to trace it. Somehow, it made him sexier. More lethal.
“Iraq.” Caleb’s voice was a low rumble.
He’d caught her staring. When she looked up, his gaze drifted down her body in a raw, sexual manner that shot lightning straight to her core.
Her thighs clenched.
His smile said he noticed that, too.
Mortified, she yanked her gaze away and tried to pull the tattered remains of her professionalism around her. Hard to do when she was standing between his thighs.
More scars marked his torso—some faint, some fresh. All illustrating a life familiar with violence.
She pointed to the black tattoo of a parachute, flanked by a set of curved wings, on his left arm. “What does this mean?”
“That I’m qualified to jump out of a perfectly good airplane.” A flash of humor lit his eyes. “A buddy talked me into it the night we earned our wings.”
Sonot on her bucket list. “Hard pass.”
“It’s not so bad.”
His right arm also sported a tattoo—a crest with a dagger intersecting two crossed arrows. Beneath the dagger and arrows were the wordsDe Oppresso Liber.
She tapped his biceps. “And this one?”
“To free the oppressed. It’s the Special Forces motto.”
“How fitting.” He bled protector from every pore.
She motioned for him to turn. “Let me see your back.”
The wound from the other night was healing well. No signs of infection. There were several small knicks on his neck. “Glass?”
“Hmmm.”
“I’ll take that as a yes. Hold on.” She left the room and returned with a headlamp and magnifier. “I want to make sure you don’t have any embedded in these cuts.”
“It was tempered glass, Doc.” A low, amused murmur that curled her toes.
She cocked a brow. “Are you telling me how to do my job?”