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“Wouldn’t dare.”
Fortunately, none of the wounds were deep. She cleaned them and applied ointment.
“You smell good,” he murmured. Husky, sensual.
Her fingers froze. “So do you.”
Warm and earthy. Masculine.
She stepped back. Peeled off her gloves. But her heart didn’t follow.
Vincente’s men nearly took him from her today. She was done dancing around her attraction. If Caleb wanted her, she’d take whatever part of himself he offered in the time she had left with him.
Even knowing she’d get her heart broken.
No more keeping small.
He faced forward on the table, his gaze smoldering. “Thanks for patching me up. Again.”
That rasp in his voice—dangerous, intimate—called to a feminine part of her that hadn’t been awake in too long.
His hand brushed aside the hem of her medical coat and hovered.
He wanted to touch her—she could see it in his face. But he wouldn’t.
She had to make the first move.
With a sigh, she stepped into the space between his legs.
Her palms flattened on his bare chest. Silk over steel. Warm. Solid.Alive. She couldn’t help but shiver.
“You’re welcome. Don’t make it a habit.”
The desire, the need coursing through her like an addictive drug, turned her voice into a seductive murmur.
His hand landed gently on her hip. The other cupped her head.
He leaned in.
Gia’s eyes fluttered closed. His heart thumped beneath her hand. Her own beat wildly in response.
Warm breath caressed her lips.
His kiss was soft, a fleeting touch, then firm, insistent as he took control. When his tongue swiped across the seam of her lips, requesting entrance, she surrendered eagerly.
He tasted like safety and decadence, all rolled into a beautifully masculine package. Heat, need, and a growing urgency made her lightheaded. She clutched his shoulders, because if she didn’t, the firestorm of desire blasting through her would leave her boneless at his feet.
She wouldn’t ask if he cared for her or if his aim was to win her over so she’d agree to help him. It didn’t matter anymore.
One week.
The plastic clip holding her hair clattered on the tile floor.
A hand fisted her hair. Pinpricks of fire danced on her skull. Teeth grazed her neck.
The past crashed into the present, vivid and cruel.
“Vincente, you’re hurting me.”