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Her heart stuttered. She bit her lip.
His gaze hooded. “You aren’t sure.”
He settled back on the couch into a casual pose.
Sort of.
Her eyesight wasn’t so bad that she didn’t see the rather conspicuous bulge in his jeans.
Damn you, Vincente, for making me doubt myself.
“I’m sure. It’s just.” Her face heated. “I’m afraid.”
She swallowed hard, then forced out the rest. “I don’t want what happened between me and Vincente to ruin this.”
Caleb sat up straight, his face hardening. “Fuck Vincente.”
He rose from the couch in one fluid movement. Disappeared into the kitchen. Returned with a white dinette chair and sat down, jean-clad legs spread, the evidence of his desire on display.
“Come here.” His fingers beckoned. “You’re in charge, baby. I won’t touch you unless you ask me to.”
Baby.
Her tongue swiped nervously over her lip. “What do you want me to do?”
“Touch me.”
His smile was relaxed, his words a casual stroke of assurance. Calm. Non-threatening. “Wherever and however you want.”
“Are you sure?” Her fingers flexed.
She knew just where she’d start. His firm, muscled chest. The one she’d had to force herself to assess with a clinical eye earlier. No exam gloves his time. And her tongue. She’d use her tongue to taste that smooth, masculine skin.
“Yes.” His hot stare raked her. “You’re in control.”
A giddy feeling fizzed through her veins. The look on his face sparked a memory of who she used to be.
Bold. Playful. Adventurous.
She stepped forward. Her finger glided over his lips.
Caleb’s eyes darkened to molten chocolate. But he didn’t move.
She circled behind him. Brushed her fingers over the short strands of his thick, raven hair.
Bending her knees, she whispered a kiss on his ear, then slid down to allow her lips to follow the jagged line of his scar down to the neckline of his white t-shirt. Specks of blood marred the cotton from the earlier attempt on his life.
His chest expanded on a harsh inhale.
“Someone tried to hurt you.” Anger. It flickered through her. She might have never met him. Now, because of her, he was in danger again.
She pressed another kiss to his scar.Iraq, he’d said.
“He didn’t live long enough to succeed.”
“Good.” She didn’t care if that wasn’t an appropriate reaction from someone dedicated to saving lives.
Her decision to call Vincente had been the right one.