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“Shimmy into the bedroom.”
His gruff voice sparkled over her like carbonated water. She obeyed, too intrigued not to. He walked behind her at an even clip while she pulled her hair over one shoulder and twisted, a nervous habit when she didn’t know what to do with her hands. Though, she knew what she wanted to do with her hands, didn’t she? Put them all over his body. Run them through his hair. Hold on to his—
“Stop.”
She halted at the doorway of his bedroom and he slipped past her, brushing her waist with one hand. His bed was unmade, a pair of discarded jeans and a few T-shirts on the floor. A massive window stood over the bed, slatted blinds open to let in the sun. His dresser was on the far side of the room, along with a chair, and two different prosthetics rested against the wall next to the closet. One was shaped like a large C, no foot at the bottom. They were for running, if memory served.
“Messy for a military man,” she said, sweeping her eyes back to the bed.
“I’m not on duty.” He grabbed the corner of his gray comforter and tossed it open to reveal gray rumpled sheets. “They’re clean. I don’t like making the bed. More comfortable to slide into it messy.”
There was a euphemism there she didn’t take the time to turn over.
He snagged her hand and pulled her to him. “You ready?”
“Yes.” Her heart thundered in anticipation of what he’d promised. Him between her legs, turning her on. He ran his hand down her blouse, over her breast, and to her skirt, where he slipped his fingers under the material. Once he reached the bare skin of her thighs, he kept going, his hand cupping her sex.
“Completely bare,” he said reverently, sliding a finger along her damp folds. “And ready for me.”
She opened her mouth and a high-pitched whimper came out. His touch felt that good.
“That’s going to be my tongue next.” Another stroke and she grasped his shoulder for support. If he kept this up, he’d drop her where she stood. Her knees actually wobbled. “Do you like it fast or slow?”
It wasn’t a rhetorical question, she guessed, given the way he watched and waited for an answer.
“I…I’m not sure.”
He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. He stroked her again—one long, wet glide. “But you’ve had experience with this.”
“Not a lot.” She let loose a nervous smile. Josh had always been in too much of a hurry. And frankly, he wasn’t very good at it. “I mean, yeah…with…myself.”
Did she seriously admit to Eli Crane that she masturbated? Her eyes widened in alarm, but his smile turned sinister.
“In that case, you know exactly what you like, don’t you?”
She swallowed around the lump hardening in her throat, grateful when he kissed her so she didn’t have to answer. He slipped his fingers away, unzipping her skirt and giving it a shove. It hit the floor and she kicked off her shoes.
“On the bed, Sable.”
She sat on the edge of the mattress, pulling her legs up and wrapping her arms around them. His grin was penetrating and sent another warm surge through her. The anticipation of having him taste her—having him inside her—filled her with unfamiliar longing.
It’d been years since she’d been in a relationship, and when she had, it’d been weighed down by a mountain of obligation. With Eli, there were only the two of them and a physical awareness that rivaled any attraction in her past.
Eli sat at the end of the bed, his back to her as he took off his shoes. They met the floor with a couple of dull thuds. He stood and slid his pants down, revealing a tight, round ass in black boxer briefs and thighs so strong she’d bet he used them to open jars.
She rested her chin on her folded forearms to hide her smile.
He sat, and while she couldn’t see what he was doing, she could hear him working his pants down his legs and the sound of a click as he removed the prosthetic leg.
The last to go was his shirt. He fisted the material at the back of his neck and peeled it over his head, tossing it to the floor inside out. Messy, indeed. She liked that as much as she liked everything else about him. Especially those rippling back muscles. Eli was beautiful and rugged. Like a sculpted rock face.
When he turned his head, she admired his profile; the line of his neck leading down his shoulder and his tattoo sleeve. Flowers and lettering, a cross and the sun, interwoven with patterns she hadn’t taken the time to interpret.
“Sable, lie down,” came his quiet command.
She scooted back onto the bed and stretched her legs out, reaching for the buttons on her blouse.
