Page 23 of Forbidden Passions

“What are you doing?” she mumbled coming half-way awake.

“Just taking care of you.” I held the warm cloth against her sore flesh for several minutes, making her sigh.

“That feels wonderful.”

“Do you want to take a shower?”

“No,” she shook her head slowly, smiling up at me. “I want you back in the bed beside me.”

I nodded, cleaning her before covering her back up. I disposed of the washcloth and got back into bed. I wanted to useevery moment that I had with her, holding her. Storing up the memories for when she left.

Because I knew she would leave.

But I folded her into my arms as if I was waiting for the world to collapse. I rested my forehead against hers, eyes squeezed shut. Her scent was still clinging to my mouth, to my fingers and the need rose up inside me. Ferocious, almost feral.

My hands flexed on her back, one sliding into her hair. I buried my face there for a moment, breathing her in, letting the weight of what I’d done settle in my chest like a boulder that had rolled down the mountain.

She’d trusted me. She’d given me something I didn’t deserve. And I’d taken it like it was mine. Because part of me—the part that was broken and brutal—wanted her to stay. To be mine.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Callie

I’d imagined what Gabriel would be like in bed.

I’d been wrong. So gloriously wrong.

His military precision translated into something else entirely when applied to intimacy—an intense focus that made me feel like I was the only woman in the universe. His large, calloused hands had moved over my body with unexpected gentleness, then gripped with possessive strength that made me gasp.

And his mouth....

I woke slowly, tangled in warm sheets that didn’t belong to me. For a second, I didn’t move—just breathed in the scent we’d made.

My body ached in ways that felt unfamiliar but good. The soreness between my thighs wasn’t something I regretted—it was something I relished. A reminder of what we’d done. What I’d finally given to someone.

I blinked against the dim light and turned my head.

He wasn’t in bed.

He was in a chair in the corner of the room.

Sitting in the shadows like some battle-worn guardian, elbows on his knees, hands clasped, staring at the floor like it held the answer to a question he couldn’t bring himself to ask. His jaw was tight, that beautiful mouth pressed into a hard line.His body—usually coiled with tension—was loose now in a way that didn’t look relaxed.

It looked defeated.

The ache in my chest was sharper than the ache between my legs.

He hadn’t slept. I was sure of it.

Whatever war he’d fought last night hadn’t ended with his body inside mine. It had just shifted to a different battlefield.

I sat up slowly, the sheet slipping down to my waist, and whispered, “Gabriel?”

His head snapped up. Eyes on me. No mask this time. No gruff wall to hide behind. Just raw emotion—tight and quiet and so damn vulnerable it made me want to cry.

He didn’t say a word.

He just stood, crossed the room in two strides, and scooped me into his arms.

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