Page 34 of The Reaper
Caleb’s fingers moved lazily through my hair, like he wasn’t in any hurry to return to the outside world. Like he could stay wrapped in this moment forever.
I tried to match his pace. Tried to let myself melt into the curve of his body, the rise and fall of his breathing.
But stillness had never been my strength.
Especially not now.
“You’re thinking,” he murmured, voice low and rough.
I angled my head to look at him. “I’m not.”
“You are. I can feel it.” His hand stilled. “You’re somewhere else already.”
“I’m right here.”
He didn’t argue. Just let his gaze roam over my face like he was memorizing it. His eyes were sharp, deep-set beneathdark brows, his mouth full and kiss-bruised. His hair had fallen forward—dark, thick, tousled with just the faintest trace of silver glinting near his temple.
And that body …
Jesus.
He looked like the kind of man sculpted for war. Shoulders broad enough to block the light, chest ridged with definition, abs taut and cut so deep I could trace them with my tongue—and had. His thighs were slabs of muscle, his arms carved from stone. And somehow, with all that power, he still touched me like he was trying not to break something.
“You’re really not from here,” I said.
“Nope.”
“You don’t talk like you’re from Montana.”
“What do Montanans sound like?”
“Less like that.” I ran a fingertip down his chest, stopping just above his navel. “More hayseed. Less danger.”
“I can do hayseed if it turns you on.”
I snorted. “You’re not funny.”
“I could be.”
He leaned in and nipped at my bottom lip, but I pulled away before the tension could spool back up. I could already feel it—a low hum in my gut. If I let it, it would consume the night.
Him. Me. Us.
But my brain had other ideas.
“I have prep to finalize tomorrow,” I said, sitting up.
He raised an eyebrow. “Now?”
“Not prep-prep. Just ... ideas.” I stood, reaching for my blouse. My whole body ached—in that good way. The way that came from being used and wanted. I didn’t bother with my bra. Just slipped the shirt back over my shoulders and glanced around for my pants.
He didn’t move from the floor. Just watched me with those sharp eyes like he was trying to read a second layer of dialogue beneath my words.
“You get inspired after sex?”
I blinked. “What?”
“You’re glowing. And muttering to yourself.”
