couch is fine, Wolf. Really, I've created enough problems for you already by being here. I don't want to cause more. Keep your bedroom. I'll just sleep out here." She motioned toward the living room.
Frowning heavily, Wolf searched Sarah's features. She was forcing herself to placate him because he'd hurt her.
Dammit , anyway! Moving aside as she hobbled toward him, Wolf desperately sought to let her know that he hadn't rejected her. "Look," he grumbled, running his fingers through his hair, "you need a good night's sleep. This couch is lumpy and short. You need to stretch out and give those feet all the room they want."
She brushed by him and went into the living room. It was almost painful to be that close to him. Her heart was beating so hard in her chest that she took a long, ragged breath. She stopped in the center of the room, desperate. "Wolf, I want the couch, okay? No argument."
Turning, he held her guileless blue gaze, which broadcast her anxiety all too well. Wolf felt miserable. If only he could explain. . . He jammed that thought deep down inside him. "You're right," he snapped. "There isn't going to be an argument on this, Sarah." Pointing toward the hallway and the connecting bedroom, he said, "That is your room while you're here. Understand? And don't give me grief about it. Your feet need to heal, and—" he jabbed his finger at the old, worn couch "—they sure as hell won't do that on this thing."
Sarah moved restlessly around in the queen-size bed. She was used to her small bed, not this rambling expanse of mattress. Wolf's emotional reaction had jarred her. Opening her eyes, she stared sightlessly up at the darkened ceiling of the quiet bedroom. Wolf's bedroom. He slept in this bed. Unconsciously she smoothed her hand out across the cool cotton sheet and tried to imagine what it would be like for him to be lying next to her.
The thought stunned Sarah. She just hadn't been drawn to that many men in her life. There was Philip, but that had ended badly. Sitting up, the sheet falling away to expose her thin cotton nightgown printed with tiny vi olets , she frowned. The clock on the dresser opposite the bed read 2:00 a.m. Her feet were throbbing, but that wasn't why she was restless and unable to sleep.
Wolf's words, the look in his eyes—as if some part of him were dying inside—kept her awake. Kept her thinking. Grasping her crutches, which leaned against the wall next to the bed, Sarah slowly got to her feet. Perhaps a cup of tea would help her sleep.
The light from the street filtered in through the dark orange drapes and the sheers as Sarah made her way slowly down the carpeted hall. At the entrance to the living room, she suddenly realized that Wolf was sleeping on the couch, which was located opposite where she stood.
Leaning on her crutches, Sarah's heart started a slow, heavy pounding in her breast. Wolf was far too long for the short couch. It was very warm in the house, the summer heat lingering without a cooling breeze to push it outside, where it belonged. The white sheet he wore across his naked body had slid down and pooled around Wolf's waist, the outline revealing his narrow hips and long, powerful legs. Both his feet were exposed, as he'd kicked the sheet aside. Her gaze moved appreciatively upward to his slab-hard torso and his dark-haired chest.
A small gasp escaped Sarah as her eyes adjusted to the gloom. Was she seeing things? Was it her overactive imagination? Narrowing her eyes, her heart pounded painfully. Wolf's chest bore a crisscross pattern of puckered pink-and-white scars, as if someone had taken a bullwhip to him. No, that was impossible. Sarah closed her eyes and shook her head. What was happening to her? What craziness descended on her when she was in Wolf's quiet, powerful presence?
She reopened her eyes and studied his chest again. Yes, there were scars there. Too many to count. How on earth had he gotten them? Her gaze moved to his face, and the pain she'd felt
Frowning heavily, Wolf searched Sarah's features. She was forcing herself to placate him because he'd hurt her.
Dammit , anyway! Moving aside as she hobbled toward him, Wolf desperately sought to let her know that he hadn't rejected her. "Look," he grumbled, running his fingers through his hair, "you need a good night's sleep. This couch is lumpy and short. You need to stretch out and give those feet all the room they want."
She brushed by him and went into the living room. It was almost painful to be that close to him. Her heart was beating so hard in her chest that she took a long, ragged breath. She stopped in the center of the room, desperate. "Wolf, I want the couch, okay? No argument."
Turning, he held her guileless blue gaze, which broadcast her anxiety all too well. Wolf felt miserable. If only he could explain. . . He jammed that thought deep down inside him. "You're right," he snapped. "There isn't going to be an argument on this, Sarah." Pointing toward the hallway and the connecting bedroom, he said, "That is your room while you're here. Understand? And don't give me grief about it. Your feet need to heal, and—" he jabbed his finger at the old, worn couch "—they sure as hell won't do that on this thing."
Sarah moved restlessly around in the queen-size bed. She was used to her small bed, not this rambling expanse of mattress. Wolf's emotional reaction had jarred her. Opening her eyes, she stared sightlessly up at the darkened ceiling of the quiet bedroom. Wolf's bedroom. He slept in this bed. Unconsciously she smoothed her hand out across the cool cotton sheet and tried to imagine what it would be like for him to be lying next to her.
The thought stunned Sarah. She just hadn't been drawn to that many men in her life. There was Philip, but that had ended badly. Sitting up, the sheet falling away to expose her thin cotton nightgown printed with tiny vi olets , she frowned. The clock on the dresser opposite the bed read 2:00 a.m. Her feet were throbbing, but that wasn't why she was restless and unable to sleep.
Wolf's words, the look in his eyes—as if some part of him were dying inside—kept her awake. Kept her thinking. Grasping her crutches, which leaned against the wall next to the bed, Sarah slowly got to her feet. Perhaps a cup of tea would help her sleep.
The light from the street filtered in through the dark orange drapes and the sheers as Sarah made her way slowly down the carpeted hall. At the entrance to the living room, she suddenly realized that Wolf was sleeping on the couch, which was located opposite where she stood.
Leaning on her crutches, Sarah's heart started a slow, heavy pounding in her breast. Wolf was far too long for the short couch. It was very warm in the house, the summer heat lingering without a cooling breeze to push it outside, where it belonged. The white sheet he wore across his naked body had slid down and pooled around Wolf's waist, the outline revealing his narrow hips and long, powerful legs. Both his feet were exposed, as he'd kicked the sheet aside. Her gaze moved appreciatively upward to his slab-hard torso and his dark-haired chest.
A small gasp escaped Sarah as her eyes adjusted to the gloom. Was she seeing things? Was it her overactive imagination? Narrowing her eyes, her heart pounded painfully. Wolf's chest bore a crisscross pattern of puckered pink-and-white scars, as if someone had taken a bullwhip to him. No, that was impossible. Sarah closed her eyes and shook her head. What was happening to her? What craziness descended on her when she was in Wolf's quiet, powerful presence?
She reopened her eyes and studied his chest again. Yes, there were scars there. Too many to count. How on earth had he gotten them? Her gaze moved to his face, and the pain she'd felt
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