his chest. He’d needed her to draw from his strength and take courage from him, which meant he’d had to reach deep down to discover those traits.
But she’d fought against taking them from him and instead faced the most painful part of her ordeal alone. She’d actually flinched away from him, like she’d expected him to tackle her to the floor.
* * *
Pain. Ripping , burning pain.
Caitlyn woke with a gasp. She’d dreamed her hand was caught in a vise, which crushed it while tearing the skin to shreds. Even now, pain shot through her arm like...
Like she’d really injured herself and was lying facedown with her hand wedged between her hip bone and the mattress.
She rolled onto her back, and the released blood flowed down to her hand. Pins and needles jabbed an area already exploding with agony. Gripping her hair with her good hand, she tried to ride out the pain. Something else had woken her—some niggling thought prodding her memory.
Oh, crap! The TV interview.
She swung her legs over the side of the mattress, gripping the side of it when the head rush made her woozy. What time was it? The car would be here at quarter past five. Had she overslept? Her gaze darted around the room.
More important, where was she?
She took in the monstrously big bed with its blue sheets rumpled only on the side she slept on. The room was so huge it had a couch and an imposing wooden wardrobe. Through a doorway she spied a familiar-looking luxury bathroom. She sank into the pillows, most of last night rushing back at her. Spencer, the wineglass—oh, no, his granny’s photo!
She’d have to find out how badly she’d damaged it and see if a specialist could fix it. First, though, she had to figure out the time. Spencer had no digital clock next to his bed, and rummaging around didn’t produce her phone. Still unsteady on her feet, she stumbled to the door and down the short hallway to the living room.
Spencer was sprawled on his stomach wearing only his famous dark blue boxer briefs. Her breath fled and her mouth dried at the vision of perfect masculinity on the couch. His face was hidden under some pillows, one arm thrown over them, as if he tried to block out the moonlight streaming in through the big balcony doors. His right arm flopped off the side of the couch.
Her gaze swept down his muscular back to his trim waist. She fought the urge to stroke her fingertips lightly down the smooth skin, from his powerful shoulders to the waistband of his tight underpants. Moving toward him slowly, she wondered how deeply he slept. Would he notice if she gently tugged his shorts down and ran her fingers and lips over the swell of his ass?
His legs were a few inches apart. He was too tall for the couch, so his shins rested against the sofa’s arm and his feet were in the air. She wanted to pull his shorts all the way down his legs, spin his famous underpants in circles around her head like a yee-hawing cowgirl, and throw them across the room in triumph over finally being in a room with a naked man. She would gently part his legs a bit more and see what she could see, explore his body from behind so he couldn’t look at her and make her nervous.
A jolt of pure lust speared her lower belly, leaving a delicious warmth like hot brandy in its path. She stood right next to him, over him, close enough to touch. She reached out to stroke his shoulder and caught a glimpse of the stark white bandage wrapped around her hand.
It bought her crashing back to reality. What the hell was she thinking? He was a real person, not some porn fantasy, and how would she feel if she woke up in the middle of the night with some man stroking her?
Pretty good, she imagined, if the man was Spencer. But she was not the female version of Spencer. And as clear as he’d made it that he would sleep with her to help her out, she was sure that was different than being woken up by some lustful virgin who’d probably freak out and accidentally stab his testicles
But she’d fought against taking them from him and instead faced the most painful part of her ordeal alone. She’d actually flinched away from him, like she’d expected him to tackle her to the floor.
* * *
Pain. Ripping , burning pain.
Caitlyn woke with a gasp. She’d dreamed her hand was caught in a vise, which crushed it while tearing the skin to shreds. Even now, pain shot through her arm like...
Like she’d really injured herself and was lying facedown with her hand wedged between her hip bone and the mattress.
She rolled onto her back, and the released blood flowed down to her hand. Pins and needles jabbed an area already exploding with agony. Gripping her hair with her good hand, she tried to ride out the pain. Something else had woken her—some niggling thought prodding her memory.
Oh, crap! The TV interview.
She swung her legs over the side of the mattress, gripping the side of it when the head rush made her woozy. What time was it? The car would be here at quarter past five. Had she overslept? Her gaze darted around the room.
More important, where was she?
She took in the monstrously big bed with its blue sheets rumpled only on the side she slept on. The room was so huge it had a couch and an imposing wooden wardrobe. Through a doorway she spied a familiar-looking luxury bathroom. She sank into the pillows, most of last night rushing back at her. Spencer, the wineglass—oh, no, his granny’s photo!
She’d have to find out how badly she’d damaged it and see if a specialist could fix it. First, though, she had to figure out the time. Spencer had no digital clock next to his bed, and rummaging around didn’t produce her phone. Still unsteady on her feet, she stumbled to the door and down the short hallway to the living room.
Spencer was sprawled on his stomach wearing only his famous dark blue boxer briefs. Her breath fled and her mouth dried at the vision of perfect masculinity on the couch. His face was hidden under some pillows, one arm thrown over them, as if he tried to block out the moonlight streaming in through the big balcony doors. His right arm flopped off the side of the couch.
Her gaze swept down his muscular back to his trim waist. She fought the urge to stroke her fingertips lightly down the smooth skin, from his powerful shoulders to the waistband of his tight underpants. Moving toward him slowly, she wondered how deeply he slept. Would he notice if she gently tugged his shorts down and ran her fingers and lips over the swell of his ass?
His legs were a few inches apart. He was too tall for the couch, so his shins rested against the sofa’s arm and his feet were in the air. She wanted to pull his shorts all the way down his legs, spin his famous underpants in circles around her head like a yee-hawing cowgirl, and throw them across the room in triumph over finally being in a room with a naked man. She would gently part his legs a bit more and see what she could see, explore his body from behind so he couldn’t look at her and make her nervous.
A jolt of pure lust speared her lower belly, leaving a delicious warmth like hot brandy in its path. She stood right next to him, over him, close enough to touch. She reached out to stroke his shoulder and caught a glimpse of the stark white bandage wrapped around her hand.
It bought her crashing back to reality. What the hell was she thinking? He was a real person, not some porn fantasy, and how would she feel if she woke up in the middle of the night with some man stroking her?
Pretty good, she imagined, if the man was Spencer. But she was not the female version of Spencer. And as clear as he’d made it that he would sleep with her to help her out, she was sure that was different than being woken up by some lustful virgin who’d probably freak out and accidentally stab his testicles
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