He walked with her.
“We here at Bodine Resort offer rustic luxury. Hot tub on the back deck, big soaking tub, rain shower with jets, premium linens.”
Those linens spread over a bed already turned down for the night, one framed in thick posts and facing a window he imagined offered beautiful views in the daylight.
He was more interested in the view right in front of him.
“Full kitchen, which we’ll happily stock upon guest request, wood-burning fireplace, flat-screen TVs, and, well, whatever we can do to make the guest’s stay memorable.
“Why don’t we see if we can make your stay memorable. You can start by getting me out of this dress.”
“It’s a nice dress. I’ve been thinking about getting you out of it all night.”
“Nothing stopping you.”
He stepped to her, took her face in his hands, laid his lips on hers. Soft at first, then a little deeper when her hands gripped his hips.
As he’d done on the dance floor, he twirled her around, made her laugh. Pressing his lips to her shoulder, he drew down the zipper at the back of the dress.
A long, smooth back, bisected by a thin line of midnight blue.
She toed off her boots as the dress slid down.
Long again, and lean, subtle curves, more midnight blue riding low over narrow hips.
“Well, look at you.”
“Is looking all you want?”
“Not nearly, but it’ll do for a minute.” He traced a fingertip over the tops of her breasts, felt her shiver. “Yeah, you sure got prettier.”
“I ought to get to look some myself.”
She unbuttoned his shirt, ran her fingertip over the line of exposed flesh. “You keep in shape.”
“I do what I can.”
To see for herself, she shoved the shirt aside. “Well.” She used her palms now, pressing them to a hard chest, a tight stomach. “Look at you. Used to be you could count your ribs at a quarter-mile distance.”
She looked up at him from under her lashes, that sly smile, and unbuckled his belt.
“Bodine.”
As she flipped open the button of his jeans, he yanked her to him, crushed his mouth to hers, felt his body all but implode when she chained her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist.
He fell onto the bed with her.
Hot body and cool sheets under him. Her hands digging into his back, then dragging at his jeans.
He kicked off his boots, sent them tumbling to the floor with a thud. Helped her strip off his jeans.
She lifted her hips, pressed against him until the need all but blinded him.
He struggled to catch his breath, his control. “It’s been a long night of foreplay.”
Impatient hands yanked at his boxers. “Main event, Skinner. Now. Oh God, right now.”
His hands weren’t altogether steady as he stripped her panties away, flipped the hook of her bra so he could taste those lovely, lovely breasts. He wanted to know she ached as he did, just another minute to make her ache.
Then he was inside her, and he swore the world quaked.
She cried out, not in shock but with a kind of triumph. Her hands vised at his hips, digging in, urging speed as hers pumped under him.
He had to clamp her hands over his head, press down, or it would have been over before it really began.
“Just a minute,” he managed. “Just a minute.”
“If you stop, I’ll have to kill you.”
“Not stopping. Couldn’t. Jesus, Bodine.” His mouth ran over her throat, her breasts. “Where’s this been?”
“I can’t.” She felt it build, beyond her control, that rising storm of deep, dark pleasure, that instant where she clung. “I can’t.”
It ripped through her, gorgeous, glorious, the rush of heat, the pound of pulse, and the slow, staggering fall.
“God. God. Can’t breathe.”
“You’re breathing,” he whispered, taking them both up again.
He gave her that speed now, the power with it. Dazed, nearly delirious, she heard the rhythmic slap of his flesh against hers, saw his eyes were like tornado clouds—deep, deep gray with green undertones.
He was the storm inside her.
When it broke, broke for both of them, she let it sweep her away.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
They never opened the wine or cracked a beer. By the time exhaustion trumped lust, Bodine fell asleep sprawled on top of him with his hand still tangled in her hair.
Still, Bodine’s body clock woke her before dawn. Clock aside, her body felt loose, warm, and thoroughly used. They’d shifted in the few hours of night they hadn’t been active, and Bodine, who’d never considered herself much of a snuggler, realized she’d snuggled right up against Callen.
As his arm lay over her waist and one of his legs hooked over hers, she didn’t imagine he minded.
She closed her eyes and, cozy as a kitten, hoped sleep would slip her away for another hour.
But she could feel his heartbeat, slow and steady. She could smell his skin. And she could remember exactly how his hands—rough, hard, and skilled—learned and fulfilled every secret she owned.
Sleep wasn’t happening, and since she wasn’t entirely sure she could handle another round of sex, she eased away and rose to start her day.
Callen dreamed of her, of lying naked with her in a field of meadow grass. Starry little white flowers scattered through her hair. They moved together slowly, as need, greed, impatience hadn’t allowed through the night. But in the meadow, sweet overcame urgency.
He could watch her face, the way those green eyes deepened as they held on his, the way her breath sighed out. The way her hand lifted to lay against his cheek.
Rain fell so the grass shined with it, as green as her eyes.
Wet grass, wet hair, wet woman.
He woke reaching for her.
Baffled, he lay where he was, assessing the tone of light that told him sunrise was still a ways off.
And the rain in the dream? The sound of the shower in the adjoining bathroom.
The dream, the tenor of it, amazed him, and embarrassed him even more. Erotic was one thing, but meadows and flowers and rain showers? That was downright romantic.
He’d just nudge that over in a corner for now.
He heard the shower shut off and, before long, the door opening.
“It’s Sunday,” he said.
“Oh, you’re awake. Yeah, Sunday all day.”
He heard her milling around the room, saw the shadow of her in the dark. “Why are you out of bed?”
“I’ve got this alarm in me. Sometimes I can shut it back off again, sometimes I can’t. I gotta have coffee. Go ahead and go back to sleep awhile. I know you’re working today, but you’ve got a couple hours. I’m just going to borrow your shirt here until I get some coffee in me.”
When she walked out, he stared up at the ceiling. How was a man supposed to sleep after some romantic dream—even if it sat in a corner? Especially when a woman stepped out of a shower making the air smell of honey?
When he imagined her wearing nothing but his shirt?