“What is it?” There was worry in Hunter’s tone.
“Back spasm,” she rasped. The pain was enough to make her toes flex.
“Hang tight. I have just the thing.”
He was off the bed and through the bathroom door in an instant. She expected him to reappear with pain killers or muscle relaxers so she was a little confused when he reemerged with a stack of towels and a bottle of massage oil.
Although, she noted the towels and oil as an aside, because he’dalsokicked off his biker boots and removed his T-shirt. His jeans were still on, still partially undone, and hanging so low on his hips she could clearly see the big veins that snarled beside his well-defined Adonis lines.
If all of that wasn’t mouth-watering enough—seriously, she had to swallow for fear a line of drool might slip out the corner of her mouth—there was his chest. Wide and heavily muscled with a smattering of dark, crinkly hair that arrowed down his six-pack abs and finally went the way of his Adonis lines and got lost in the waistband of his boxer briefs.
So much tough, tan skin.
So much raw, restrained power.
So much…ink.
She’d seen the eagle feather peeking from the sleeve of his T-shirt. But getting an up close and personal view of the entire thing was awe-inspiring. Whoever the artist had been, they’d certainly dedicated themselves to shading, to meticulously drawing so many fine black lines she thought if she reached out and touched the tattoo, she’d be able to feel the individual shafts of the feather.
And, of course, there were the scars.
A thin line on his flank that looked like it came from a surgery. A puckered circle up near his collarbone that most likely came from a bullet. And an angry red crease beside his belly button that looked fresh, and like it might’ve been caused by the tip of a blade.
A warrior’s body.
A warrior’s wounds.
She wanted to soothe each and every one. Wanted to run the tip of her finger over the damaged flesh and then follow it up with a soft kiss to ease any remembered ache.
The phone call and all the things they’d learned—and had yet to learn—leaked out of her head. What took the place of her fear and worries was lust and longing…and the deep desire to show this wonderful warrior exactly how good life could be.
He spread the towels atop the comforter and patted them. “All aboard,” he told her.
She didn’t immediately obey. Shecouldn’t. The sight of him had paralyzed her. The rich, warm smell of all that male skin so tantalizingly close had stunned her. And the thought of him pouring that bottle of oil over himself and letting her use him as her personal Slip ’N Slide made her so weak she was incapable of movement.
“Come on, Grace.” He patted the towels again. “This will make you feel better.”
“Ialreadyfeel better.” She breathed heavily, her back spasm overshadowed by her growling libido. “I could have a missing limb and that”—she gestured up and down his length—“would make me numb to it. I’d be all Monty Python.” She whipped out her best English accent. “It’s just a flesh wound.”
One corner of his mouth twitched, but he stingily refused to let it curve into a smile. “I like what I see too, Grace,” he told her lowly. “And I want to see more of it. I want to seeallof it. But first, I want you totally relaxed. Pain free. So that when I give you pleasure, it’s the only thing you feel.” He lowered his chin until he was staring down at her from under the ridge of his brow. “And Iamgoingto give you pleasure, Grace.”
Blowing out a shaky breath, she gathered all her strength and rolled onto the towels. Placing her flaming cheek on her stacked hands, she watched him upend the bottle of massage oil and rub it between his broad palms. The move made his biceps bunch into hard balls and had the veins and the tendons in his forearms standing out in harsh relief.
“The only massage I ever had was in Thailand,” she admitted. “I walked away more maimed than when I arrived. The masseuse twisted me like a pretzel.”
He chuckled and the warm, rumbling sound bypassed her ears and swirled deep in her belly. “No pain, Grace. Just pleasure. I promise.” He fingered the hem of her T-shirt. “May I?”
“I’d let you strip me naked and paint me like one of Leonardo DiCaprio’s French girls if that’s what you wanted.”
His sigh was overly dramatic. “I’ve never lamented my lack of artistic ability so much in my life.”
A laugh shot out of her, making the muscles in her back fist so hard her humor was cut off by a hiss. Then her hiss melted into a moan when Hunter’s warm, oiled hands landed on her lower back and began to knead.
He used firm but gentle pressure to work out the knots, alternating between rolling his thumbs over her sore spots and then running the balls of his hands over the entire length of the muscle.
The oil was warm and smelled like coconuts. His hands were wide and hot and callused, but they slipped over her flesh in long, sensual strokes that had her feeling as loose as a goose in under two minutes.
She was more than ready to flip over and finish what they’d started before the phone rang. But before she could move, he pulled her T-shirt higher and began working the muscles in her midback, and all she could think was…his hands!
