“Where?” The question was out of her mouth before she realized how inappropriate it might be.
What if he’d been shot somewhere embarrassing? Like his ass? Or his balls? Or his?—
Her thoughts screeched to a halt when he stood and sauntered casually over to the sofa. He sat down beside her. Not at the other end of the sofa. Nope. He chose the cushion right next to her.
She’d barely recovered her breath from his proximity when he lifted his T-shirt, and she forgot how to breathe entirely.
He was…beautiful.
Her brothers were overgrown and bulky. Her last boyfriend had been a carbon copy of that, strapping in a brutish sort of way. But beautiful? No. That wasn’t a word she’d have used to describe any of the men in her life.
It was the only word to describe Britt.
His skin was the color of light caramel. His hips were lean, and his stomach was corrugated. Flat brown nipples sat upon square pectoral muscles. And as if this particular sundae needed a cherry, he had a light smattering of crinkly black hair that ran up the centerline of his body until it fanned out in perfect symmetry across his wide chest.
He was Michelangelo’sDavidmade flesh. A finely-crafted marble statue sprung to life.Art.
He was the kind of gorgeous mere mortals like her could only admire from afar. Except, funny thing was, he kept using every excuse to get close to her.
She followed his hand as he pointed to a wound on his flank. It was the shape of a cigarette burn, only about three times bigger. It crinkled slightly with each of his breaths.
“So you weren’t able to meltthisone,” she murmured.
“Huh?”
“Nothing.” She shook her head. “Just a random thought I had earlier.”
Before she thought of how inappropriate it was to touch him without his consent, she reached forward and slowly ran her fingertips over the remnants of the injury. He hissed as his stomach muscles accordioned. She yanked back her hand as if she’d been burned.
And maybe she had.
His flesh was flaming hot to the touch.
“Sorry,” she whispered, her gaze shooting up to find his eyes fixed on her face. His expression was…
Ruthlessmaybe?Barbaric?
Both came close. Neither was exactly right.
She shivered. “I’m sorry,” she said again, her voice not sounding like hers. It was lower.Shakier.“I shouldn’thave done that. Does it still hurt?”
“No.”
One word, gritted through his teeth.
She frowned. “Then why did you?—”
She stopped when he dropped his shirt. She couldn’t decide if she was sorry or relieved she could no longer see all that glorious, golden flesh.
For long moments, the room was quiet. The only noises to break the silence were the gentle crackle of the fireplace, the soft snores coming from the bedroom next door, and the ragged sound of her own breathing as she searched his face.
“When you touch me, Julia, I feel like I’m falling,” he finally confessed, his voice little more than a low, gravelly whisper.
Julia…
She would never get tired of hearing him say her name.
Her whole life, people had pronounced itjew-lee-uh. But his drawl turned it into the much softer-soundingjewel-yuh.
