He closed his lids for a moment. Walk away. Just go back to your little chair, buddy, sit down again, and let her limp on over to the sofa and stretch out or … head back into the bunk room … or sprout wings and fly away from your sorry, nasty ass.
Instead, he found himself sinking to the floor. Both of his knees cracked so loudly, it was like snapping a pair of branches in the quiet room, and his thighs and calves screamed at the change in position.
“They look really bad,” he said softly.
He didn’t mean to reach out and touch her skin. He really didn’t. But somehow his hand went forward and he brushed the top of the left one—on what was the only stretch of non-red skin.
Above him, he heard her inhale sharply, and for some reason, he didn’t trust himself to look up at her. “Did I hurt you?”
It was a while before she answered in a breathless voice, “No.”
He ran his fore-and middle fingers so lightly across the top of her foot that he could only sense the warmth in her skin.
Craeg’s own body shuddered. And his voice wasn’t steady as he said, “I hate to see these marks.”
She probably had them elsewhere, too. Contusions, bruises, scrapes, places that were rubbed raw. He wanted to touch all of them.
Touch other parts of her, too.
This was bad, he thought. Dear God, this was very bad …
His sex drive had been asleep for a long time and the last thing he needed right now was for it to wake up, especially under these conditions. Especially with a female like her.
You didn’t have to be an aristocrat to be a lady. Even commoners who were working girls could have standards and appropriately save themselves for a proper mating.
Which would not be to an orphaned floor layer’s son.
Oh, and she was very, very clearly a virgin.
The way she held herself told him that. The way Peyton, who was clearly a player, respected her space told him that.
But mostly he knew it because of that inhale, that whispered no.
This was realllllly bad.
Chapter Fourteen
Paradise’s heart was like something out of a drum section, and the surges of heat crashing through her body were as bold and bright as a set of cymbals.
Craeg was down on the floor in front of her, his huge body folded into some kind of awkward sitting position, the muscles of his shoulders straining the thin white T-shirt he was wearing, his dark head bent as he carefully ran his fingertips over the top of her foot.
Even though she was exhausted, she felt every nuance of his touch—and also became achingly aware that she was naked under the robe and the johnny.
Man … forget about the aches and pains. What agony?
The only thing that registered from her body was some great, undefined potential she didn’t fully understand, but wasn’t completely ignorant of, either.
This was … sexual attraction. Lust. Desire.
Right here, right now.
Unrepentant, unforgiving, uncompromising chemical attraction.
“I shouldn’t be touching you like this,” he said softly.
No, she thought. He shouldn’t. “Don’t stop.”
His head angled up, and his eyes met hers. “This is not a good idea.”
Definitely was not. Really, totally, definitely was not. “I feel drunk.”
Craeg closed his eyes and winced. “I gotta stop.”
But he didn’t. He just ran that finger up onto her ankle and then higher to her shin.
“I don’t have any clothes on,” she blurted.
Now he bowed his head and rubbed his face with the hand that wasn’t touching her. “Please don’t tell me things like that.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m saying.”
“I realize that.”
As his body seemed to tremble, she whispered, “Is this why you don’t like me? This connection?”
“Yes.”
“So you feel it, too.”
“I’d have to be dead not to,” he muttered.
“This is what they talk about, isn’t it. This need.”
He groaned and swayed even though he was already on the ground. “Don’t…”
“Don’t what?”
Craeg just shook his head, and pushed himself away from her. Putting his knees up, he rested his forearms on them and seemed to try to gather himself. After a moment, he awkwardly shifted his pelvis a couple of times, as if something were stuck or cramping there.
“I’m not going to do this with you,” he said in a low voice. “The training program is all I’ve got. It’s the only future I have—so staying in it and doing well is not some vanity thing to me. I’m not trying to prove anything to my parents, either, and I don’t just have some jones to get out and fight the world. I literally have nothing waiting for me. So I won’t let anything or anyone get in my way.”
“You can’t do both?” she said, even though she wasn’t sure what she was suggesting.
Oh, bullshit on that. She knew exactly what she was suggesting: Having had his hands on her ankle, she wanted to know what they felt like all over her body.
“No,” he repeated. “I can’t do both.”
With a curse, he struggled his way to his feet, his palms going in front of his hips and covering something up as he walked back over to where he’d been sitting before. He didn’t lower himself into the chair, though. He stayed standing, staring down at the cushions, big body tense.