The Ruthless Caleb Wilde

“Oh God,” she said. “Oh God, Caleb …”

“Are you sure?” he said hoarsely.

“Yes. Yes. Yes—”

He took her mouth again, carried her into the bedroom, stood her next to the bed.

She reached for the hem of her sweatshirt.

He caught hold of her hands. Kissed them.

“I want to undress you,” he said.

He did. Slowly. Raising her sweatshirt as she raised her arms. Pulling it over her head, then tossing it aside.

She felt the kiss of night air on her breasts, then the heat of his mouth, and she cried out in shocked wonder at the feel of it.

She grabbed his shirt. He shook his head.

“Not yet,” he whispered, knowing that he had to see all of her before this went any further, that his control was slipping away like honey from a spoon.

“Not yet,” he said again, and he hooked his thumbs into her sweatpants and drew them down her hips, down her long legs.

Ah, lord, she was exquisite.

High, rounded breasts. Slender waist. A woman’s hips, lush and lovely. Those long, elegant legs. And at the juncture of her thighs, a mass of gold curls, waiting for his caress.

“Sage. You’re so beautiful….”

She reached for him again. His shirt was half-unbuttoned and now she undid the rest, her eyes never leaving his, their hot glitter burning him like flame.

He shrugged off the shirt. She gave a little hum of delight and skimmed her hands over his muscled shoulders and chest, his six-pack abs.

He’d always taken care of his body, playing sports, training for the Agency, riding his horses. He’d done it because he believed in keeping strong and, yes, he’d done it for vanity, too.