Page 10 of Witch's Moon
She needed to touch him, and she slipped her arms down over his back and gripped the hem of his T-shirt. He raised his head from her breasts so she could tug the shirt from him and toss it to the floor. His body was hard with powerful muscles clearly defined under satin skin, his chest broad with a light covering of dark hair that disappeared into the waistband of his jeans. She rested her palm flat against his chest. His skin was hot, and the rapid thud of his heart beat against her palm. Sliding her hand down, she raked her fingers through the silky hair, dipping into his navel, then lower to his jeans. She could see the bulge at his groin, pressing against his fly, and moist heat flooded her. She hooked her finger into the waistband, pulled him to her, and he kissed her again.
Her hands slid up over his broad back, her fingers snagging on the roughness of his skin, and he froze above her. She explored with her fingertips and found his whole back a mass of scar tissue. His mouth withdrew from hers. He leaned away, gripped her wrists in his hands, and dragged them from him.
“What—”
He pushed himself up from the bed and stood staring down at her, his expression blank. She shifted her gaze lower to where she could see the pulse throbbing in his throat.
“I think it’s time you went home,” he said.
Her body clamored for his touch, her breasts ached, and her sex was swollen with need. She forced herself to ignore the feelings and concentrate. Why had he suddenly pulled back?
She pushed the rest of the sheet away, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and stood up. He didn’t move as she walked slowly around him.
As she touched one raised scar with her fingertip, he flinched. She knew it wasn’t from pain. His back was a mass of scars, but they were old, years old, and it was clear they hadn’t been done all at once. It looked like he’d been systematically flogged, time after time. Then she noticed a pattern to the marks. She traced the lines with her fingers.
“They’re claw marks,” she murmured, more to herself than to Caleb. She moved around to face him.
He didn’t answer.
“And at a guess,” she said, “I’d say they were werewolf claw marks.”
His hands clenched at his side, his tall figure radiated tension, but his eyes wandered over her naked body, lingering on her breasts and the dark red curls at the junction of her thighs. A dull flush stained the pale skin of his hard cheekbones.
Regan liked the idea that her nakedness affected him, that she wasn’t the only one aching with need, and she stood up straighter and raised a hand to brush back her hair.
His lips tightened, then he turned away abruptly. She half expected him to stalk out of the room; instead, he crossed to a set of cupboards. He opened one and pulled out some clothes.
“Here,” he said, tossing the bundle to her. “Get dressed.”
Regan caught the clothes. They were obviously Caleb’s—a pair of grey sweats and a matching T-shirt. “What about that shower?”
“Forget the shower. I’ll take you home, but I want you out of here in five minutes.”
“No coffee then?” She knew she was pushing him, but for some reason, she wanted to push him. She wanted a reaction.
Caleb ignored the question. He strode to the door, paused. “Five minutes,” he said and was gone.
