Rage (Benson Security 3)

“Neither do I.” He swallowed hard. “My wife walked out on me when I came home injured. She said it was because we’d grown apart and not because I didn’t have legs anymore. But her timing said something else. I think she liked the prestige, and the freedom, of being married to an SAS soldier who was away a lot of the time. The reality of dealing with an injured veteran who was home permanently was too much for her. You’re not the only one with a past full of broken relationships.”

Isobel’s eyes hardened. “Don’t take this as an insult, but your ex was a bitch.”

Callum barked out a laugh that surprised him. “You can talk. Yours is still messing with your life.” That took the humour out of the situation. He planned to deal with this problem for Isobel just as soon as he had a minute to spare. She wouldn’t be paying off her ex-husband’s loan and she wouldn’t be acting as a punching bag, or sex slave, for any man.

“You look scary.” She traced the design of his Celtic knot tattoo.

“I am scary, darlin’. Make no mistake about that.”

“Not to me.” She seemed very confident of that, and he liked it.

“Never to you.” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “Now get undressed.”

“I don’t want to. Really. How about I just take off my knickers and bend over?”

“And they say romance is dead.” He started to laugh again. It’d been years since he’d laughed this much, if ever. It was a gift. One of many this incredible woman had given him.

“I’m serious here.” She pouted at him. “You aren’t taking me seriously.”

She opened her mouth to protest some more, but Callum silenced her with a kiss. From his limited experience with Isobel, once she let the need take her away, she wouldn’t give a damn about her cellulite. Crazy woman. She was beautiful. Possibly a little on the blind side if she thought he was a work of art, but she was still a miracle to him.

Isobel knew she was pathetic, but there was no way she was stripping in front of a man who could model for a romance book cover. Nope. Not happening. Never.

She knew what she looked like. Her skin was so pasty white it was practically blue. There were white stripes on her belly—her very soft, rounded belly. Her hips didn’t gently curve out from her waist, they lurched out, like two skin-coloured saddlebags. The only time she experienced a thigh gap was when she spread her legs. And she could store a pencil under her saggy boobs—she’d tried after she’d seen it mentioned in a sitcom. If there was any muscle definition on her body, she had yet to find it. And then there was her cellulite. It looked like someone had taken a cheese grater to her backside.

There was no way she’d stack up compared to Callum. He might be missing his feet, but the rest of him was perfection.

“New plan,” Callum said with a glint in his eye. “I’ll do the undressing. You just hang on for the ride.”

Yeah, that wasn’t going to happen, and she opened her mouth to tell him so. She never got a chance, because Callum had apparently tired of talking and jumped straight to kissing. Which was a problem, because when Callum kissed her, the only thought in her head was more.

The kiss was deep and hard and long. His hands threaded in her hair, holding her, keeping her in place. Isobel felt like she was spiralling up into the atmosphere. Her feet were no longer on the ground. And the only thing keeping her from floating away entirely was Callum’s hold.

His hands slid down over her shoulders and back, pressing her into him. She felt every single inch of his firm frame. And she desperately needed more. A moan of delight escaped when his hands slipped under the hem of her shirt and she could feel his fingers on her skin. They weren’t soft. They were the hands of a man who worked. And the rasp of that roughness against her skin was deeply erotic.

“Off,” he said against her lips, and she vaguely registered he meant her shirt.

“I don’t want to be naked.”

“We’ll leave your socks on.”

That suddenly seemed like a really good compromise. Isobel lifted her arms for him to whisk the shirt away and toss it onto the floor. A second later, her breasts pressed against that miraculous chest of his. Her sensitive nipples registered the rasp of the smattering of hair across his pecs. It was delicious.

“Can’t get enough of you,” he growled, and then strong arms lifted her.

His lips were on her throat. His tongue laved at her skin. His teeth nipped little stinging bites. Isobel grasped his hair and held him to her. She felt the soft sheets at her back. Felt Callum’s weight come down on top of her. She heard a drawer open and close, but Callum’s weight never shifted from her. She hoped it never would. She was lost, delirious with his touch.

Hands on her breasts, kneading, caressing, teasing. His lips followed. She spread her legs and lifted her hips. Cold metal against her thighs was one more layer of sensation that made up the maelstrom that engulfed her.

Her fingers dug into muscles with very little give. Each flex beneath her touch drove her higher. She wanted to touch every single inch of him. Taste him. Nibble at him. His tongue made swirls on her stomach.

“Love these marks. They’re your tattoos.” He kissed along the stretch marks she bore from her pregnancies.

She heard ripping and realised her underwear was gone. He dipped his head lower, spreading her legs wider and kissing her most intimate of places, lapping at her with his tongue, teasing her with his teeth, driving her out of her mind with need.

“Callum, now,” she demanded, tugging at his shoulders, trying to make him come up over her. Make him cover her. Make him fill her.

“Not yet.” He continued teasing her most sensitive spot.