The Ruthless Caleb Wilde

He kissed her. Kissed her again. Her tears became sighs, her sighs became moans, and he did what he’d longed to do back in her apartment.

Took the pins from her hair.

Took off her dress.

Helped her step free of it as it pooled at her feet.

She was wearing a pale blue lace bra and panties. And those impossibly high, impossibly sexy heels.

She was beautiful.

And she was his.

He took her in his arms. Kissed her, searched out the sweetness of her mouth, groaned as she undid his belt, his fly, slipped her hand inside and found his heat, his hardness, his hunger.

For her. Only for her. Because she was his. His …

Caleb yanked his shirt over his head, kicked off his shoes, pulled off the rest of his clothing. Then he swung Sage into his arms, carried her to the bedroom and made love to her until she came apart beneath him.

He watched her face as it happened, heard her sob his name, and knew that his life had changed, not just because of the baby they’d created together, but because of Sage.

Because he’d found her.

Because—because—

He gave up thinking.

And shattered with her.

There was a small fridge in an alcove just off the dining room.

Wrapped in one of the luxurious white robes the hotel had provided, Sage rummaged within it, said a triumphant “Ta da!” and turned toward Caleb with a small platter of cheeses in one hand and a bowl of big, ripe strawberries in the other.

He grinned, extracted the cork from a bottle of champagne.

“Non-alcoholic,” he said, as he poured the bubbly stuff into two flutes. “And now … Dinner in bed, madame?”

“An excellent suggestion, sir.”

They took their loot into the bedroom and climbed onto the bed, leaned back against the stacked pillows and feasted.

Sage said the pseudo-champagne was lovely.

Caleb rolled his eyes and said it was, for certain, preferable to herbal tea.

The cheeses were delicious. The berries were sweet and when some of the juice dribbled over her lips, Sage said they needed napkins.

Caleb said they didn’t, and proved it by licking the juice from her lips, her throat, her breasts.

She gave a little “mmm” of pleasure, a soft moan when he drew her nipple into his mouth.

“Still want that napkin?” he growled against her soft flesh.

“I’m not sure,” she said breathlessly. “You’ll just have to convince me—”

“Put your glass down.”

“Why?” she said, in a sexy whisper surely meant to drive him crazy.