In the opposite corner of the open living room was a shirtless Clint on a black yoga mat in a Downward Dog position. She’d never really thought guys exercising was particularly sexy, but damn. The way he was filling out those black gym shorts was impressive, to say the least, and that pose gave her a perfect view. She swallowed her wine and drank her fill of him, glad he had no idea she was up here ogling him, until…
“If you don’t quit staring I’ll have to start charging you for the show,” he said, his tone snarky.
Damn.
Good thing her wine glass was empty now or she would have spilled it everywhere, as quickly as she swivelled back to face her computer. Cheeks hot and heart racing, she swallowed hard and hurried back to the kitchen for a refill, looking anywhere but at him now. Him and his buff, naked chest. Oh God. “I wasn’t staring,” she said, her words tumbling out in an embarrassed rush. “I was just trying to figure out what you were doing.”
“Yoga,” he said, laughter evident in his voice. He was enjoying her discomfort, apparently. “Sorry to take over your living room, but there wasn’t really a good space for the mat in my bedroom. You should try it some time. Very relaxing.” Several beats passed before he said, “How about now?”
“What?” She turned fast to find him now in a tree pose, looking totally serene while she felt like a complete mess inside. “Uh, no. I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
Clint cracked one eye
open, his hands folded in front of his chest like he was praying. “Why not?”
Because all I can think about is ripping those shorts off and licking you all over. Instead of saying that, she gulped more wine and did some praying of her own—mainly for the strength to resist her carnal urges. “I can’t,” she said, trying to come up with some excuse that wouldn’t sound lame. Her arm still itched like hell under those damned bandages and she seized on the opportunity. “The, uh, the doctor said I shouldn’t do anything strenuous while my bullet wound is still healing. All those yoga moves, stretching and stuff—especially when I’m not used to it. Yeah, no.”
If she’d stopped there, things would have been fine. But the wine seemed to have loosened her tongue because to her horror, she kept babbling on. Or maybe it was the fact she had six and a half feet of gorgeous half-naked man standing in her living room inviting her closer to him that had her ruffled six ways from Sunday. Whatever it was, she couldn’t seem to shut up. “It’s so frustrating, really,” she said, carrying her glass and the wine bottle out of the kitchen and into the living room, knowing she was courting danger and not able to stop herself. “I hate having limited mobility, especially at my job. But I still get it all done, because that’s what I do. But I’d really like them to let me off my leash once in a while.”
She flopped down on the end of the sofa farthest away from him and kicked her stockinged feet up onto the cushions, grateful for her comfy PJs as she chugged more wine.
He switched positions again, looking over his shoulder at her with those pretty blue eyes, his full lips quirked into half smile. “I know a thing or two about bullet wounds.”
Tara bet he did as she studied his torso over the rim of her glass. From down here, she could see his smooth, tanned skin was marked in places with paler, shinier scars. There were several on his back and sides. Before she could stop herself, she asked, “Where’d you get those from?”
As he moved from pose to pose, he told her about how he’d been a sharpshooter in the SEALs and how getting shot came with the territory. “I earned my position.”
“Hmm.” Part of her felt honored he’d share all that with her. But the other part just wanted to feel those scars under her fingers. Tara was on her feet before she could rethink her actions and walked up beside Clint as he performed a Namaste and bowed slightly. When he straightened, she reached out and traced her finger along a scar on his side. He moved into her touch, so her hand ended up on his back, directly behind his heart.
“That scar is the worst of them,” he said, his voice so low and quiet, it held her hypnotized. “My team came under attack. We weren’t expecting it and I ran into the situation without thinking. The bullet missed my heart by millimeters. I almost died that day.”
“Oh God,” she gasped, unable to pull away as he slowly turned around to face her, so close his heat wrapped around her, penetrating the thin cotton of her PJs. So close she could smell the soap on his skin, see a tiny drop of sweat run down from his cheek to his neck, hear the softness of his breathing. Her tongue longed to catch that drop, see if it tasted as salty as she expected. She bit her lip to keep from doing it. Flustered, she murmured, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he said, leaning down so his breath stirred the hair near her temple. “All these scars remind me of all the future opportunities I’ll miss if I’m not careful.”
She was staring at his chest when Clint reached up and grasped her chin gently, tipping her face upward so her gaze met his, the pad of his thumb tracing her jaw. “Have you thought about that? No bill is worth your life, Tara.”
Time seemed to slow as she rose on tiptoe while Clint bent even more, their lips meeting in the middle. The kiss started off sweet, soft. Tentative at first, then growing more heated as he groaned and wrapped his arms around her, drawing her to him. Tara’s head was spinning, her blood pounding in her ears and molten warmth spreading from her core out to her extremities. This was too much. It would never be enough. She slid her arms up his chest to twine her hands around his neck, toying with the soft dark hair at the nape of his neck and loving his slight shiver against her. He rocked his hips into her, letting her know he was enjoying this as much as she was and she lifted one leg, to wrap it around his waist, thinking she’d like to climb him like a redwood if…
“Daddy!” Ashley called from down the hall. “I’m thirsty again.”
Clint pulled back, his breathing fast and his eyes locked on her lips. His pupils were blown wide, all but obscuring the blue irises. He looked as ragged as she felt and she wanted more, wanted to undo him completely—and damn if the intensity of that desire didn’t have her pushing him away.
She didn’t do this. Didn’t lose herself over some guy. She had goals, dreams, things to achieve. A relationship would only get in the way of that. She stumbled back to her seat on the sofa, watching as he went to the kitchen for a glass of water and headed upstairs to his daughter.
Her heart pinched a little. Just once in her life, she wished she could feel like a priority to someone. But Clint wasn’t offering that—not to her. And she wouldn’t be able to accept it, anyway. Not when her focus needed to stay on her plans, no matter how thirsty for something else she might be.
8
Clint didn’t get much sleep that night. Instead, he lay awake in the second guest room, staring at the shadows dancing across the ceiling and remembering just how good that damned kiss had been. Too good, honestly, which was a huge issue.
He had enough problems to deal with already without breaking his cardinal rule—no dating clients.
Finally, after a few hours of not-snoozing, he decided to just get up and rolled out of bed. After showering and changing, he padded into the kitchen barefoot to start a pot of coffee. Following the chaos of the night before, it was nice to have the place quiet for a change. Ashley and Tara were still sleeping. He yawned and found the supplies in the pantry, then scooped grounds into the filter before pouring a pot of water into the top of the machine and pressing Start.
Nothing happened.
Squinting through the hazy, early morning sunshine, Clint tried the button again. Nada. Checked to make sure it was plugged in, but still no go. Dammit. He glanced over to the digital clock on the stove, but that was off too. Must be a tripped fuse.