Winter's Night by Sherrilyn Kenyon Page A

worse, she could smell the warm, uniquely masculine scent of him. It was all she could do not to bury her face in the crook of his neck and inhale the intoxicating scent.
    Tend his wound, tend his wound! She forced herself to concentrate on the task at hand.
    â€œIs the bullet still in there?” she asked as she examined the hole in his arm.
    â€œWoman,” he said huskily, his gaze never leaving her breasts, “right now I have a loaded gun just waiting to…” his voice trailed off.
    He finally looked up and met her gaze, but she couldn’t read anything in the smoldering depths of his eyes except the raw hunger that scorched her through and through. “Did I just say that out loud?”
    She nodded.
    He cleared his throat and looked across the room. “No,” he said quickly. “The bullet passed clean through.”
    Disregarding his answer, she gingerly examined the wound to see for herself. As he predicted, it looked to be clean. “It needs to be stitched.”
    He met her gaze again. Only three inches separated their faces and she could feel his breath on her face as he spoke. “Then by all means, have at it. I’m sure nothing would give you greater pleasure than to take a needle to my hide.”
    She should take pleasure in it, but she knew she wouldn’t. How could she ever delight in hurting the man who had stolen her heart?
    But she would never let him know that. Not after he’d hurt her. No, she’d never let him know just how much power he still held over her.
    Never.
    â€œActually, I won’t feel anything,” she said, reaching for her basket.
    O’Connell clenched his teeth in repressed frustration.
    I won’t feel anything, he mocked silently as she reached for a needle and thread.
    You stitch the wound, and when you’re finished, I promise you you’ll feel something, all right. She was going to remember his touch if it was the last thing he did.
    O’Connell felt himself harden even more as she placed the thread between her lips and licked it. The tip of her tongue poked out as she threaded the needle.
    I can’t stand this. His mind screamed from the needless torment. If he didn’t know better, he would swear she did it on purpose.
    When she set to work on his wound, he felt no pain, only the pleasure of her soft hands against his bare flesh. Her breath fell against his shoulder as she leaned so close to him he could smell the fresh sunshine of her.
    Over and over he could envision letting her hair down and burying his hands in the thick waves. Feeling it fall across his chest as he placed her above him and feasted on those plump, luscious breasts.
    Catherine could barely steady her hand as she closed the wound. Her memory of touching his hard, hot muscles couldn’t compete with the reality of her hand against him now.
    Her head swam at the contact. Worse, she could feel his heat surrounding her, feel his breath against her neck. His shoulder pressing against her right breast.
    A thousand chills shot through her. It was all she could do not to moan and demand he take her right then and there. Oh, it was torturous. Especially after all the years she had yearned to see him again, all the years she had lain awake remembering the feel of him lying against her. The feel of him sliding inside her.
    After what seemed an eternity, she finished the four tiny stitches that closed the wound. She had barely tied the knot off when he reached up, cupped her face in his hand, and took possession of her lips.
    Catherine sighed at the contact.
    He’d been the only man who had ever kissed her and the taste of him had been branded into her memory long, long ago.
    He pulled her to him possessively and sat her down on the bench before him as he plundered her mouth.
    Catherine buried her hands in his silken hair and pressed her breasts against his hot, naked chest. She should stop him, she knew it. But for her life she didn’t