“That I can do.” He let go of her and wiped the tears from her cheeks before he picked her up and carried her through his room and downstairs.

He settled her on the couch and tucked her in with a couple of thick blankets, then went into the kitchen. When he came back, he had another glass of water and he made her drink it all before he turned on the TV. He put in a movie without asking and it was a good one. An action movie with some comedy that distracted and entertained her.

Then Wes returned to the couch and settled in beside her, sliding her body over so that she was tucked into his side. For a minute, she didn’t move, but then the temptation was too strong and she wrapped her arms around his chest, hugging him, letting herself finally relax. This was what she had wanted all along, this right here. A warm, wonderful man to hold her after making love. She nuzzled his chest, inhaling his scent and she sighed.

“I’m learning, Callie. This is all new to me. I don’t know how to be with you.” The words were so quiet she thought for a moment she might have dreamed them.

“Just be, Wes. That’s all you have to do,” she murmured sleepily. After that, she was aware of nothing more than him holding her and the distant sounds of Paris outside.

Chapter 13

Fucking hell. This was not going according to any of his grand plans. Wes traced the fine blue veins on the back of one of Callie’s hands where it lay on his chest. The plan had been to bed her, make her submit, then still be clearheaded enough to keep his distance. That wasn’t what happened though.

He’d taken her body, her virginity, and something inside him had changed. Like mighty rivers carving canyons, it was unstoppable. What he couldn’t see yet, no matter how he tried, was how was it changing him? What would he be like at the end of this? Satisfied? A damn mess? Who the hell knew. And the blood…He couldn’t get the sight of it out of his head. He shuddered.

Pain. He’d hurt her, and not in the fun, erotic way he’d planned with a little spanking. No, this had been real pain. He should have prepared her body more for him, but the waiting had almost killed him. Yet she’d powered through it and climaxed like an angel beneath him. He was hopelessly addicted to the sight of her eyes as she came apart. The light of surprise, the slight lifting of her brows and the parted lips as she sucked in a shocked and delighted breath as her world splintered apart in dozens of overwhelming sensations and pleasures. It was like nothing he had ever seen. He, the man who had looked upon some of the most famous pieces of art, the most rare and stunning ones, could find none to compare to Callie when he made love to her.

Made love. She had made love, but Wes didn’t know what he’d done, didn’t know his own heart. Love wasn’t for everyone. Love was a danger, a burden. He could do without it. But if Callie fell in love with him, that wouldn’t be so bad. It might be nice, to be loved, even if he couldn’t reciprocate, except physically.

Callie murmured something softly in her sleep. Her fingers on his chest curled into a fist, tightening, and her brows knotted as though worries carved those little lines. He didn’t like to think that bad thoughts or concerns plagued her dreams. Wes lifted her hand and gently uncurled her fingers, pressing kisses to her knuckles. She relaxed again.

Her palm was a little wide and her fingers a little short and rough with calluses. The hands of a woman who worked hard, not the dainty and long manicured fingers of the women he’d been with in the past. Those women had never worked for anything, never had to fight to survive, or had to face losing their dreams because they’d had to make sacrifices. But Callie had. She’d done all of those things and she was only twenty. A sharp stab in his chest made him wince. He didn’t like to think of everything she had missed out on in life while working, not when he had the ability to change her life.

A distant chime sounded and he tensed. The oven timer. The pot roast had cooked for four hours now. It had to be ready. But Callie was dead to the world. It took him nearly five minutes to cleverly maneuver himself off the couch without waking her. He draped a blanket over her and made sure a pillow rested beneath her head before he padded over to the kitchen. He wiped his palms on his jeans and searched the cabinets for oven mitts. When he found a pair, he slid them on and approached the oven.

This was easy. Right? Remove the item from the oven and voila!

He opened the oven and stumbled back at the wave of fierce heat. When he reached inside to grab the roaster’s pan handles, he could feel beads of sweat breaking out on his chest and forehead. The side of the oven clipped his left forearm and he cursed as it seared his flesh.

“Damn it!” He nearly dropped the roaster onto the counter before he hastily ran his arm under cold water. How had Callie made this look so easy? Then again, he remembered flour covering every surface of his kitchen. Whoever said cooking was easy was lying through their teeth.

After seeing to the minor burn, he removed two plates from the shelf and started carving up the roast and loaded it onto the plates with vegetables. It didn’t look all that impressive in giant lumps on the plate, but it smelled divine. He needed this to be perfect though, for Callie. Using his cell phone, he searched the Internet for plate arrangements of pot roast, and with a cocky little grin, he fixed the food in a pleasing way and dropped sprigs of fresh basil over the meat. It was a good thing he was a quick study and he was able to get it just right. It almost looked like it could have been prepared by a chef from Fouquet’s. He chuckled, far too proud of himself, but he couldn’t stop the smile from spreading.

“What’s so funny?” Callie’s amused, sleepy voice from behind him had him whipping around, using his body as a shield to hide the plates from her view.

“You should still be sleeping,” he chastised, but he winked at her to show her he was only teasing.

She ran her hands through her tousled hair and smiled. “The smell of a good pot roast could wake anyone out of a dead sleep, even Rip Van Winkle.”

“Rip Van Winkle?” Wes asked, surprised she would reference an old classical short story.

“Yeah.” Callie giggled, the sound pleasant and enticing. “Mom used to read me stories like Rip Van Winkle and Sleepy Hollow when I was a toddler.”

“Really? That’s not exactly light reading for a child, you know.”

She shrugged and walked toward him. Her eyes were bedroom soft and her lips looked plump and kissable. God, the woman tested his control without even trying. He wanted to drag her into his arms and plant her on the nearest flat surface and take her again.

“Children remember magic. They remember tales that hold that magic. My mother read me the classics. Even though the deeper historical and political points made no sense to me at four years old, I will never forget the man who drank moonshine and fell asleep in the woods, only to wake twenty years later.” She tapped the tip of her nose, winking at him. “Magic.”

As she talked, he’d found he was enjoying this playful banter—light, yet personal conversation. It wasn’t at all what he did with other women, and he certainly hadn’t expected to like it so much. He took everything seriously because seriousness was the only way to stay in control. Yet Callie made him feel so light-hearted sometimes. It was nice.

“Now, quit hiding whatever is behind your back.” She tried to reach around him but he caught her wrists and trapped them at the small of her back and grinned lazily down at her when she struggled uselessly to escape his hold. With his free hand, he fisted his fingers in her hair and lightly tugged her head back.

“I think you need a little kissing before dinner.” He smiled against her lips as he teased her and she melted against him. Her dark gold lashes fluttered and the sight made his cock hard enough that he was uncomfortable in his jeans.