Captivated (Stranded) by Mia West Read Free Book Online Page A

to the small pile of clothing several feet from the pool. A t-shirt and shorts, she thought. So he did own other clothes. Beside them lay his towel and a bottle of something.
    When she reached the pool, she raised her eyes to his. They struck her with an expression she couldn’t read. Fear? Anger? Want?
    That last one, she hoped.
    His hand flexed on the cloth, and she realized he hadn’t moved to cover his cock. It rested against his sac, dark against darker hair. Her nails bit into her palms.
    Slowly, she held out her hand toward his washcloth. “May I?”
    He looked down at it as though he wasn’t sure how it had come to be in his hand. He gave it to her. Leaning down, she dipped it into the water again, trying not to gawk at his crotch, as tempting as it was. When she straightened, she held his gaze and stepped into the pool.
    A harsh breath gusted out of him, as if the splash of her foot had proven to him she wasn’t a figment. She slowed her movements, willing him not to retreat. Inching closer, she placed one hand on his arm and raised the cloth to his chest. When she touched him with it, he flinched but otherwise stood still.
    Up close, his pupils seemed to have consumed his irises. They bore into her. They begged her.
    And so she washed him. Drawing circles with the cloth, she focused on the unscarred side of his body first, hoping to either relax or arouse him enough that he wouldn’t protest when she reached his other side. He let her stroke the cloth over his skin, though he watched intently. Again and again, she dipped the cloth and pressed it to him, marveling at the firm give of the muscle beneath his skin. He was pale, causing the hair on his chest to stand out, as well as the thicker hair that began at his navel and descended to his cock. Her fingers itched to touch it—all of it—and his cock stood at half attention now. But it still seemed wary, so she moved around to wash his back.
    He couldn’t watch her here and carried the uncertainty of that in the stiffness of his spine. She laid a hand on his shoulder and gave him a light squeeze, before drawing her soothing circles on his back. He responded with something too low to hear.
    She stopped stroking. “What?”
    He turned his head so she could see his profile. “I said, harder. Please.”
    Something kicked in her belly, and she had a sudden image of him in the hospital, subject to sponge baths and probably tissue cleansing before that. Had the nurses been gentle, or had they had to be rough?
    Without thinking, she gave his shoulder blade a soft bite. His breath hitched, and when she began scrubbing his back, he groaned and leaned into her, inviting her to dig in. She did, using her free hand for leverage against the solid bulk of him.
    She could see the scars on his left side now, but when she pulled up slightly, he pressed them back into her cloth. So she treated them to the same punishing scrub as the rest of his back. Working her way down, she dipped into the concavity at the base of his spine. She had to move her other hand down to keep her balance, and placed it on his abdomen so she could press him back into the cloth. As casually as she could, she slid her fingertips through the hair below his navel before settling her hand. He covered it with his own, and a shock zipped up her arm at the calluses on his palm. She scrubbed and scrubbed, pressing on his belly, and he gripped her hand. Would he move it lower? Or was he holding it in place? Lost in the implications of both actions, she knelt in the pool without realizing. The next thing she knew, she was nose to cheek with his ass.
    His right side was even paler than the rest of him, practically glowing in the moonlight. The left side appeared darker, the skin tones uneven. The moon set everything in shades of lavender and charcoal, and she wondered what colors those might be in daylight. Her heart wanted to caress those scars with a light touch. A deeper, more primal instinct, and one he had