Lev And Rikki Quotes

“I’m taking a shower.”
Oh, God. She was killing him. Making him want to laugh out loud. Where had his sense of self-preservation gone? He didn’t feel emotion— that was far too dangerous. He shivered beneath the blankets, suddenly afraid for her. For himself.
“You’re still cold. I should have thought to rub you down with some warm oil. Lexi makes it and I use it sometimes when I come in from a dive. It warms you up fast. Can you roll over, because I’m not rubbing your front.”
“Why not?”
“If you want a massage, turn over.”
― Christine Feehan, Water Bound

“You look like hell,” she observed. “I can’t call the coast guard because you ripped out my VHF. I’m going to have to get you to shore as fast as possible.”
He held up his hand. “No. I can’t be seen.” He forced a trembling note into his voice. “I think someone’s trying to kill me.”
“That’s a shocker,” she said, sarcasm dripping from her voice.”
― Christine Feehan, Water Bound

“A few more steps and you’ll be in the bedroom. I’m going to lay you down and try to get your wet clothes off.”
She sounded dispassionate, as if he wasn’t a man at all. She didn’t seem embarrassed by the thought of removing his clothes, but then she was a diver and he knew they often had to strip with other divers around them. He didn’t mind that she wasn’t embarrassed, but it vaguely bothered him that she didn’t see him as a man. With his head pounding so hard and his chest so tight, he wasn’t certain of anything, so he dismissed the notion as idiotic.
The moment he stretched out on the bed, he closed his eyes and let her work. She found his knife in one boot and his holdout gun in the other. There was another knife strapped to his leg. Another gun in his belt. A third one in a harness. Another knife and three small daggers in loops at his belt. She didn’t say a word but her breathing changed. She inhaled several times quite sharply. That made him want to smile too. She found his throwing stars and the two throwing knives, but she missed the garrotes sewn into his clothing.
“What are you? Some kind of assassin?”
He didn’t answer. She was tugging his clothing off of him, and he knew the instant she saw him as a man. Her hands stilled and she made a single sound, a low note he couldn’t quite interpret. He opened his eyes and caught her looking, her eyes enormous and beautiful, the lashes fanning the sweep of her high cheekbone. She looked up at him and he felt a physical jolt.
She cleared her throat and tugged on his jeans. “Lift up.”
― Christine Feehan, Water Bound

“When she turned away, he caught her hand. He waited until she looked back at him. “I need my weapons. Just in case.”
“You won’t shoot me. Or stab me. Or throw one of those thingies at me.”
“No.”
She snorted. “How would you know? You don’t know what you’re doing half the time.”
“Still.”
She sighed and began stacking weapons on the bed beside the pillow. “Fine. But I’ll be royally pissed if you try to kill me again. It’s getting old.”
― Christine Feehan, Water Bound

“She frowned at him and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “You’re pretty damned stubborn, aren’t you?”
He thought that was evident and not worth answering, so he just let himself disappear into her eyes. She had beautiful eyes. He loved how liquid and soft they were. She started to move away and he caught her arm. “Don’t go.”
“I don’t like people touching me.”
He should have let go of her, but instead he rubbed the pads of his fingers up and down her bare arm. Her shirt was still half buttoned, and he was tempted to stroke her flat belly just to know the texture of her.
“I don’t like it either,” he said. And it was true. Funny. He’d never admitted that to anyone. It didn’t particularly matter, he did what had to be done, but he didn’t like it— maybe not in the same way she meant. His was a matter of personal space, a natural avoidance of closeness with others. But Rikki . . . He studied her face. “I don’t think my touch bothers you that much.”
She blinked. She rarely blinked, but he’d struck home. She compressed her lips and then narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re pretty arrogant for a man who can’t move with a pile of weapons sitting next to him.”
“You have such a penchant for violence.”
She looked outraged. “I do? You’re the one being hostile. I’m Mother Teresa here. And I don’t like sick people.”
“Do you like anyone?” Amusement was creeping in again. He was beginning to like the feeling. “Anything?”
“Not particularly.”
― Christine Feehan, Water Bound

“Your scars? Would you tell me if I asked?”
“What I know. The bullet that nearly severed my spine.” He waited until she found it, until the pads of her fingers stroked over the spot like a caress. “Amsterdam. I know that but not why or who. The knife along my hip was Paris and one up by my shoulder blade, Egypt. I know where I was with each of them, but not why.”
“I should have taken you to the hospital.”
She was frowning again, he could tell by her voice. He wished he could see her face, but she was working on his buttocks and he lost his own voice as well as his ability to think straight. Little explosions were going off in his head— and his groin. His cock was hot and heavy and so full he was leaking. Her hands went to the backs of his thighs.
Impersonal. He repeated the word silently over and over to himself. She would have done the same for anyone needing help. He’d have to kill any man she touched like this. His body should have been relaxed, not ready to take possession of hers. He was acutely aware of her every movement. Her breath. The swing of her hair. The beat of her heart. Her hands moving over his muscles, pressing deep, stroking and gliding. He knew she was wholly focused on what she was doing— not on him— and God help them both, he wanted her to notice him.”
― Christine Feehan, Water Bound

“He gathered his strength, pushed pain to the back of his mind and shifted his weight, easing off the monstrous hard-on she couldn’t fail to notice. It took her a moment to look up from kneading his calves. Her hands stopped abruptly and he heard her shocked inhale. He rolled over, needing to see her face— her eyes.
She shoved back away from him, her eyes widening, the long lashes veiling her expression. As she went to pull away, she held up her hands, palms out, defensively, as if warding him off. Long-buried, maybe even unknown instincts took over. His hand whipped up, pushing air toward her left palm. Sparks danced between them, silver and gold, like tiny fireflies. She cried out and cradled her hand to her, that little frown drawing his attention to her soft mouth.
“Let me see.”
“What did you do?”
“I don’t know. Let me see.”
Her gaze dropped to his heavy erection and her eyes grew stormy. “Just put that away.”
There it was again— that urge to smile. “It’s not a weapon. And you put it there. You take it away.”
“Well, we found out one thing out about you, didn’t we?” She snatched the blanket and flung it over him, tenting his monstrosity of a hard-on. “You haven’t had sex in a long time.”
She was close so he caught her wrist and turned her injured palm over, drawing her hand closer for his inspection. Two faint marks, circles intertwined one through the other. He pressed the pad of his thumb over the marks and rubbed in a circular motion.
“If you think I brought you home so you could have sex, you picked the wrong person. I don’t do that sort of thing with just anyone.”
His fingers tightened around her hand. “I’m glad to hear that.”
― Christine Feehan, Water Bound

“He looked pained. “I don’t eat peanut butter.”
That genuinely shocked her. “Who doesn’t eat peanut butter? It’s the perfect food.”
He shuddered. “Even to make up for all the things I’ve done wrong, I don’t think I can do it.”
“For a man who carries around as many weapons as you do, you’re a bit of a baby.”
“It isn’t being a baby not to eat peanut butter. I don’t think babies eat the stuff.”
“That’s un-American.”
“I’m not certain I am American,” he pointed out.
She had to agree with him there. “Fine. You can put peanut butter on waffles. Blythe bought some of those frozen thingies that you put in the toaster. I’m not sure how old they are. Do frozen foods last like four years or more?”
He groaned and dropped into the nearest kitchen chair, pushing his head into his hands. “Death by peanut butter. I never thought I’d go that way.”
Rikki found herself laughing. Nothing made her laugh, not out loud, not hurt-her-tummy laughing, not like this. He looked so dejected— a big, tough man done in by peanut butter.”
― Christine Feehan, Water Bound