Authors: Sarah McCarty
“A bit nervous, are you?”
What harm was there in honesty when the truth was so evident? “A little.”
Sam’s hand left hers. It felt wrong to leave hers there without the guidance of his. He stopped her before she could take it away.
“No. Don’t.”
She froze. “Why?”
It just came out. Wishing it back didn’t do any more good than wishing Tejala didn’t want her. Sam responded with brutal honesty.
“Because I like the thought of your hand there ready to pleasure yourself if I tell you to.”
She couldn’t imagine doing that. Didn’t even know how to do that. “Touching oneself is a sin.”
“So you said, but for someone I doubt even has a kissing-cousin relationship with the concept, you seem to have an awfully long list of things on your list that are sinful.”
“We are schooled in such things.”
Beneath her hip his shaft jerked.
“In sin?”
“
Dios,
no.” Too late she saw the teasing in his eyes. She shook her head at herself. “You are not serious.”
His smile was beautiful, making her forget for the moment the intimacy of their position and her discomfort with it.
“Not fully, no.”
Not fully implied he was partially serious. She shifted on his lap. His shaft jerked again, brushing her more intimately than his hand. She paused, absorbing the uniqueness of the sensation. It wasn’t unpleasant. That had to be a good thing in light of what she was planning.
“But you were a bit serious?”
“Just wondering what’s going on in that head of yours. Good women don’t just go throwing away their innocence.”
Ah, his conscience needed soothing.
“Maybe in my eyes it would not be a throwing away.”
“Uh-huh.” His lips grazed her again. She shivered from head to toe and the ache in her womb swelled.
“So.” He smiled against her temple before repeating the caress. “I take it you’d consider it too much of a sin to touch yourself like this for me?”
“This” was a slow draw of his finger upward from the well of her vagina to the hard point above, before wandering back down again.
Did she? Her face felt as if it were burning, the muscles so tight she couldn’t form the words. His finger pressed against her opening, gentle in its demand. She clutched at his shirt and nodded, as for the first time, her muscles parted to take a man. She cried out as the tip of his finger entered in a tiny consummation. Digging her nails into his shoulder, she arched, inviting more.
He froze. “Damn.”
The curse buffeted her temple. Heat transferred from his skin to hers, summoning an answering heat deep within her core. A heat that melted all that it touched. A foreign wetness invaded her flesh. He tested it with a light press. His finger slid deeper, easier.
“Maybe I should take over, then,” he rasped. “Just to spare you the burden of penance.”
Embarrassment twined further with desire, giving birth to doubt. “You are
católico?
”
For some reason it would feel better sinning with a member of her faith.
“No, but I’m familiar with the breed.”
The moisture spread as his fingers glided higher before slipping back down. Horror blended with an agony of embarrassment. Her time of the month had just finished. It could not be that. How did one ask if such a thing were normal? She stalled, searching for the way.
“You are a heathen?”
“Pretty much.”
A shiver went through her, and his smile grew. “You like the thought of that?”
How did he know the wildness in him attracted her? He couldn’t know. He was just guessing. She licked her lips again and clenched her fingers against the probe of his balm-covered ones. “Of course not. It is wrong to enjoy the misfortune of others.”
His fingertips worked between her legs in smooth glides, always ending at that shallow well, always ending in that erotic stretching as he forced her to take that first bit. Always her body welcomed the intrusion. Always her mind struggled with the reality.
Was she as swollen as she felt? Could he feel the unnatural wetness? O Dios,
please do not let him mind.
“But maybe I’m happy being a heathen.” His drawl deepened until it was almost a growl. “Maybe you’re happy I’m a heathen, not bound by restraint and ‘must nots.’”
He removed her hand completely, placing it on her thigh while she was paralyzed with a dread that felt a lot like anticipation.
“Maybe,” he continued, “you like the thought that I’ll do what I like with you without one thought to proper.”
Maybe he was right.
The thrust of his finger was a shock, driving deep between her thighs when he’d trained her to expect a tease and withdrawal. The burning ache whipped along her nerve endings, flaying them with the rapture caught in the bit of pain. It was too much, but she didn’t fight, just accepted the burn and the pleasure. Accepted it because she’d asked for it. Accepted it because it felt right.
“Ah, duchess,” he growled in her ear before catching the lobe between his teeth, “I do think you like my heathen self.”
She did, and the proof was in the moan that accompanied the withdrawal of his finger.
“Now, that was a sweet sound.”
She thought it was a humiliating one. She wanted to be as in control as he was. Nothing made it clearer that that wasn’t going to happen than the slow reinsertion of his finger. Searing heat shot from her groin outward, jerking her muscles taut. She would have fallen off the horse if his arm hadn’t wrapped around her waist, trapping her arms at her sides, holding her for the pleasure he insisted she experience.
“Like that, sweetheart?” he asked as if he expected her to be able to answer. “Do you like it like that or do you prefer—” an equally slow retreat followed immediately by a shallow thrust “—that?”
The thrust was harder to take, but it delivered such sweet joy.
“Both,” she managed to gasp. “I prefer both.”
He chuckled. “Greedy, too.”
The urge to turn her mouth to his was almost irresistible. “You asked.”
“So I did. Hold on, now.”
She already clung to him as if the bottom was about to fall out of the world. His teeth nipped her ear. His fingertips grazed her hungry flesh. She thought the rough callus might hurt, but right now it merely provided an intriguing drag. A tingling ache followed in the wake of the caress. Instinct drove her hips up the fraction it took to renew the contact. It wasn’t the same, though. It wasn’t enough to get the goodness back.
Sam’s chuckle could have been mocking. She recognized his experience the same way he had to recognize her inexperience. But it wasn’t mocking. Neither was his tone as he circled the hard nub at the top. “So nice and wet for me. I like that.”
When Isabella opened her eyes and checked his expression, she found merely an openness that comforted. Sam was enjoying touching her. Enjoying the effect of his touch on her. It gave her the courage to ask, “The wetness is normal?”
“When you’re having a good time, yes.”
He made another pass with his finger. The tingles flared to fire. She caught his hand, stilling the caress. There was something she had to know. “It does not repulse you?”
The arm supporting her back shifted, sliding up her back until his big hand cupped her shoulder. Her torso naturally shifted into the hollow created by the curve of his arm. She might be innocent, but she recognized desire when it stared at her, and Sam desired her.
“If you weren’t such an innocent, I’d show you just how much I’m not repulsed.”
She didn’t know if she could survive it. Sam clearly came from a different world than she. She’d always been pampered and sheltered from the coarser side of life, tucked away from reality, whereas Sam clearly kept his boots firmly planted in daily life. He was as earthy as he was dangerous, and,
madre de Dios,
he appealed to her.
Sam changed the angle, forcing her to lean back. Off balance, she felt her thighs splay farther, his hand cupping her more fully.
It was as if another person possessed her. A wanton woman who burned for the stroke of his fingers, who lived to see the satisfaction in his face when she pleased him. A woman who yearned to burn at his command.
She just didn’t know how to burn, but looking up into Sam’s face with his sensual mouth set above that square jaw and strong neck, she bet he knew how to set the fire. She licked her lips. If she was brave enough to hand him the sulphur.
His hand cupped her cheek. He held her now cradled against him, anchored at her most vulnerable points—her face and her groin. Again, she should feel threatened, and yet again she just felt…cherished. His thumb tilted her chin up.
“Tell me something.”
“What?”
“Are you giving yourself to me because you think it’ll guarantee you protection?”
She had to think about it.
“Would this matter if it were true? You would still have a willing woman in your bed.”
His thumb stroked her lips, pausing in the dent in the middle. “You hinting I’ve been hitting a dry spell?”
She couldn’t even find the coordination to swallow. She wrinkled her nose. “Probably not.”
“So what would be the draw?”
“I am a virgin.” Everyone knew men lusted after virgins.
“That means you lack experience.”
Shaking her head, she twisted her hand until she could grab his wrist. “Even I know that is not a negative to a man.”
“It is if you’ve reached a point where you’re not wanting to do all the work.”
“You are telling me you are lazy?”
“Laziness is a highly underappreciated quality.”
The man had not stopped moving since she had met him. He must be teasing her. She could tease, too. “But just think about it—you could train me to what you liked.”
He canted his head to the side, his gaze still on the point where his thumb touched her lip. “That would take a long time.”
“I could be a woman who learns fast.”
He pulled her lip down, seemingly fascinated with her mouth. “You have the look of a woman who’d be a lot of work.”
“I might be worth your while.”
“Keeping you around could get me killed.”
She caught his finger between her teeth. “Letting me go without teaching me will definitely get you killed.”
“By who?”
Nipping his thumb, she answered, “By me.”
Some of the seriousness slipped from his expression. “Is that a fact?”
She nodded, looking as mean as she could. “A rock-solid one.”
The smile she suspected was lurking just out of sight teased the corners of his eyes. “You think a little bit of a thing like you could make me shake in my shoes?”
She scooted down into his embrace, clutching like a talisman the inner conviction that said she fascinated him the way he fascinated her. “I think if you taught me right, I could make you quake.”
“Hell.”
He was imagining. So was she, but she did not think her images were as clear as the ones putting the heat in his eyes.
“So that is a yes?”
“Not yet.”
She liked the fact that he did not prevaricate. “But you will think about it?”
“I doubt I’ll be thinking of anything else.”
Neither would she. Her whole body was a restless ache for the satisfaction he withheld. She ran her fingernail down the placket of his shirt. “Maybe you would like me to convince you to a yes?”
His nostrils flared. Oh yes, he would like that.
“What I’d like is for you to think over the invitation while I consider it.”
Watching him watch her, seeing the goodness in him that he hid behind a cold exterior, she realized why he was hesitating. He worried she had not thought this through. He was wrong.
She knew what she was doing. Her mother had warned her that there would come a time when she would not be able to run anymore. She had finally reached it with this man, in this wild place. And it felt right. “You think I’m running away.”
“Yes.”
“I am not.”
“Then what are you doing?”
She curled her fingers over the hand that cupped her cheek, holding on. “For once, I am taking what
I
want.”
“And you want me?”
She had never been more sure of anything in her life. “Very much.”
His eyes narrowed. “For how long?”
She would not ask him for more than he could give, and he was not a man who gave a woman promises. “As long as it lasts.”
His big hand settled on her thigh, weighing heavily. The utter stillness with which he touched her implied more significance than a caress. She sorted through the notion, trying to understand what it meant, but came up with no answers. Just more questions. Finally he gave her thigh a squeeze and pulled her skirt down over her legs, causing her to look at him again. Did he want her or not?
“Hold on.”
As the horse broke into a canter, only one thought perked through the conflicting messages he sent her.
To what?
I
sabella held on as long as she could, but by the time they reached the small hollow in the side of the cliff where Sam decided it was safe to spend the night, she could barely hold her head up.
“You awake?” Sam asked as soon as Breeze came to a halt.
“Sí.”
“Your legs feeling strong enough to hold you?”
“Of course.”
His hand wrapped around her upper arm. “Then slide off, and we’ll get settled for the night.”
Nothing had ever sounded so good. Grabbing Sam’s wrist with both hands, she turned her body and slid off Breeze. It was not her most graceful moment. She kicked the horse’s shoulder and then his knee on her way down. Beyond a snort, he made no complaint. Even when her knee hit his stomach, he didn’t move. By the time her feet touched the ground she was extremely grateful for his training. Every muscle from her ankles to her shoulder blades screamed a protest. She collapsed against Breeze’s side. If it hadn’t been for Sam’s hold, she would have fallen to the ground.
“Whoa, there.”
She glanced up, wanting to cry with the sheer frustration of being so weak at a time when she wanted to be so strong. “Maybe I am not feeling so strong as I thought.”
“It looks that way. Grab on to the saddle for a second.”
She did, wrapping her fingers in the rawhide straps that dangled off assorted leather decorations. Sam swung down behind her. Immediately he wrapped his arm around her waist. Letting go, she let him drag her against him. His shoulder knocked her hat. It fell over her face.
She pushed it back and off. “I hate this hat.”
Before it could slide off her head, he tipped it right back. “Unless you’re fond of mosquitoes in your hair, you might want to leave it on.” With his free hand he untied the bedroll from the back of the saddle. Propping her against the wall, he made short work of rolling out the blankets. Locking her knees, she leaned against the warm rock, too sore and too tired to care anymore how weak she looked to him.
He motioned to the bedroll. “Here, sit.”
It was a long way to the ground. “I think I will stand, thank you.”
“You’ll be fine once you sit down.”
How would he know? She didn’t even turn her head, just stayed propped against the wall. “That is easy for you to say, but much harder for me to do.”
“Are you saying you need help?”
“I am saying I need a whole new body.”
He chuckled, more a vibration of his chest than actual sound.
“Don’t go ordering it until I get done appreciating this one.”
She glared at him. “You have a very inappropriate sense of humor.”
“Seems to work just fine for me.”
“This explains why you are alone.”
“I am not alone. I’m Hell’s Eight, remember?”
He held out his hand. She placed her palm in his.
“You are alone in every way that matters.”
He shook his head. “You think too much.”
“You said I could.”
He braced his arm. “So I did.”
His palms were laced with ridges of callus. Beneath the edge of his shirtsleeve she could see the thick edge of a scar. He was a hardworking man who breathed violence the way she breathed air. He should be violent. And he could be violent. He just never was with her and, as opposed to many of the men she met, her stomach never twisted in warning that he ever would.
“So maybe you should control your humor.”
“Why?”
“I already said. So you would not be alone.”
“That’s a woman’s way of looking at things.”
She snorted. “I am a woman.”
“That, duchess, is evident.” The way he said
duchess
made her heart flutter. He said it with a touch of affection supported with a base of possession. “Bend your knees now and I’ll get you settled.”
She clutched his wrist. “If I do this, does it mean I do not have to move again for the rest of the night?”
“That it does.”
“Then I will sit.”
“Glad to hear it.”
He didn’t rush her, just waited. Watching her. Eventually it was the guilt of making him stand there that unlocked her knees. The descent wasn’t pretty, and it was accomplished only amidst many groans and one small squeak, but eventually she was sitting on the bedroll. Sam untied the saddlebags and placed them beside her. “There’s another piece of jerky in that pack if you want it.”
“I am not hungry, thank you.” Truth was she was starving, but she didn’t have the energy to chew a piece of jerky. She barely had the strength to sit and watch Sam get the horses settled. As he loosened the girth on Sweet Pea’s saddle, she closed her eyes and leaned back against the wall. Solid rock had never felt so good.
She let out her breath in a long sigh. “I will have to name the packhorse.”
“Why?”
“It is not good that a soul go nameless.”
“I thought the church preached animals didn’t have souls.”
She cracked her eyelid. His back was to her. It was a very nice back, and as she followed the natural line of his build it ended in very tight buttocks. Buttocks she would soon have the right to touch. She licked her dry lips. “Do not tell the padre.”
“What will you give me to keep quiet?”
She cracked her other lid. He was looking at her over his shoulder, that invisible smile hovering around him as he raised his brows at her.
“Does everything with you have a price?”
“Yes.”
“Then I promise I will not snore tonight.”
It was a pretty safe promise, as she was sure she did not snore.
“I guess that’s a fair exchange, seeing as I’m dog tired and might be forced to take action if you started sawing logs.”
Despite her tiredness, she couldn’t help her smile at the colorful expression. Sam had so many it would be hard to remember them all, but she wanted to. More than that, she wanted to use them. Her mother would be horrified at her lack of decorum. Her father equally so. It was the one thing they agreed on—that she should behave impeccably at all times. Sam was the first person on whom she had had the opportunity to try out her sense of humor. That he seemed to appreciate it just made her like him more. “Good.”
She drifted off to the sound of packs hitting the ground and Sam’s croon to the horses. There was magic in his voice when he pitched it like that. Low and deep—not quite speech, not quite song, but a wordless melody that lulled and soothed. She let that magic work through her. It was hard to be afraid of a man who crooned like that, but it was easy to speculate about him. To wonder what made him laugh, what brought the passion to his eyes, the hunger to his soul. To wonder if, with her inexperience, she would be woman enough to please him. To wonder what had brought him to her in the hour when she needed him most.
Dios,
I need a hero.
The prayer she’d whispered in despair as she’d watched the men who had been going to take her out of town slaughtered by Tejala’s banditos came back to her. Opening her eyes, she watched as Sam rubbed down Breeze. There was no doubt he was hero material. But hers? She glanced at the vastness of the night sky, dotted with stars, a black canvas stretching into infinity. It was possible. She did believe in fate. She glanced back at Sam and sighed. But not likely. Men like him had bigger things in their destiny than to save one hunted woman, but maybe she would believe so for now. It would make everything easier.
Heat from the day seeped from the rock into her muscles, soothing her aches. It felt so good not to have to worry for a minute. To have nothing to do but enjoy the peace of the night and the sounds within it. To give her cares to one more able to handle them. To let time and awareness drift away…
Isabella came to swinging. Sam ducked her fist, unable to see her eyes as his shadow covered her face. Her kick caught him in his shin. Stepping to the side, he evaded the next.
“Easy, duchess. It’s just me.”
She stilled, her breath coming in hard pants. “Sam?”
Firelight cast unsteady light across her features, but it was enough to see the residual fear in her eyes. He pushed the hair off her face. A woman like her should wake up expecting kisses, not blows.
“Yeah. Sam.”
She blinked and yawned. He worked his arms under her knees and shoulders. “Are we done?”
“Appears to me you’re about done in.” He straightened, taking her with him. “Put your arms around my neck.”
She did, slowly, as if she was lifting boulders instead of her own limbs. With a slight toss he angled her into his torso. Her head fit perfectly into the hollow of his shoulder. He carried her over to the fire where he had a makeshift bedroll covered in his oilcloth slicker. He nudged Kell off with his foot, ignoring his grump. Isabella glanced around as he knelt. “I’m sorry, I should have helped set up the campsite.”
“Next time you can do it all.”
She nodded.
“Gracias.”
“Don’t be thanking me too soon. Setting up a campsite can be hard work.”
“I am not afraid of hard work.”
No, she probably wasn’t. He set her as gently as possible on the bedroll. Sam was beginning to think not much scared her once she got the bit between her teeth, but he doubted Isabella had seen much hard work in her life. Her hands had blisters with only a light layer of callus beneath, and her curvaceous little body was very soft. The kind of soft that came from pampering.
He balanced the end of her braid on his finger, imagining her in a fancy house, imagining how her day might go if she wasn’t running from Tejala. Maids to do the work. Servants to bring her food. A man to protect her from the harsher realities. He liked the thought of her being pampered. He wanted to pamper her. He wanted to protect her. He wanted…her. Which didn’t make any sense. He wasn’t a settling man.
There was a smudge of dirt on Bella’s cheek. He wiped it with his thumb, noting the differences in their skin. His was dark and rough, marred by scars. Hers was pale and smooth, as perfect as sweet caramel. The smudge didn’t come off. If they were back on Hell’s Eight, he’d follow Caine’s example and indulge himself by drawing her a bath. He’d never bathed a woman before, but there was something intrinsically pleasing in the thought of caring for Bella on that intimate a level. Hell, the woman was just damn pleasing, period. “I’m going to lay you down now.”
Not even cracking her eyes, she asked, “Do you need to?”
He bet she was as sore as all get-out. “Yes.”
She sighed, one of those long-suffering ones he’d already heard from her a time or two. It seemed her favorite mode of expression when she wanted to avoid an argument but still make her opinion known. “All right.”
She immediately went stiff as a board, obviously braced for the worst.
“If you tighten up, it’s going to hurt more.”
She shook her head. “Not possible.”
“Try to relax anyway.”
After a deep breath she nodded for him to proceed. Sam smiled at the unconscious arrogance coming from someone so defenseless, and angled her back. She groaned as her muscles stretched and protested and then slowly relaxed into the knowledge they didn’t have to support her anymore. He watched the process, inordinately interested in every nuance of her expression, noting how her mouth firmed when she prepared herself, how her dark lashes fluttered against her cheek just before the pleasure took her and she relaxed.
He curled his fingers into a fist to keep from reaching out and tracing the curve of her lashes against her cheek, their deep black merely accentuating the dusky color of her skin with its undertones of peach. Her lips carried the same peach tint beneath the pink. Her nipples were probably that color, too.
The knowledge punched him in the gut, driving straight to his cock, pounding hard within the swollen shaft. Damn, she was a sexy little thing. Tracing his fingers along her jawline, he studied her face, looking for the reason she appealed to him so much. She was beautiful. A triangular face with angles that gave an impression of haughty aristocracy softened with full lips that betrayed her vulnerability—plump, pouting, the upper fuller than the bottom, and drawn up just short of a kiss. It was easy to see why Tejala was chasing her all over the territory. The woman screamed wild nights and sultry mornings. If she came from a good family, Tejala could have his cake and eat it, too. Respect in town and a hellcat in his bed. Sam brushed the hair off her other cheek. Except she didn’t want Tejala. She wanted him.
Sam still didn’t know how he felt about that. Rubbing his thumb in small circles at her temple, he contemplated the sheer anomaly of indecision. It was not, he decided, an emotion he liked. He did like, however, the way Isabella naturally turned her cheek into his touch, confirming another of his suspicions. She was a very sensual woman, ripe for the plucking.
You could train me to what you like.
Talk about waving a red flag in front of a bull. He shook his head, staring down at her. There were lots of things he wanted. Those lush lips wrapped around his cock, her hair wrapped around his privates, the taste of her on his tongue, her moans in his ears. A lot of things he wanted to do to her, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that the price was going to be higher than he wanted to pay. He nudged her cheek with his finger.
“Are you awake?”
“Yes.”
Barely, if the weakness of that “yes” was anything to go by.
“I’m going to unbutton your shirt. Don’t start screaming.”
Her thick black lashes rose off the shelf of her high cheekbones. A touch of pink accentuated the peachy tan of her skin. Through her lashes he could just make out the deep brown of her eyes. “Are you going to drop a spider in the opening?”
“Hell, no.” Why in hell would she think he was going to do that?
Her lashes fluttered back down. “Then you do not have to worry about my screaming.”
“Ah.” The first button gave easily. “You’re afraid of spiders?”
“They’re disgusting. All those ugly legs and fat hairy bodies…”
The involuntary shudder that took her knocked the second button out of his fingers. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
She stiffened. It wasn’t hard to tell where her mind was going. “As a thing to avoid,” he clarified.