by Layla Chase
She liked the way he was going along with her game. “My sisters at the castle have instructed me in many ways to provide pleasure. I have been told my hands are quite skillful.” She massaged a firm shoulder and worked the muscles of his bicep, alternating between deep pushes and gentle caresses.
“Can't deny that.” A groan rumbled in the back of his throat.
At the sound, her hands stilled. She was giving pleasure to a man without her hands being anywhere close to his groin. This was another first and Jazzy fought to keep hold on her heart. Too easily, Slade's words or deeds brought out tender feelings, ones she couldn't hope to have returned by an honest businessman like him.
A finger ran along her jaw. “Hey, pretty lady, why'd you stop?"
“Thinking of what I'll do next.” She dipped her chin so he couldn't read anything in her expression. She could not let on how important this night was. “Would you like me to rub your back?"
“I'd rather you put your hands somewhere else."
At the roguish look in his eye, she glanced toward his waist and saw the sheet was raised several inches off his lower body. Playacting or not, she was impressed. “Um, Mac...” She had to bite her lip to hold in a sigh. “I'm sure I don't know what you mean."
“Miss Aileana.” He grabbed her wrist and pulled her hand down to his body. “This is where I want your hands.” He angled his hips and rubbed his cock against her hand.
The moment of decision. In her head, Jazzy wanted to keep this coy game going. To feel again the excitement of gentle glances and virginal touches. To forget all the men from her past who'd crossed the threshold of Room 13 at Miss Veronica's. To pretend they'd gained more from their time spent with her, more than the use of her body in exchange for a few coins.
Again, Slade pressed against her hand. His throaty rumble sounded low and needy.
Heat radiated on her palm. Every cell in her body cried out for what she knew this virile man could give her. Had given her. Her hand inched under the sheet and closed around his engorged cock, one finger at a time. Old habits almost moved her hand into a quick, pumping action. But she released her grip and ran feathery strokes along the impressive length.
Tonight was different.
“I'm sorry I did not ask for a bath to be prepared, my laird. Nanny Erskina taught us the simple pleasures the act of bathing can produce."
“No water here,” he spoke through gritted teeth.
From under lowered eyelids, she watched a muscle in his jaw jerk and shifted her weight on the bed. “I could run down to the kitchen and fetch some."
He clamped a hand on her wrist and held tight. “The woman who is to be my wife does not fetch."
At his possessive touch, a thrill ran through her and beaded her nipples. A twinge low in her abdomen distracted her for a moment and she felt compelled to gaze directly into his eyes. A flush heated her skin at the hunger in his gaze. “I wish to please you, Mac. Simply tell me how."
“Touch me."
She was helpless not to obey his command. Her core throbbed in expectation and she squirmed. How long could she deny what her body ached for?
Starting at his knees, she ran her hands up the outside of his legs, then drew them to the inside of his thighs before tracing a path to his knees.
“Ah, Aileana, your hands are so soft."
Had his voice trembled a bit? She ran her hands up his legs, enjoyed the rough texture of crisp hair, and anchored them on his hips. “With your permission, I must get closer."
He cleared his throat. “Please do, miss."
Like mounting a horse, she slung her leg over and straddled both his legs. She lowered her bottom to lightly rest on his thighs, but kept most of her weight on her knees. Her hands moved along his stomach and over his chest, caressing with small circles and long strokes. The sensation of her sensitive palms gliding over his firm skin made her aware of every inch of his body. The roughness of the hair on his chest, the leathery skin of his shoulders that had seen too much sun, and the puckered skin along his ribs on his left side. Her fingers gently explored and she leaned closer to get a better look. “Is this a scar from a gunshot?"
His muscles tightened. “Part of the job."
A terseness in his tone drew her gaze. She glanced at the blank expression he'd retreated behind—pinched nostrils, tense jaw, and narrowed gaze. “Did it hurt?"
“Mostly it burned. Jazzy—"
“Aileana.” Her finger ran one last circle around the scar.
“Right ... Aileana. I don't want to talk about this now."
“I know.” With one last glance at his glare, she leaned forward and kissed the uneven skin on his side, then dragged the tips of her hair along his belly. Planting kisses on his stomach and chest, she scooted up his legs until her pussy lips pressed against his erection.
Strong hands clamped onto her hips and pulled her closer against him.
“I don't want to talk at all."
She straightened her back, unable to hide her smile. Her hands trailed along his sides, across his abdomen and played with the springy curls in his groin. “I can tell."
Slowly, one hand closed around his cock, tugging gently, and the other rubbed a circle around the ridge of its head.
His hips surged and pushed against her movements. “That's how I want to be touched."
For an instant, she heard the echoes of many other voices and her movements faltered. This had to be different. She had to make this time unique. She didn't know exactly why, but she knew her heart would break if this turned out to be just another encounter. “And that's how I want to touch you, Mac."
“I want inside you."
Oooh, the man was direct. She laid her thumb at the base of his penis and pressed with short half-circles.
A low groan sounded. “Um, I like that."
With alternating hands, she stroked his cock until it pointed almost straight up, its head becoming a deep red. A drop of pearly liquid oozed and she rubbed it with a circling thumb.
“Ah. I like that too.” His voice was whisper soft.
Just watching her hands as they caressed his cock made her pussy drip. No longer could she deny what her body ached for. She rose on her knees and hovered over his groin, waiting for him to look up. Once his gaze met hers, she slowly lowered herself onto his cock, savoring the heat as she stretched to accommodate his girth.
“Finally. Damn, that feels good."
She anchored her hands on his shoulders and rocked her hips, feeling his thighs below her bottom stiffen. “Is the bride tall enough for your satisfaction, sir?"
His eyes widened and a corner of his mouth tilted up. “Aye, and she has all the right parts."
Jazzy's core tightened and her breasts ached to be stroked. Could she keep up the game and ask for what she needed?
* * *
CHAPTER 5
From outside the window came the raucous caw of a grackle. Jazzy groaned and inched open an eye. Gray light filtered through the dusty window. An unaccustomed weight around her middle had her trapped. She shoved at the tangled bedclothes and her hand touched warm skin.
Well-muscled skin. With a furring of hair.
Heart pounding, she yanked back her hand.
Slade!
Ohmigod, she'd let him stay the night. In her bed ... the entire night.
In all her years of entertaining men, not once had she allowed herself to fall asleep while a customer was still in the room. Although, before last night, not once had her body been satisfied enough to fall asleep. Still, Ben's reminder knock would have come in handy last night. Slade wasn't exactly a customer, but she ignored that itty-bitty fact.
Her mind raced at how their playacting had disappeared into the hottest coupling she'd ever known. What excuse could she possibly use to explain her behavior? How could she salvage her reputation? At least, everyone's idea of her good reputation. Could he still look on her kindly if he knew she'd only wanted a bit of fun on her own terms?
Images of the
previous night's romping entered her mind. Her core tingled with a pleasurable ache and she stifled a grin. Slade as the aggressor. Her straddled across his lap. The time he'd taken her hard, fast and against the wall. Sure as the morning dew, she'd shot to smithereens any thoughts he had of her as a genteel young lady.
Anxiety bit at her stomach. Had he taken her for the parlor lady she used to be? Or, judging by her wanton behavior, still was? At that unsettling thought, hot tears bit at the back of her eyes. Why should she care? She had plenty of adventures ahead.
The bird's cry came again and Slade's arm around her waist tightened, pulling her against his warm chest.
The heat of his body invaded hers, as if trying to bend her to his will. A heady thrumming beat along her skin. Lordy, she wanted him again. If she wasn't careful, she'd turn her body into his embrace and beg him to take her. Right here, right now.
But Slade didn't fit into her plan. Jessimay Morgan was starting a new life, one where she made all the choices. She inhaled a quick breath and tried to ease toward the edge of the mattress.
His splayed hand clamped onto her hip. “'Morning, Jessimay.” His raspy words tickled her neck. “Is that the nightingale on yon pomegranate tree?"
“Yon pome what? What are you talking about?” She stiffened and whispered over a suddenly dry tongue. “Are you even awake? It's just a plain ole grackle."
Slade rolled her flat on her back, gave her a sleepy-eyed grin, then nuzzled her neck with his warm lips. “I was quoting from Shakespeare."
She angled her head to give him better access to the sensitive skin on her neck. “Huh?"
“A play. Young lovers argue over a birdcall that reveals their time together is nearly over."
“Oh.” A play? That meant he was highbrow educated. Regret at not finishing her time in Miss Cavendar's schoolroom flooded her. “Fancy words from a play won't stop dawn from comin'.” No doubt about it. They wouldn't go together any better than burlap and silk. “Best hotfoot over to your own room before anyone catches sight of you sneaking out of mine."
He rose up on an elbow and gazed openly at her exposed skin, a gleam heating his gaze.
She grabbed at the sheet and yanked it up to her chin. Only her highest paying customers saw her totally naked. She winced at her instinctive reaction. Slade was not a customer.
Rosy-tinted light streamed through the window. He lifted his head and squinted at the brightening room. “Jeez, it was a lark. Morning's almost here.” He threw back the sheet and pushed himself off the bed.
The mattress dipped and bounced with his shifting weight. Jazzy turned on her side and snuggled a crooked arm into the pillows. Toned muscles flexed as he stooped to collect his union suit and trousers. The view was irresistible.
As he buttoned the trousers’ fly, he looked around the room for the rest of his clothes, a frown wrinkling his brow. His gaze met hers and quickly slid away. “I'm sorry, Jazzy."
Breath caught in her chest and burned. Their night together had been so fine, wild and at the same time the tenderest encounter she'd ever had. They wouldn't have another, but she couldn't bear to hear his apology. She struggled to harden her heart and told herself to stop caring about this man's every word.
His gaze connected with hers and softened. “I never meant to stay this late. I won't make a sound on the way out.” He scooped up his socks, stuffed them into his trouser pockets, and whispered, “Where's my shirt?"
Wanting him gone as quickly as possible, she thrust out a stiff arm and pointed. “On the chair.” Why she was getting so mad? She'd never felt like this when others gathered their clothes before skedaddlin’ out the door.
“Thanks.” With rapid movements, he shoved his arms into the sleeves, then sat on the chair to pull on his boots. “Where'd my jacket get to?"
“I don't know.” Had the man gone blind during the night? “Maybe it slipped off the post."
Two strides brought him to the foot of the bed. With a hand on the mattress, he leaned down and swung his jacket upwards. It hit the bed rail with a dull, metallic clunk.
The handcuffs.
Jazzy's eyes widened and her gaze sought Slade's. Although she'd heard plenty of stories from the other ladies, those silver bracelets had been a first for her. Since they were his, she doubted the same could be said for him.
His eyes had darkened to the shade of chocolate and a grin played at the corner of his mouth. He stepped to the bed, leaned close and brushed his lips on her cheek. “See you later, darlin'.” In an instant, he'd disappeared through the door and out into the hallway.
Confusion hit hard and Jazzy flopped back onto the mattress. He'd called her darlin'. What had he meant? That's what her papa had called her mama when he had that certain gleam in his eye. She blew out an exasperated breath.
She'd known he intended to kiss her mouth and only at the last second had she turned away her head. Had almost let him kiss her lips. Lordy, her mind was sorely muddled around this man.
* * * *
Thirty minutes later, Jazzy hesitated in the doorway of the dining room of the boardinghouse and braced herself for what might come. Her kind of luck would never let their glorious night go undetected. She scanned the room and spotted Slade standing at the window with a cup of coffee in his hand. Her heartbeat kicked up and she touched the top button on her shirtwaist, making sure it was still closed. No open collars today or someone would surely notice the love bite Slade had given her. Another first.
Miss Whitfield looked up from the table and then quickly away, her fingers toying with the edge of the tablecloth.
Pete nodded. “'Morning, Miss Morgan. Did you sleep all right?"
Jazzy balled her hands into fists and scanned his face, checking to see if he held back a grin. His expression seemed straightforward enough. She forced a smile before answering in a cheery voice, “Right as rain, Pete."
Slade turned and connected with her gaze, his brows pulled down over his eyes. He took one step toward the table, then stopped, and turned his attention back to the window.
Ella breezed in from the kitchen. “'Morning, miss. Here's hot biscuits. Coffee's in the middle of the table. Fried ham and eggs will be out in two minutes."
Jazzy slid into a chair opposite the blue-speckled coffee pot and poured some of the steaming liquid into a crockery mug. Sipping the rich brew, she relaxed. No one had found them out. She reached for a biscuit and bit into its fluffy warmth.
Trying not to be obvious, she allowed her gaze to move around the room. Blue-and-white gingham curtains accented walls painted a cheery yellow. The navy tablecloth was faded at the edges, but clean. As much as she hated to admit the fact, she'd hoped to talk with Slade. Although what she would say to the man in the presence of others was still a mystery.
Ella set platters of sizzling ham and eggs in the middle of the table. Jazzy inhaled the savory aromas and sighed. Her appetite was as big as the Texas sky after last night's gyrations. The roomers reached to serve their food, but Slade didn't join them. Subdued conversation buzzed around her.
The front door opened, jingling the small bell overhead. The thud of heavy footsteps preceded a tall man into the room. “Good morning, folks."
Out of the corner of her eye, Jazzy saw Slade straighten, take a step closer to the table and set down his mug. She glanced at the newcomer and her breath caught in her throat. The confident stance of a lawman—shoulders thrown back, shiny star on his vest, feet spread wide—always affected her. Worry settled in her stomach, but she fought to keep her expression blank.
Ella walked into the room, wiping her hands on her apron. “Why, Sheriff Simmons, I'm surprised to see you. Is Cathleen ill? Are you here to eat?"
“'Morning, Ella.” The sheriff lifted his hat from his head and held it in his hand. “She's fine, thank you. I'm here on business."
Jazzy shot a look across the room, but Slade's attention was focused on the sheriff. A rustling of petticoats sounded from beside her, but she ignored everything except
what the sheriff would say next.
“Folks,” the sheriff started, then reached into his jacket pocket for a piece of paper, “I've got something here that I want to talk—"
Her mouth gone dry, Jazzy gripped the edge of the table. Oh no, had Tucker wired ahead to get this sheriff to detain her? She couldn't bear Slade seeing the wire first.
Slade crossed the floor and stuck out his right hand. “Sheriff Simmons, the name's Slade Thomas. I wonder if we might have a word in private."
The sheriff's forehead wrinkled with his frown. “Sir, I've got business with these passengers."
Slade nodded and swept his hand to include the group. “Their meal has just been served. Why not talk with me first? They'll be finished eating and ready to speak with you when we're done."
A tense moment passed as two strong-minded men exchanged stares.
Jazzy couldn't figure out what Slade was doing. What did a proper businessman need with a lawman?
Ella crossed to the men. “Sheriff, take Mr. Thomas into the front parlor. Let my customers eat their meal while it's still hot.” She waved them into the hallway and turned to the table with a wide smile. “Eat up, y'all. I want my cooking enjoyed like it's meant to be eaten."
The others around the table spoke in hushed whispers as they worked on their meals.
Jazzy ignored their supposings and tried to swallow a bite of egg past the lump in her dry throat. What were the men talking about? Deep in her gut, she knew what they spoke on would cross tracks with her future.
The food quickly disappeared. And all the while, she strained for the sound of the sheriff's departure and fretted about what would happen when she and Slade spoke again. The embarrassed looks, the shuffled feet, the cleared throats. Judging by his haste in leaving her room, Slade Thomas was probably no different from any other man she'd ever known. They wanted every little bit of her time and attention in the moonlight, but barely gave a nod of greeting in the daylight.
