“Oh, is that so?” Irritation overthrew the last fragment of her grief. “Well, let’s do somethin’ fun, then. We’ll play horse. I’ll be the front end, and you jist be yourself.”
Her barb relieved him somewhat. He couldn’t imagine that she’d come to complete terms with whatever had so upset her earlier, but as long as she didn’t mention it again, neither would he. He didn’t care what it was, anyway.
Ripping his hungry gaze from her, he examined his surroundings and decided he could spend one night here. Hilda had given the room a respectable cleaning. With Newt’s money in hand, he strode over to a whitewashed table.
Russia watched as he took her bag from it, opened it, and stuffed a handful of money inside. “What are you doin’?”
It was a moment before he answered. Looking into her open bag, he saw folds of tattered fabric beneath the money he’d dropped inside. Anger welled. While men like Newt took advantage of her softhearted nature, she dressed in rags.
With more strength than was necessary, he snapped the bag closed. “I met a friend of yours downstairs. He asked me to deliver that money to you.”
“A friend? I ain’t got no friends in this godfer-Satan town.”
“Godforsaken.”
“Whatever.”
Still struggling with anger, Santiago unbuttoned his shirt, taking a very long time to do so. When it was off, he threw it into Russia’s bath. Lifting one hip upon the table, he leaned against it, folding his arms across his bare chest. “Your friend’s name was Newt. Nice man to remember a debt, don’t you think?”
Newt, Russia repeated silently, finally recalling that he was the man who’d bought his dead horse a tombstone. “Yeah, Newt’s a real nice feller.”
Santiago’s expression revealed nothing, but he had to squelch the temptation to return to the saloon and punch Newt again. “Yes, a real jewel of a man.”
Her eyes were drawn to his heavily muscled chest; she barely heard what he said. His tanned skin was so smooth. The soft candlelight flickering over it made it almost lustrous. “You ain’t got a single hair on your chest.”
“Does that disappoint you?” He found himself straining to hear her answer.
“If I said yes, would y’try to grow some?”
He felt the start of a grin crease the corners of his mouth.
His small smile dazzled her, filling her with affection and the need to show it to him. “I love it when you smile at me, Zamora. I wish you’d do it more.”
Before he realized it, he was granting her wish. His slight grin broke into a huge smile. He felt it spread over his entire face.
Russia was enchanted. By his alluring smile, by the twin grins in his somber eyes, and by…by much more than just his smile.
He sat there, his slim hip half on, half off the table, one foot firmly on the floor, the other dangling a bit above it. And yet she knew that sleeping behind that easy stance was sleek power. Strength that could be roused in an instant.
His might made her feel safe and secure. It made her think of how small and fragile she was compared to him. She glanced at his legs. His pants seemed molded to him. Like he’d put them on wet and they’d shrunk to fit every lean, male curve of his body. Not a bit of anything tipped over his tightly cinched belt. His torso tapered down into those snug black breeches perfectly.
Down into those snug black breeches…
Her senses spun. It was happening again. That strange thing he did to her. Unnerved, she slipped further into the tub. Water rose to her chin, flowing through her parted lips and down her throat. Sputtering, she closed her eyes, sat up, and tried to catch her breath.
She choked again when she detected his nearness and smelled his musky, masculine scent. Lord, she hadn’t even heard him approach, and here he was, right beside her, so close she swore she could feel his midnight gaze roaming over her.
She brought her knees up, the tops of her thighs pressing against her breasts. Her heart racing, she kept her eyes closed, afraid to see his bare chest, his devastating smile, his virile power, his tight black breeches…
…afraid of the feelings the sight of them brought.
She heard and felt him dip his hands into the water. His long, strong fingers brushed across her thigh, then began sweeping across the bottom of the tub, sliding past her calves and feet and up again to glide next to her hip. “What are you—”
“Looking for the soap.”
She opened her eyes, struck by the look in his. Like two pieces of lit charcoal, his eyes smoldered. “I can wash my own self!”
Brow raised, he lifted one hand from the water, then plunged it between her slightly parted thighs. “Ah, here it is,” he informed her, deliberately allowing his wrist to brush across the folds of her womanhood as he wrapped his fingers around the bar of soap that lay on the bottom of the tub.
When he made no move to take his arm out of the water, Russia squeezed her thighs tightly together, thus capturing him between them. Through her mind shot confusion and not a little fear; through her body stirred yearning and readiness. She couldn’t seem to join her mental and physical sensations.
But neither her mind nor her body could ignore how hard and thick his arm felt between the soft flesh of her thighs. “Zamora,” she whispered, damning her voice for being weak, “git away from my tub and lemme finish my bath.”
He sensed her trepidation, but recalled his oath to soothe it. He wanted her, and he knew damn well she wanted him, too. “No.”
Though he’d uttered only one word, he’d spoken it in that deep-timbred voice that never failed to make her heart turn over. “I can wash my own self. I don’t need none o’ your help.”
“I haven’t offered it, Russia. I’m going to wash my shirt.” With his other hand, he pulled his floating shirt through the water, bringing it under Russia’s thighs. With one hand between her bent legs, the other under them, he commenced to roll the bar of soap over his shirt.
With each motion he made, his wrist stroked her intimately, fanning a blaze of feelings Russia never knew she had.
“Do you like that, Russia?” Santiago asked softly.
The sweet feelings surged. “I—yeah, but—” She broke off when she saw his face coming nearer. He was going to kiss her. Everything was happening so fast! She needed time to understand the powerful feelings coursing inside her. Gripping the sides of the tub, she stammered for words. “Zamora—I—please…”
Santiago drew back, watching her cheeks pale. He knew she’d enjoyed his caresses, but dammit, she looked as though she were facing her own execution!
Pushing himself away from the tub, he rose and stormed across the room. His sable hair whipped around his dark, broad shoulders as he spun to face her. “What are you? An all-knowing strumpet, or an untouched maiden? I asked you that once before and got no answer. Santa Maria, tell me now, and I’ll treat you accordingly, Russia! Russia? Hell, that’s not even your name! What is your real name? Betsy Lou? That has an innocent ring to it!”
His angry shouting made her mad. “It’s Russia! And you know damn well I ain’t no untouched maiden!” To emphasize her ire, she fished the corn out of her bathwater and threw it at him.
He dodged it easily. “Really? Then why do you act like one?”
“I—” She blinked in perplexity. Dammit, the man had confused her to such an extent, she wasn’t sure what she was anymore!
“I asked you a question, Russia, and I want an answer right now!”
“Yeah? Well, croonin’ crackers and chin-waggin’ chiggers, I reckon the time has come fer you to git it!” Instantly, she was out of the tub. Grabbing a towel, she quickly dried her body and hair, then marched to the table where her bag lay. She snatched up her scarlet dress, stockings, and black shoes, and dressed hastily.
“What are you doing?” Santiago flared. “Getting ready for a night’s work?”
She paid him no mind. Rummaging through her bag again, she pulled out her box of paints and smoothed some color on her face.
>
“The saloon is full,” Santiago snapped. “You ought to be a rich woman before the night is over.” He made tight fists of his hands and felt his nails gouge into his palms.
Still ignoring him, Russia smoothed clove oil behind each ear, then arranged her damp hair so that it fell around her body like a long gold cape. Thus, she turned to face Santiago and walked slowly toward him, her right leg slipping out of the thigh-high slit in her skirt. When she was in front of him, she curled her arms around his neck and pressed her body intimately close to his. “What do I look like to you, Zamora? What am I actin’ like?”
“A whore.” The word hissed between his clenched teeth.
“Then I reckon that answers your question about what I am, don’t it?”
He yanked her arms down from around his neck. Ripping off his gun belt, he let it drop to the floor. In seconds, his breeches and boots joined his Colts.
He stood before her naked. “You look like a whore right now, you’re acting like a whore right now. It’s about damn time to see if you perform like one. Right now.”
With that, he swept her into his arms and carried her to the bed.
Chapter Seven
Dropping her to the bed, he loomed above her, seeing his own dark shadow fall across her pale skin. “No te muevas. Don’t move. Stay right there on that bed.”
She looked up at him; his swarthy features were hard and sharp, like they’d been chiseled by an angry sculptor. Not even the mellow candlelight softened them. “What are you gonna do? Why’re you jist standin’ there like that?”
Her confusion faded into pensiveness as she watched him leave the bedside. The man did nothing but walk across the room, but he got her full, wide-eyed attention. He stopped before the tub. She watched as he bent and removed his shirt from it. He wrung it out, water running over his big hands and thick arms.
Warmth seeped through her; she couldn’t understand why the sight of water slipping over his skin affected her the way it did.
He hung the wet shirt over the back of a chair and returned to the tub. Russia caught her lip between her teeth when he lowered himself into the water and poured water over his head and shoulders.
It flowed over his rugged male body like a stream of diamond dust, sparkling brightly against his raven hair and brown, brown skin. As if exploring him, it sought, found, and trickled into all the hidden crevices of his torso. At the thought of the water touching parts of him that she never had, Russia felt a stirring of something delightful.
Drenched now, he stood, presenting his left side to her.
Russia saw the bar of white soap in his strong tanned hand. At that moment, she realized he was going to wash himself.
He’s gonna wash. Right in front of me. She’d never watched a man bathe before, had never really cared to do so. But being allowed to watch Santiago do it…being allowed to watch him lather that big, dark, bare body of his…
“Do it,” she whispered too softly for him to hear.
Transfixed, she watched him roll the soap between his palms and raise his hands to his head. Rivulets of creamy soap coursed through his long black hair, down his dark back, over the hard cheeks of his bottom, and along the long swell of muscle on the backs of his thighs.
He stood before her, nothing but sparkling water, lustrous suds, and pale candlelight covering his sinewy form. He was so beautiful to her, Russia felt overcome by a sense of wonder.
Slowly, he descended into the tub again, pouring more water over his head, rinsing away the soap, and making Russia feel crushed beneath the weight of her anticipation of what he would do next. Her anxiety was so great, she closed her eyes for a moment to get hold of herself.
Then she could smell him. Couldn’t see him, but could smell him. The soap: soft and fresh; white and foamy. Santiago: hard, tan, and black; leather, steel, and male. The contrasting fragrances, the sensual mental image of the soap drizzling over him, and the sound of the water lapping gently against him as he moved… Quivers raced over her skin. She opened her eyes. The sight that met them made her depths feel heavy with warmth and need and that same coiling tingle he never failed to bring to her.
He was standing again, turning the soap in his hands once more. Every bit of breath left her body when he began smoothing the lather over his muscular arms, corded chest, and powerful legs. He went about it slowly, so unhurriedly that Russia felt time itself had been restrained to make her pleasure last longer.
Pale suds streamed down his solid torso, glinting against his darkness and nestling within the thick black hair at the apex of his thighs. Russia felt engulfed in an exquisite heat that both burned and pleased her. Every part of her throbbed with the overwhelming excitement of watching him complete his bath.
Complete his bath. There was only one part of him left. Only one place on his magnificent male body he hadn’t yet touched.
When would he touch it?
Slowly, he turned and faced her, his black and piercing gaze directed right at her. She felt as though she were melting from his scorching scrutiny of her. She wondered what to do, what to say, couldn’t decide, and so did nothing. Nothing but stare back at him.
She saw his eyes narrow sensuously right before he unfurled his fingers from around the soap and let it splash into the tub. He moved his strong hands to his slim hips, then inched them closer together. Tension built steadily within her, bringing every nerve in her body to pounding life. Her own eyes stung with the need to blink, but she wouldn’t, couldn’t make herself do it.
All she could do was watch, obsessed, absolutely transfixed as those big brown hands of his made the agonizingly slow journey toward his manhood.
And then they arrived. Spellbound, Russia saw him curl his soapy fingers around himself. He slid them up, ashen lather swirling in their wake. He circled his thumb around the tip of his masculinity, and then, lazily, as if he had the rest of eternity to finish the task, he lowered his hand again.
He looked down at himself and fanned his fingers, spreading them wide against the mat of ebony hair at his groin. Then he pushed them lower, cupping the dark pouch that lay between his parted thighs. Gently, languidly, he rolled his foam-filled palms over and under it.
He hardened in his own hand. Allowing his head to drop over the back of his shoulders, he groaned softly.
The profoundly sexy sound and the way his throat moved when he made it caused Russia to moan not once but twice, and then again. “Zamora,” she whispered.
He tilted his head up, his brow lifting. “Dime que quieres. Tell me what you want. Whisper it. Dime, paloma.”
At his husky command, she gasped with pure, unmerciful desire. “You,” she whispered.
The sudden flare in his midnight eyes told her everything she wanted to know. He understood her need. He would match it with his own. He would overcome whatever fear she might still feel over these new emotions he’d brought to her. Gently, but thoroughly. Sweetly, yet with a passion that would make her beg for more.
Impatience rising, she watched him lower himself into the tub one last time. When he emerged, all the soap was gone from his body. He stepped out of the tub and walked toward her, leaving puddles behind him. When he arrived at the bedside, he leaned over her.
Warm, soap-scented water splashed down on her. His eyes, as dark and potent as the rest of him, watched her from beneath thick black lashes, and from them spilled an emotion she’d never sensed in him before. It dominated whatever fear of him was left inside her. Trembling, she held out her arms to him.
He took hold of her wrists, wrapping his fingers firmly around them, his thumb smoothing across the tops of her hands. “Please don’t be afraid, Russia.”
She lowered her gaze. Compelled beyond control, she slipped her right hand from his grasp and reached out to touch him, sliding one pale finger down the hard, dark length of him. “I ain’t never touched a man because I wanted to. I’ve always done it because I had to.”
He tightened his possessive hold around the slender
wrist he still held. “And are you touching me now because you want to or because you think you have to?”
She closed her hand around his maleness, moaning softly at the soft-hard, wet-hot feeling of him. “I— I have to. I have to…because I want to.”
Desire slammed into him so forcefully, he almost rocked with it. “Russia,” he whispered, “take off your dress.”
She pressed one last, intimate stroke to him and reached for the fastening at the valley of her breasts. Her fingers quivered so badly, she couldn’t seem to get the hook out of the eye. “I—I can usually git it off in less than seconds. But tonight… I cain’t seem to do it. I don’t know what’s the matter with me.”
Santiago knew. The remedy for her problem would please her as much as it would him. “Let me.”
She squeaked with unabashed pleasure when his warm, strong fingers brushed the swells of her breasts as he began unfastening her gown.
Smiling at her small sound of delight, he smoothed her scarlet gown off her alabaster shoulders and down her arms, watching it pool around her rounded hips. His hands around her small waist, he lifted her to her knees, then pulled her close to him, so close her breasts flattened against his broad chest.
She placed her hand on his dark, wide shoulder, loving the hard warmth she felt there. Slowly, bit by bit, she brought her gaze up. His sable hair cascaded into sable eyes, eyes that reflected candlelight and desire. A male hunger that beckoned to the woman inside her. “God, Zamora, I ain’t never knowed a man handsome as you.”
His breath rushed from him on a long, throaty sigh. Gently, he urged her back to the bed, fascinated by the way her extraordinary hair spread all around her. He picked up one long curl. It swept over his hand like a delicate ribbon. It was soft and gossamer; his palm was rough and callused. It was pale; his fingers were dark.
Profoundly aroused, he slipped into the bed beside her. Slowly, as if unveiling a never-before-seen masterpiece, he removed her clothing, stopping frequently to devour each bared part of her with his eyes, and to touch each satiny inch of her with his ravenous hands.
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