Promises Reveal

by Sarah McCarty

  “Good gravy, no!” She’d probably puff away in a burst of embarrassment if he did.

  He grinned. “What happened to the bold-as-brass artist who not only painted me naked, but put that painting on display?”

  “Would you believe she’s had an attack of propriety?” It was as good an excuse as any for her uncharacteristic behavior.

  “I hope not. I liked her unconventionality.”

  No matter how Evie searched Brad’s expression, she couldn’t see any hint of a lie. “You’re a little unconventional yourself.”

  His finger left her jaw and found the chord of her neck, following it downward. Goose bumps chased the caress. “Which makes us a good match.”

  She was beginning to believe he might be right. The few controversial choices he’d made since coming to town did point to a certain compatibility. Like the time when Cougar had decided he was going to marry Mara, with or without her permission. The talk for days was about how Brad had gone against Cougar, offering the woman a choice, even marriage, which was unheard of. Ministers did not marry ex-prostitutes, even one who had been forced into the profession. “What would you have done if Mara had taken you up on your offer of marriage?”

  “You heard about that, eh?”

  “Everybody heard about that. So what would you have done?”

  The quilt edged down under the pressure of his finger. “You mean after Cougar got done carving me into little pieces?”

  It was impossible not to respond to his wry smile with one of her own. It was equally impossible not to grab the descending quilt. “Yes. Right after that.”

  “I would have stayed married to her until she was healed enough to move on.”

  Indignation squashed passion. “You’d give her an annulment, but not me?”

  His eyes lifted to hers. “Her I felt sorry for.”

  “And me?”

  She couldn’t look away from the intensity of his gaze, holding her breath until he answered.

  His smile took on a seductive edge. “You, I want.”

  It was a simple, straightforward statement from a very complex man. The dichotomy left her caught between belief and doubt. “I think that makes you crazier than me.”

  Cocking his eyebrow, he pointed out, “I’m not the one buried under quilts in the summer heat.”

  “No, you’re not.” He was also right. She was roasting. Holding his gaze, feeling as if she was stepping off a cliff with nothing to hold on to but the desire she saw in his expression, she said, “You should probably do something about that.”

  “Let go of the quilt and I will.”

  That was easier said than done. Being bold was a whole different animal than acting bold, and inviting Brad to her bed, husband or not, was the boldest thing she’d ever done. He waited patiently for her to release the covering, which she did, one finger at a time, until only her forefinger and thumb continued the fight.

  Eyeing her grip, he asked, “You sure you’re just a little nervous?”

  His smile nudged hers into the open. “Maybe more than a little.”

  “Because you’ve never done this before?”

  “Because maybe I want to enjoy my choice.”

  He shook his head and clucked his tongue. “Making sure you enjoy tonight, Evie darling, is my responsibility.”

  This time when he tugged, the covers slipped free. She suppressed the urge to snatch the quilt back as it slid down her torso, over her breasts, across her hips, down her thighs.

  “What’s mine?”

  The humid air wafted over her body, soothing her overheated skin with a sultry stroke. The night was hot, but not as hot as Brad’s gaze, which traveled the same path as the blanket, lingering on her breasts and the point where her gown slipped into the juncture of her thighs.

  “You,” he said, his drawl rough with desire as he studied her body, “can practice sighing with pleasure.”

  The blush started at her toes and rushed so fast to her face she felt light-headed. Clenching her hands into fists, she forced herself to hold still. “Fat chance that’s going to happen, seeing as I’m about to drop dead of mortification.”

  His gaze came back up, hit the fiery red of her cheeks, dallied a bit before lifting to hers. “I’d consider it the perfect wedding gift if you’d hold off on that until morning.”

  How could he make her laugh in the middle of mortification? “You would?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Her cheek twitched with conflicting messages. Smile, frown, yell . . . He had her so topsy-turvy, they all sounded good. “And if I don’t?”

  “Then I’ll likely go mope around the saloon alongside Old Buzzard.”

  Old Buzzard was Henry’s hound. He was a renowned mooch, but a successful one, his begging enhanced by the huge folds of sagging skin under his mournful brown eyes. Brad was not the type to mope. Nor, she decided, to beg.

  “I’ll try to hang on, but it would be easier if you’d turn out the light.”

  A whole lot easier.

  “Feeling modest?”

  What was his first hint? Tugging the hide-nothing gown away from her skin, she muttered, “Yes, as much as I get the impression it’s not a quality you appreciate.”

  She had his full attention as his fingers reversed the trip up her body, skimming the outside of her thigh, her hip, the seam between her arm and her nibs, the side of her breast . . . They didn’t go any farther, just rested there. Five featherlight points that seemed to gain weight, heat, and importance with every beat of her heart.

  “Now there you would be wrong. Any other man gets within a hundred yards of you, I expect you to trot out all the prim and proper you can find.”

  She gasped as he moved his thumb, sending little sparks of pleasure shooting through her breast, sensations that gathered just under the nipple, causing it to tingle and draw up into an eager, aching point.

  “You’re going to be a jealous husband?” she managed to ask through her shock as his hand opened around the full curve of her breast, hesitating for just a second. A moment in which she lost all ability to think beyond the moment when that hesitation ended. What would he do then?

  “Enough so you can take the question mark off the end of that sentence.”

  Not hesitating, she decided, watching Brad’s expression as her breast swelled within his hold, seeking a firmer touch. Anticipating. He was anticipating the pleasure, just as she was. She let go of the lace.

  “What should I do with my sense of propriety?”

  He shrugged and gave her that devilish grin that tempted her wild side to let him take the lead and see just how far he would go. “You’re welcome to stuff it under the pillow.”

  “That’s convenient.”

  “I think it’s going to work out perfectly.” His thumb flirted with the tip of her breast, grazing the taut peak. She cried out, shocked by the skitter of heat. Catching her involuntary rise against his palm, he eased her through the discovery, cradling her breast in the aftermath as she subsided back to the mattress. Shadows hid most of his expression, but not the satisfaction in his eyes, or the sensual fullness of his lips. “The truth is, Evie, I prefer you less inhibited.”

  The words flowed over her awareness as she watched his mouth shape the words, flexing and contracting with the syllables, moving in a parody of a kiss. She licked her lips, unconsciously searching for a remnant of his taste. “How uninhibited?”

  Was that husky rasp of sound her voice?

  “Are you asking me what the rules are?”

  Yes. She was. “I’ve waited a long time to be seduced. I don’t want to step wrong and mess it up.”

  “There’s no way to mess it up.”

  Brad braced his weight on his palm by her hip. She blinked as lamplight fell across her face. This time, when she shifted with the mattress, she fell against his forearm. The pull on her breast joined the foreign tension low in her stomach, coiling it tighter.

  “We’re husband and wife. Any way we want to love ea
ch other is right.”

  A restlessness entered her limbs, heat blossomed between her thighs, and through it all Brad watched her as a predator watched its prey, learning its habits, manipulating its responses. If he wasn’t her husband she’d be afraid. But he was her husband, and the experience with which he handled her body boded well for her wedding night, if Pearl was to be believed.

  “My mother said the marriage bed could be a place of joy if I’d just allow it.”

  At last she’d succeeded in shocking him. His fingers bit into the softness. “Are you planning on allowing it?”

  Another pass of his thumb over her nipple. This time she was better prepared for the pleasure, accepting it, not resisting, finding it was even better the second time around.

  She met his gaze squarely. “Can you deliver?”

  Brad looked at his hand cradling the delicate softness of Evie’s breast, his tanned skin dark against the white, sinfully provocative gown, his thumb hovering just above the turgid tip. Evie didn’t have the experience to know how explosive the passion between them was, but he did. With complete confidence, he gave her the truth. “I’ll make you scream.”

  “And in the morning?”

  In the morning she’d be hot, tight, and perfect. He’d take her so gently, easing her into awareness the way he couldn’t ease her into their union. “You’ll wake coming around my cock.”

  She gasped and choked. Color flooded her cheeks in a hot rush. Her torso arched into his hand. His fingers closed reflexively, bringing another gasp to her lips. She had very sensitive breasts.

  “Shh.” Lowering his weight to his forearm, Brad brushed his lips across Evie’s hot cheeks, soothing her panic. Her lashes tickled the side of his nose. First the left, and then the right. When she caught her breath, he asked wryly, “Not the answer you were looking for?”

  Her “Ask me come morning” was choked. He admired her pluck almost as much as her honesty.

  Because she liked it so much and because he enjoyed the way passion softened her lips and hazed her eyes, he milked her breast with gentle movements, drawing gently upward from the base until he reached the plump nipple, rubbing the rougher lace across the sensitive tip, priming her for further intimacies—the heat of his lips, the draw of his mouth, the kiss of his cock. “Planning on testing my word?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What do I have to do to change that ‘maybe’ to a ‘yes’?”

  “Tell me exactly what’s right and what’s wrong so I have a prayer of staying inside the boundaries.”

  It was a revelation to see how much Evie actually did care about being accepted. It was a weapon he could—should—use if he wanted to save himself from her natural curiosity. All he had to do was infer, with one little lie, an impossible standard and Evie would spend the rest of their time together striving to meet it. And with each failure, her attention would become more focused on that than on him. Which was what he needed, so why was he hesitating? It wasn’t as if he hadn’t taken advantage of misplaced trust in the past. The role of husband should be just another act to play out, but looking into Evie’s big blue eyes, a remnant of decency he’d thought extinct raised its head.

  No matter how hard he tried to shove it back, it stubbornly stood between him and common sense, tying his hands by making him aware of how vulnerable Evie would be if he fed her the lie, how badly she could be hurt. Well, shit. Who the hell would have thought it? In the role of Reverend Swanson, Shadow Svensen really did have a conscience. And it wasn’t the least bit convenient.

  Brushing the hair off her face, he asked, “Are you talking about mechanics?”

  “I know the mechanics,” she muttered, catching his hand in hers and holding on tightly. “It’s the social niceties I’m not clear on.”

  “Niceties?” He choked back a laugh. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard it put quite that way.”

  Her nails dug in as she struggled up to her elbows. He had no complaints with the more aggressive pose as he now had a prime view of the valley between her breasts. As soon as she caught the gist of his attention, her hand slapped over the gap. “If you dare laugh . . .”

  He kissed the tip of her nose. “You’ll what?”

  She collapsed back into the pillows, closed her eyes, and released the truth on a long sigh. “I actually think I might cry.”

  That was shocking. “You?”

  “It’s been a very long day and my delicate constitution can’t take the strain.”

  Despite the lightness of the delivery, there was no denying the truth. Evie had reached the end of her resilience. That scrap of decency stirred again.

  “Then why don’t you let me handle the niceties from here on out?”

  She licked her lips and nodded. “Maybe . . . just for tonight.” She cracked her right eyelid. “And you’re right. That does sound silly.”

  He stroked his thumb across the ridge of her knuckles. “So you forgive me for the chuckle?”

  “I’m considering it.”

  “But only if I don’t laugh again?”

  Opening her other eye, she studied him. “If you promise not to mention I used the word niceties in reference to relations, maybe.”

  Ah, she was getting her confidence back. Good. Shy didn’t suit her. “That’s a tough choice.”

  He placed her hand on his shoulder. It just lay there. Waiting. For direction?

  “Why?”

  “I figured on getting at least six months of teasing out of that.”

  Working his hand between the softness of the pillow and the silk of her hair, he cupped her skull in his palm, felt the nervous hitch in her breath. A subtle tension gathered in her muscles.

  Another breath, and then she said, “That would be a stretch.”

  “You don’t think I could find ways to work niceties into the conversation frequently over the next six months?”

  “Not and continue to be original.”

  He lifted her slightly, just enough so he could massage the tension from her neck. “That sounds distinctly like a challenge.”

  “How can you take something like that as a challenge?”

  “My male pride has been attacked.”

  “That is so much rubbish.”

  Running his finger down the bridge of her nose, he smiled when her eyes crossed. Sass, fun, and cute. He really did like her. “Ah, but it made you smile.”

  “And that’s what you wanted?”

  Yeah, he realized, it was. “I’ve always liked your smile.” “You have?”

  “Evie, there are more sides to me than the one that preaches on Sunday.”

  “I knew it!”

  What did she think he was going to confess? “One of them is that I appreciate a beautiful woman.”

  “Even an unconventional one?”

  Now she was fishing. Fishing was good. A woman didn’t fish unless, in her mind, she’d already surrendered. He tapped the end of her nose. “Especially an unconventional one.” Grazing his fingers down her neck, he asked, “How about you? You’ve been studying hard on me. Did you like what you saw?”

  Indecision hovered in her eyes as she weighed the benefits of honesty versus those of a lie. He let her take her time, amusing himself by stroking his fingertips beneath the neckline of her gown, finding the slant of her collarbone, following it down to the hollow of her throat, teasing the nerve endings to life with brief, skimming touches, judging how much pressure to apply by the catch in her breath, the flicker of her eyelashes. Evie was definitely in the mood to be seduced. Finally, she swallowed and nodded.

  “Good.” He inched his hand lower, over the top curve of her breast, holding her gaze. Stopping just short of the soft peak, he felt the blush heat her skin, the rise of goose bumps, the subtle swelling that indicated softening elsewhere. “Then you have to know there’s more than enough wildness in me to welcome all the wildness you can throw at it.”

  He got to see a spark of that wildness right then. Her grip tightened on his shoulder an
d her head cocked to the side as she pulled him down. “Is that a dare?”

  “I’m sure as heck hoping you’ll take it as one.”

  Seven

  SHE MADE IT to the fourth button before she lost momentum.

  “Something wrong?” Brad asked, easing the ribbons of her peignoir free with a leisurely draw. Women were miracles of softness meant to be savored. Evie, with her soft skin, soft heart, and impulsive spirit, more so than most.

  “You’re just so much more compelling up close.” Her hands slipped between the lapels of his shirt and tangled in the wiry hair on his chest. “Seeing you from afar is just not the same.”

  The next ribbon slid from the eyelets in the lace without a whipser of protest, revealing more of that beautiful skin and the first hint of cleavage. The white satin, no more delicate than her flesh, trailed between her breasts in a shimmering stream. He folded the ribbon back on itself. A silky X to mark his spot. “As touching me, you mean?”

  Her lip slipped between her teeth. “Yes. The texture is so wonderful.”

  The statement wasn’t what he’d been expecting. Then again, Evie rarely did what he expected.

  “Remind me to talk to you about your technique.”

  “My technique is just fine. It’s just that you’re magnificent.”

  Another burst of laughter escaped. She was always making him laugh at moments he never thought he should. There was a certain clinical precision in the placement of her palms, the press of her fingers . . . “You wouldn’t be thinking about sculpting me, would you?”

  Her gaze flicked to his guiltily. “How did you know?”

  Leaning down, he brushed his mouth over hers, dawdling when her lips parted, accepting the invitation to repeat the caress. “You always get a certain look in your eyes when you’re contemplating immortalizing something.”

  She didn’t seem to get his hint, just kept alternating between petting and memorizing his torso, her fingers coming close to his nipples but never connecting. Promising, teasing, tormenting his chest, his abdomen, his chest again.

  “I’ve never sculpted anyone before.” Pushing him back, she worked her other hand inside the front of his shirt, that expression of intense concentration coming over her face again as her palms learned the shape of his right pectoral. “But you make me want to.”