by Reece Butler
Marci looked at Simon to interpret.
“It seems Lance is taking you swing dancing. I meant to take you, but not until I ditch this cast.” He lifted his foot, frowning at it. “Many of our friends and relatives will likely be there.” He flicked his eyes over her. The embers of want flickered into flames. “I’d suggest a knee-length skirt, snug top and boots. Garter belt and stockings if you have them.”
“I don’t. Jeans and socks will have to do,” she replied wryly.
“If you stay here, you’ll soon have them.”
She pretended she hadn’t heard Simon’s comment. She’d always wanted to dress that way at one of the boring parties thrown by Ted’s most senior boss. She’d put her long hair up in a bun like an old-style teacher or librarian. No one would know that under her skirt there was no barrier to her pussy. Just walking, having her pussy lips rub, would arouse her. It would make it easier to listen to the boring old men complain as they tried to look down her cleavage.
What would it be like to dance like that? How arousing would it be when your partner knew, and you knew, but no one else did? She loved to dance, not that she had much chance apart from lessons. Those lessons included the type of dancing Ted would never approve of. He’d suggested ballet to improve her posture but she chose belly dancing. It was great for her stomach muscles and core and a lot of fun. But tonight she’d be learning something new.
Nikki had brought a pair of cowboy boots that should fit her. Someone in town might recognize them as they came from the church donation box. It was no different than in third grade. She was the new, girl, again. A bigger girl had pointed to a tan-colored mark on Marci’s new dress. The girl had laughed and reminded her friends how she’d dropped chocolate sauce, and the stain was still there.
Once more, she’d been thoroughly humiliated, ashamed that she couldn’t afford clothes that had never been worn by others. She’d married Ted to escape that life. And now she was back to having nothing, and wearing hand-me-downs. But at least now it was her choice. She may feel embarrassed, but she was not going dancing in her old runners with a man wearing size-thirteen leather boots with toe-stomping heels.
A quick shower with her hair wrapped under a cap, clean clothes, and she was ready to go. She had no makeup or jewelry to fuss with, or much choice in clothing. It reduced her decision-making time. She left her slightly damp hair loose.
The new-to-her boots must have gotten wet and not been properly dried, as they were stiff. The soles were worn down, and the tops were well creased. Nikki had cleaned and polished them as best she could, but they still looked well beaten up. She sat on the edge of the bed and tried to shove her feet into the boots. After all Nikki had done, they were too small. She took a closer look at the faded ink inside the boot, and then groaned. They were a half size too small.
She threw them to the floor in frustration at missing an evening of dancing. Even if Lance didn’t stomp on her toes, he wouldn’t be able to stop half-drunk cowboys from tromping on her. Lance looked her over when she stomped into the kitchen in sock feet.
“I can’t go. They don’t fit,” she said bitterly, holding them out.
“They might. Cowboy boots fit differently,” said Simon.
“Sit,” said Lance.
He didn’t quite point at the chair with his finger as if she was a dog, but she still bristled at his command. She purposefully took an extra few seconds before sitting. To her surprise, Lance hunkered down at her feet. He ran his hands over her toes and under her arches. Then he held out his hand for the boots. He grimaced as he looked them over.
“Add boots to the list,” said Lance, looking over his shoulder at Simon.
“Got it,” replied Simon. He winked. “Marci also need heels, garter belts, and stockings.”
“No, I don’t!”
Lance squeezed her foot, getting her attention. She pointed her toe as he slid the left boot over her foot. He wiggled it a bit, but her heel didn’t go down. She didn’t say anything when he did the same to her right. He didn’t seem to be the type to take “I told you so” very well. He rose to his feet and held his hands out to her. She had no choice but to put her own in his and pull herself to her feet, where she wobbled. He switched his hands to her waist. Did he hold her a bit tighter than was necessary?
Simon pointed to the tops of her boots. “See these loops either side of your calf? Yank on them as you stomp.”
“I’ll fall down.”
Lance shifted, never letting go of her, until he stood behind her. His warm body, touching her from calves to head, made her shiver.
“Trust me.”
He expected her to bend over, pointing her bottom at his crotch, which was right behind her? She hesitated.
“No boots, no dancing,” said Lance.
He caressed her back cheek in an arousing manner. She’d bet dollars to donuts that swing dancing required a man to put his hands on a woman. And that Lance would use it to his advantage. But she was not going to miss a night of dancing because an arrogant jerk would be holding her.
Make that an arrogant, arousing, sexually provocative jerk.
“Since you ask me so politely, I’ll try it. This time,” she said, not bothering to hide her sarcasm.
She bent over. As expected, her butt rubbed up against a warm part of Lance’s body. Her face, and pussy, heated to match. She hooked her index fingers in the small loops either side of the top of the boot. It took some wiggling and stomping but she managed to get both feet in. They felt snug but not tight. They didn’t fit her foot shape, but she could stand it for the chance to dance.
All the wiggling against Lance’s body had her eager to do more than dance, but the rest of him was off limits. Simon as well.
“How will I get them off?”
“I’ll wait up for you and help you out of them, and anything else you need,” said Simon. He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.
“I will be sleeping upstairs from now on,” she forcefully declared. “Alone. With a lock on my door.”
“But you’ll miss me,” said Simon. “Remember what I can do to make you feel better? And what if you get a nightmare again?”
“I’ll manage.”
The glint of humor in his eyes set her teeth on edge. Did he think that she’d have sex with him while his brother slept upstairs? Or worse, did he think she’d just hop into bed with both of them tonight?
“You’ll leave me all alone down here?”
Simon tried a sad puppy look on her. Luckily, she preferred cats. She gave him a feral smile in return.
“You’ve been telling me how well you’re doing on your walking cast,” she said. “Now’s your chance to prove you can take care of yourself.”
She walked toward the back door, getting the feel of the boots. She began her provocative plan by moving slowly, emphasizing the sway of her hips. Simon choked.
“Those new jeans?”
Since she was facing the door, she let herself smile. “Do you like them?”
“Too much,” said Simon with a growl. “I don’t want half the county to be watching you dancing in them. They’re so tight if you put a dime in your back pocket I bet I could read the date on it from ten feet away.”
Nikki had suggested a bit of jealousy might stir the pot. Turns out her older sister had a few tricks up her sleeve, even if she didn’t have practical experience.
“Are you even wearing panties underneath?”
She turned over her shoulder to answer Simon. She gave him the wide smile she’d had to learn in order to defend herself from avaricious trophy wives.
“It doesn’t matter what I’m wearing underneath, or not, Simon. You won’t be finding out.”
She continued toward the door. She caught the toe of her boot on a chair leg and tripped. She squeaked and flailed, but Lance caught her by the hips. Once she was upright he slid his palms over her bottom and between her legs.
“Thong,” he said, giving her a knowing smile as he released her.
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Still tingling from where his fingers had brought fire, she huffed her fury and arousal at him.
“A gentleman wouldn’t have man-handled me!”
“I’m no gentleman. I’m a warrior,” said Lance with quiet intensity. “I handle my woman as I choose. Sometimes gentle, like now.” His eyes suddenly turned icy hot, his nostrils flared as if scenting her, and a wolfish smile of possession appeared. He focused his whole attention on her. It lasted for either a few seconds or an hour. All she knew was that time stood still. “And sometimes not.”
“If you’re going to get there before the tables are all taken, you’d best head out,” said Simon.
Marci jerked at his voice. A large, warm hand wrapped around her waist and guided her forward.
“Don’t be late. Chores start at five,” reminded Simon as Lance escorted her out the door. Before she could take a step off the porch Lance swept her into his arms.
“Put me down. I can walk,” she said, struggling to escape his intimate embrace.
“No.”
She stopped struggling to glower up at him. “What do you mean, no? I’m not a child, to be hauled around like a sack of potatoes!”
“You’re my woman. Tonight you’ll do what I say.”
She gasped at his calm belief that she’d accept it.
“Why should I? Just because you’re bigger and stronger than me and I can’t stop you? That sounds like a bully to me. Not a warrior.”
He stopped halfway to the truck. He dropped his head back and inhaled. Then he looked down at her. His eyes were hooded and dark.
“I can protect you better if you do what you’re told.”
“Protect me from what? Are there going to be poisonous snakes or bears where we’ll be dancing?”
He frowned at her broad sarcasm. “It’s easy to know snakes and bears in the wild because they don’t hide who they are, and warn you of their presence. But humans are worse, hiding their reality behind smiles and money. I’ve learned to sense them. Have you?”
Ted had hidden his slimy ways behind smiles and money, and she’d been caught. Back then she’d been in her own area. She didn’t know the people here, their traditions, or how what they thought was acceptable would make her cringe.
She dropped her eyes, shaking her head. He sighed and rested his chin on the top of her head.
“Will you trust me tonight, and do what I say?” he asked quietly.
“Yes.” It sounded so reasonable, and was only for tonight.
“Thank you,” he said.
He chuckled, which made her look up. With his strong chin and chiseled nose he would never be taken for a weak man.
“What’s funny about it?”
“I’ve never had a woman to show off.”
“Me?” She gaped at him. “I’m wearing someone else’s old clothes and boots, I have a scar across my face. I like to dance but I don’t even know one country singer’s music, much less how to dance to it!”
“I like how fill your clothes. I don’t give a damn about your scar, or that you’re wearing what you have. And,” he added with a wink, “I’m a good dancer, so you’ll learn real quick. And if you don’t, I’ll just hold you tighter.”
“I’ll step on your feet. That might hurt.”
He chuckled and tossed her in the air. She squawked, but he easily caught her again. “You barely weigh a buck ten. I’m double that. A few toe stompings won’t hurt me. Especially when the prettiest woman in the room is on my arm.”
She scowled. “How can you say that when you don’t even know who’s going to be there?”
He shrugged, eyes and white teeth shining from his dark face.
“You’re my woman. That says it all.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Lance drove with one palm resting on the wheel. The last time he felt this good he’d just helped a very expensive thoroughbred deliver a rare set of foals. The owner had been worried he’d lose all three animals but had trusted Lance’s word. Both colts had grown well, and were winning their fair share of races.
He wanted to help the sweet woman steaming beside him deliver their children. Her scent had already fused itself into his brain. He could track her with his eyes closed by following that sweetly enticing scent. A quick glance confirmed her arms were still crossed, her lips jammed together, and she looked out the side window rather than chance looking at him. He sensed that she was more uncertain of herself than angry at him. Either way, she was aroused.
So was he, and it hurt like hell. Forty years old and one look at Marci and he was ready to explode like a fourteen-year-old feeling up a girl for the first time. He’d had women, carefully chosen ones who knew the score and wanted to share comfort and enjoyment without permanence. None had affected him as much as the feisty little fox beside him.
“Done much dancing?” he asked.
He’d talked more tonight than he had all winter. He wasn’t a man for words, but he’d make the effort for Marci. Tonight would determine if she would bond with them, choosing to give herself to them, or not. He had to make it clear what he expected, and he had to learn what she wanted. As long as her needs didn’t contradict his, there would be no issue. She was complicated enough, and strong enough, that he expected a few issues to emerge.
“Not in public. My dead husband did not care to be touched. Nor did he want other men touching me.”
He got the implication that she didn’t want him to touch her, either. But he knew from the simmering heat blossoming from between her legs and her breasts that she was lying to herself. It was a case of protesting too much. She’d put enough frost in her voice to kill half the wildflowers blooming in the ditch.
His understanding was that the man Marci married had tried to destroy her. If he wasn’t already dead, Lance would have been tempted to take care of it.
“Did you kill him?”
He couldn’t have said why he asked the question. Things came to him. Usually he could hold the thought back but this time it escaped. Her head whipped around. She gasped, her eyes wide.
“Simon told you that?”
He felt waves of terror flow across the seat. If he was reading her right, she believed she had done it.
“Nope. I felt it coming from you.”
He crooked up the right corner of his mouth to reassure her. He’d been told he smiled like a hungry buzzard but he kept trying when it was important. Marci was important.
“You felt it? How?”
“My ancestors taught me to accept it without questioning the why or how. Some call it intuition.”
She blinked at him for a moment, then faced forward. He felt her terror ease. Was it his smile, or his explanation? Not that it was much of one, since few outsiders believed in such things. Most people refused to sense what could be there, preferring to see what was easy to accept.
“I contributed to it,” she finally said, mumbling into her chest. “If I hadn’t defended myself, my ashes would be filling a hole in the ground, rather than Ted’s.”
“That would have been a great pity. You are an intelligent woman with much to give. Climax will benefit from having you here, whether you marry or not.”
“At least you didn’t say I was pretty, as if that was all that matters.”
“You’re not pretty.” He waited for her to turn to him in surprise. “Pretty is like a flower that blooms for a day, and then fades. You have an inner beauty, one that improves with age.” He turned to her. “You’ll get wrinkles and age spots if you’re blessed to live that long. But they’re like colorful lichen growing on mountain rocks. They add to the beauty rather than mar the surface.”
She looked at him for a moment before answering. “You have an interesting way of looking at things. I don’t know if it’s a good thing that I understand, and agree with you.”
“Life, if embraced fully and with a clear heart, brings wisdom and depth of character. You’ve lived through sorrow. It’s given you a perspective that those who’ve only know
n joy, cannot appreciate. You can now choose to accept joy.”
“You figure a pair of MacDougals will bring me this joy?”
A laugh, rough and rare, broke past his usual barriers. She gave him a brisk nod, forcing him to acknowledge she’d won a point. He liked that she pushed back, questioning with humor and intelligence. She suited him well. A meek woman would never challenge him, making him work to keep his position.
He would choose to grow old with this woman. He would do whatever necessary for Marci to find him, and Simon, worthy of sharing her life.
He waited, letting things come to him while giving her time to relax and accept him. There was just the two of them, surrounded by the cool dark of a moonless spring night. He felt her tension ease. He didn’t need more than his eyes to know that, as her body language relaxed. She slouched in the seat and set her right boot on the glove box.
“I hear you desperately need a son,” she said, her tone challenging him. “Aren’t you afraid that a woman accused of murdering her husband might do the same to you, or your children?”
“I’m not afraid of anything, Marci.”
He liked the way her name flowed over his tongue. He was sure he’d like the way she tasted even more, but that was for later. Much later, unfortunately.
“You being so big and strong is an advantage. People like me know a lot about fear.”
She flung the words at him like bullets. He didn’t mind. She would not be attacking him this way if she feared him, or if she was uninterested.
“Size doesn’t matter as much as smarts, and fear is useless,” he replied. “I either do, or do not. Worrying about it serves no purpose.”
“Lucky you,” she shot back. “A million dollars and some very good lawyers might keep you out of prison. Your size and strength would protect you if you ended up there. I don’t have any of those advantages. All I have is a sister.”
She slumped sideways, once more looking into the night.
“Not anymore,” he replied softly. “No matter what happens, you have me and Simon. Donny, Keith, and Aggie are singing your praises as well. The rest of the valley will follow, given time.”
