“All you need to do, moonbeam, is push back.”
She didn’t want to push back, she wanted to come. Another swat, this one harder, and not so teasing. She clenched down instead. It hurt, but in a good way. It was indescribable. It was wonderful. She did it again.
“Goddamn it, Sally Mae.” Tucker’s hand fastened into her hair as he pulled her head back. The light sting in her scalp was just one more pleasure to a body drowning in it. With a moan, he drove those last few inches in, until he pressed his balls against the wet pad of her pussy. Grinding his cock into her sensitive ass, the hot flood of his seed soothed her raw flesh. Wild with need, she reached back and grabbed his thighs and pulled him closer, trying to get more, wiggling back for more. “Tucker!”
“Oh God…take it then.” He pulled all the way out, leaving her empty for a split second. Deft fingers removed the clamp a second before he flipped her over. As she tumbled back, he caught her leg, holding it high. The next spurt landed on her sensitive clit, leaving it awash in pleasure.
“Come for me, moonbeam.”
She arched into the sensation, even as his cock claimed her ass again. The burn of possession combined with the return of feeling to her clit was too much. She exploded, screaming into the pillow, bucking back, her body open and vulnerable, her soul open. Tucker rested over her, taking his weight on his elbows, his hips just grinding against hers as if he, too, felt the need to be closer, get closer. To be inside her the way she wanted to be inside him.
After a minute he asked, “You all right?”
She shook her head. She didn’t know. Her clit throbbed as if the orgasm he’d just given her was not enough. Her ass clenched around his cock, milking it. One orgasm wasn’t enough. She lied to spare herself the embarrassment of being overeager. “Yes.”
His chuckle drifted across her cheek. “Liar. This sweet little body isn’t near done.”
His withdrawal was no easier than his initial entry. Even softening, he was still a very big man. He worked his cock out by degrees, letting her catch her breath when just the head was inside her. His hand tested the point of their joining, slid across and up to her swollen clit. He circled it once, twice. She couldn’t bite back her cry. He pressed a kiss to the inside of her calf.
“Goddamn, I’m tempted to keep you always wet with my seed.”
Oh, yes! She pressed up as he pulled out, leaving her clenching on air when she wanted to be squeezing him.
“No.” He couldn’t leave her like this, with the flames licking at her control and her body crying for more of his.
“Easy.” His finger slipped inside her, stirring the embers again.
Kissing his way down her leg, he didn’t stop until he was kneeling in front of her. Looking down her torso, she saw him part the outer lips of her pussy, exposing the pink and swollen inner folds and her clit, sitting hard and hungry above. He leaned in. She grabbed his hair, holding him back. She was too sensitive. His slightest touch would be too much.
“Shh, baby. Let me. It’s going to be a good month before I get back here again, and I need this.”
A month? That was forever. Forever without his kiss, his touch, his mouth. Oh lands, she wanted his mouth but…“I’m too—”
“Sensitive,” he finished for her, sliding his finger in and out of her ass in an easy rhythm. With a butterfly caress, his tongue curled around her clit, surrounding it tenderly. He waited until the apprehension left her before he started to suck in the same gentle rhythm that he used on her ass.
“Come for me, Sally.” The order flowed across her eager nerve endings with the devastating power of a stroke. His thumb tucked against her pussy with a tenderness that was as devastating as his passion of before. He gave her pleasure, keeping her so full she didn’t have an empty place inside. There was just him and her and the beauty they created together. And this time, when she came, it was for him. And herself.
10
“You need to be careful.”
Sally looked up from her list. Peter Bloom, the shopkeeper, stood in the entrance to the back room, looking at her from beneath his heavy eyebrows. If he was about to warn her about Tucker, it was the fifth warning she’d received this week. Apparently, along with the town’s realization that her mourning period should come to an end, came a nervousness about with whom she intended to end it. “Of what?”
“That Indian.”
She placed her list on the front counter. “Thee will have to be more specific.”
There were plenty of other men in town whose skin betrayed their mixed heritage. Of course, she knew he was talking about Tucker. She just wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of letting on. Bigotry was a way of life. It had been six weeks since Tucker had ridden out of town with Tracker and Shadow to look for Ari, and she’d become very aware of how deeply it was ingrained in this community. She mentally sighed. A relationship with Tucker would never be possible here. It might not be possible anywhere, even if he could not give up the violence she sensed had begun to weary him, but it could not occur here.
“That uppity Ranger.”
Uppity? She’d called Tucker plenty of things—arrogant, decisive, intimidating—but uppity? No. She cocked her head to the side. “You mean Mr. McCade?”
“He’s a dangerous man.”
“In the stories I’ve heard, he’s a hero.”
“Huh.” He snorted. His beady eyes narrowed. “He spends an awful lot of time over to your place.”
Sally Mae had often thought the way Peter’s eyebrows nearly met over his muddy-green eyes was indicative of his narrow-mindedness. His accusation was just proof that she was right.
“He sleeps in the barn.”
“It ain’t right, what with your husband being dead and all.”
It wasn’t right that her husband was dead. It wasn’t right that her parents had been killed. It wasn’t right that a good man like Tucker wasn’t seen for what he was. “My husband hired him to help around the place and to provide me with protection.” The latter was a lie, but it was an excuse Peter would believe. “With Jonah’s death, I was afraid to be alone and kept him on.”
There was a scuffling sound a few feet from the corner. There was no mistaking the brown-stained, slouchy hat she could just make out over the row of canned goods. “As Lyle pointed out last week, it’s not safe for a woman to live alone,” Sally Mae added, as if Lyle’s threat had actually been an expression of concern.
Peter made a sound between spitting and snorting. Probably choking on his wad of chewing tobacco. It was a disgusting habit.
“It still ain’t right.”
“I didn’t notice thee saying anything when Lyle recuperated in my house.”
Peter scoffed and spit tobacco juice at a spittoon in the corner. It hit with a repulsive clang. “Lyle was near death’s door. The Indian’s healthy.”
And more of a man than Peter would ever be, no matter how much he sought the truth that came with the inner light. It was an uncharitable thought. Sally Mae didn’t care. “And I, for one, am grateful for that.” She included both men in her glance. “There are some elements in this town that make a woman afraid to be alone.”
Peter stepped up to the other side of the counter and set the box he was carrying on the polished wood top. The corner covered half of her list. “All the more reason for you to be careful of your reputation. Doctoring the sick is a man’s job.”
Sally Mae’s temper slipped another notch. “If the men of Lindos could take care of the rabid element in this town, we would have a man doing the job. Unfortunately, there seems to be a lack of capable men.” She tugged her list free, turned it and slid it across the counter. “That being the case, I feel safer knowing there’s a Texas Ranger bedding down in my barn.”
“I thought you didn’t hold with violence?”
“I don’t believe in violence, but I believe in preventative measures, and I believe Mr. McCade’s reputation is strong enough to dissuade the most persistent of miscreants.”
“A husband would be better protection,” Lyle said.
Sally Mae barely restrained herself from rolling her eyes as Lyle sauntered closer. Lyle’s insistence that she should accept his suit had not diminished with his departure from her house. She had no interest in the man. It wasn’t so much the fact that he was overweight, but the fact that he was lazy. Sally Mae had no use for lazy men.
“I’m still in mourning for my husband. Entertaining the suit of another would be sacrilegious and disrespectful.”
Lyle leaned his elbow against the counter, standing closer than was decent, his gaze taking a leisurely path from her head to her toes. “You can’t be in mourning forever.”
She could if she was clever.
“I owe my husband the respect he deserves. He was a good man.”
Peter grunted and ripped open the box. “He was that.”
He started taking out cans and putting them on the counter. Beets. Can after can of beets. She sighed. She’d been hoping this week’s shipment would include peas. She’d woken up this morning with a taste for them. Unfortunately, her garden wouldn’t come in for another month.
She gave her list another nudge. Peter took it this time. Unfortunately, Lyle wasn’t so good at taking hints.
“Mourning periods aren’t that long out here.”
She moved a step away as his body odor encompassed her. Her palms grew damp, the way they always did when she was nervous. She didn’t know why she was nervous. These two weren’t anything to make a woman scared. Maybe it was the way they looked at her. Or maybe it was the bigger truth they represented. She was going to have to do something soon to change her position as she feared tolerance for her mourning period was over. At least in the men’s eyes. That was going to be a problem.
Peter started grabbing items off the shelves, putting them in the box he’d just emptied. “You got enough fresh meat?” he asked. “I’ve got some venison hanging out back I can sell you.”
“I thank thee, but Mr. McCade keeps me supplied as part of his payment for the bed in the barn.”
“He’s been gone for quite a spell.”
“He keeps the smokehouse full.”
“Any idea when he’s coming back?”
She didn’t like the look in Peter’s eyes or the way Lyle seemed to hang in anticipation on the answer, so she lied. She was doing a lot of that lately. “I imagine any day now, which reminds me, could thee add a pound of coffee beans to the list?”
“No wonder he’s getting uppity. The man’s living pretty high off the hog for an Injun.” Lyle sneered.
Sally bit her tongue. One whiff of how uppity Tucker was being and there would be no safe place for him in the state, but it did gall her, having to bite her tongue when such a small man said such small things.
“An awful lot of sugar in this order,” Peter commented.
She forced a smile. “It’s my birthday this week. I’m going to indulge in a cake, to celebrate.”
“I’m all for indulging,” Lyle hinted.
Peter smiled. It seemed genuine. “Well, happy birthday then.”
She ignored Lyle. “Thank you.”
“How old will you be?” Lyle asked.
She didn’t turn to look at him. Everything about the man made her skin crawl. She’d treated him because that was the way—do no harm, help when thee can. But it was harder with some people than it was with others.
“That’s not a question a man asks a lady,” Peter snapped.
“It ain’t as if she’s fresh off the vine,” Lyle retorted.
No, she wasn’t, which meant she wasn’t fooled by pretty compliments or cowed by veiled innuendo and implied intimidation.
“It’s fine, Mr. Bloom.” She met Lyle’s gaze directly. “I’m twenty-six.”
Peter tallied the order and told her the price. Reaching into her reticule, Sally Mae pulled out the last of her precious coins. Jonah’s savings had been slight. He’d always said God would provide, and she’d expected him to provide through Jonah because Jonah had been a very good man and God had rewarded him constantly. But Jonah had died and everything had changed, and she wasn’t as good at commanding a steady income as Jonah had from his doctoring skills. Placing the coins on the counter, she pulled the box toward her. “Thank thee very much.”
“There’s a social this Saturday,” Peter mentioned. “Are you going?”
“I don’t think so.” She’d only attended one social since Jonah’s passing. And look what had come of that.
“There’d be plenty of men there willing to dance with you,” Peter said, something in his gaze making her uneasy again.
“I’m not interested in dancing.” She picked up the box and turned. Lyle blocked her way.
“I’d be first in line.”
The same look was in his eyes as Peter’s. She flinched as realization dawned. Lust. They lusted after her. And Peter was a married man!
“It wouldn’t be right.” She could tell from the flash of anger in Lyle’s eyes that her mourning excuse was wearing thin. She was going to have to make some decisions sooner than she had expected. “But I thank thee.”
Lyle didn’t move. The rank aroma of body odor swept over her. Practically ripping the box from her arms, he said, “I’ll carry that for you.”
She had no choice but to say, “I thank thee,” and follow. Feeling very conspicuous, she walked down the street in Lyle’s wake. Lyle didn’t slow when the wood walk ended, just kept on as if the mud from last night’s rain wasn’t a deterrent. And maybe for him it wasn’t, but she wasn’t used to wearing grime like new shoes. She stopped at the edge. Someone had placed a board over a muddy rut. The hard soles of her shoes clicked across the rough surface, making hollow sounds that were so conspicuous she felt like everyone was watching and speculating why Lyle Hartsmith was carrying her purchases.
She took a breath to stabilize the frustration roiling inside. She hated being manipulated. And that was exactly what Lyle was doing. Manipulating her in such a way as to give the impression that she favored his suit. Hazel stepped out of her house and stood in the doorway. Her only reaction to the sight was the slow twist of her hands in her apron. A woman had to be practical out here. No doubt she’d decided Sally Mae had reached the end of her resources and no doubt the gossip would start as soon as she turned the corner. Why did everything have to be so complicated lately?
“So, what you think?”
Sally Mae blinked. How long had Lyle been talking to her? “About what?”
“Going for a picnic with me this Sunday.”
She looked at the girth of his belly. Preparing a picnic for Lyle would take her all morning. And no doubt add another layer of fat to the layer he already had. She couldn’t help but compare him to Tucker. It would probably take her a day and a half to cook enough food to fill Tucker’s big frame, but it would all probably go to muscle. She remembered how defined the muscle was. Sharp cuts stretching over the bone without an ounce of softness anywhere. Tucker needed to eat more. She smiled, imagining his reaction if she told him he needed softening. Lyle mistook her smile for agreement.
“Good, then we’re settled on Sunday.”
Oh, heck. “I’m afraid I’m not free Sunday.”
“Your religious teachings forbid you to socialize on Sunday?” He didn’t give her a chance to reply. “Because I’ve heard some newfangled religions have lots of strict rules about things like that.”
She didn’t waste her breath telling him there was nothing newfangled about her beliefs. She could, however, use his misconceptions. “They do have that.”
He gave her a strange look, but didn’t say anything.
Two men leaning against the side of the saloon straightened and touched their hat brims as she passed. The speculation in their eyes did nothing to take the edge off her anger. It was a shame she was against violence, because she would love to hit Lyle on the back of his arrogant head. Or kick him in his broad posterior. With one miserable move he’d sha
ttered the illusion that had worked to protect her for a year. She fumed the rest of the way to her home.
At last they reached her house. With a complete disregard for the flowerpot hanging from the gate, Lyle kicked it open. She’d just painted that gate last week. His boot left a black smudge. He stood to the side. “After you.”
To squeeze through, she’d have to brush against his belly. That was not an option. She gave Lyle her most congenial smile. “Thee first. The box must be heavy.”
She could tell from the way he was breathing, and the sweat on his florid face, that carrying the package had taken its toll. He puffed out his chest as if she couldn’t see the redness of his face or the sweat on his brow. “Doesn’t weigh a thing.”
Riding on his lie and his delusion that he was impressing her, he headed up the path. Taking another breath, holding on to her patience with an effort, she wrinkled her nose at the stench of sweat. New mixed with old. Lyle was not fastidious about his personal hygiene.
When he got to the porch, he looked expectant. She gritted her teeth. From the way he planted his feet and shifted his weight he wasn’t a budging off her porch easily. Holding out her hands, she reached the box. “Thank thee very much.”
“I’ll take it in for you.”
There was no way she was letting him into her house again. “That’s not necessary. I thank thee.”
The coldness and her voice had no effect on his determination. If anything, his tone just got more insinuating.
“On a morning like this, a glass of lemonade wouldn’t go amiss.”
She ignored the hint and practically wrestled the box out of his arms. “Do they serve it at the saloon?”
His eyes narrowed. She wished she hadn’t made that a question.
“I don’t know.” He reached for the doorknob. As quickly as she could, she stepped between him and the door, using the wooden box as leverage. Still, his fingers managed to brush her hip. Another mistake. His eyes narrowed more and a small smile curved his mouth. Oh, no.
“I can always do without the lemonade.”
“I wouldn’t want thee to.” Hitching the box on her hip, she fumbled behind her for the knob.
Tucker’s Claim Page 15
