Never Love a Lawman

by Jo Goodman

  She had a vague recollection of sitting at the table after he left the room. It explained the stiffness she felt in her neck upon waking. “I don’t suppose you considered helping me to the couch.”

  “Considered. I realized I’m just not that cruel.”

  “Then you didn’t consider it for yourself.”

  “Too short. Too narrow. Too hard.”

  Rachel smiled. “It’s all of those things.”

  “You shouldn’t have been sleeping there.”

  She didn’t reply, merely continued to study him.

  “It’s the couch that gave you away,” he told her. When she frowned, he went on. “The fact that you were so careful to put away the linens each morning before anyone arrived, it made me realize that you didn’t want anyone to know that we weren’t sharing this bed.”

  “It could have been because I didn’t want someone to pick up after me.”

  “No. In the beginning, when it made sense for you to sleep elsewhere because I was so fevered, you didn’t bother.”

  “I slept in a chair, Wyatt. Your memory isn’t entirely reliable.”

  He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter where you slept then. It matters what you were trying to hide later. I’m right about that.” He gave her an opportunity to deny it, but she offered nothing. “Why didn’t you tell me that everyone knew we were married, Rachel? Why did I have to figure it out on my own?”

  She stared at him. “You really don’t know?”

  Wyatt said he didn’t, but as soon as the words were out, he wondered if he’d lied. “You wanted to avoid this.”

  “This?”

  “This.” Edging closer, he brushed her lips with his. “And this.” His fingertips ran along the length of her thigh, and his palm came to rest on her hip. “Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  He had to strain to hear her. “But you didn’t leave when you woke.”

  She shook her head. “I seem to be of two minds.”

  “Which one wants to kiss me?”

  “This one.” Then she leaned into him and gave him her mouth.

  He kissed her with great care, testing them both with the gentleness of it, with the slow exploration. Her lips were pliant under his, sensitive to the slightest flicker of his tongue or change in the angle of his mouth. He tasted her at his leisure, drawing on her moist lower lip, running his tongue along the ridge of her teeth. He rubbed his lips against hers. She made a pass across his upper lip with the tip of her tongue that made him shudder.

  “Wyatt?” She inched away to gauge his reaction.

  He drew her right back. “Fine.” His voice was thick and a little gritty, like honey poured over sand. “I’m fine. More than fine.”

  “Mmm.” She kissed the corner of his mouth, worked his lips open with her tongue. She fed on him, sucking on his lower lip, feasting on his mouth. Under the covers, she found his hand on her hip and lifted it to her waist. It settled there warmly but didn’t move. She determinedly deepened the kiss, acting first as the aggressor, then as an equal in their play.

  He turned his head slightly, and his lips pressed against her cheek. He kissed her jaw, her neck, and sipped on the tender skin of her throat. She edged closer, blindly seeking the fit that she knew was possible. Her knees bumped his. She nudged him again, more insistent this time, but he frustrated her efforts.

  “What do you want, Rachel?” His mouth was at the curve of her ear. He felt the tremor in her body, the catch in her breathing. His teeth caught her earlobe and tugged. “Hmm?”

  “Closer,” she said on a thread of sound. “I want to be closer.”

  Wyatt’s palm slid from her waist to the small of her back and jerked her hard against him. Her hips came flush to his, cupping his erection with the natural cradle of her thighs. There was room suddenly for one of her legs to move between his. Her breasts flattened against his chest. His hand moved from her back to the curve of her bottom. He pressed her closer, and her hips stirred, circled, and finally arched into him.

  She bit her lip to keep from crying out. He caught the movement and turned his attention to her mouth again. The kiss was long and slow and deep. He fought back urgency in favor of savoring the sweetness in each of her languorous kisses. Her lips were wet; her mouth warm. All of her moved against him with languid, liquid ease.

  He rolled onto his back and turned her so that she lay full against him. Her hair fell forward over her shoulders. Strands of it caught in the stubble of his beard and tickled his neck, and for no particular reason that he could name, this tangle of hair and inconvenient tickle struck him as oddly amusing.

  Rachel felt the vibration in his chest before she felt it against her lips. She broke the kiss, lifted her head, and stared down at him as his mouth twisted in a wry smile. The laughter was silent.

  “I’m doing it wrong, aren’t I?” she said.

  “Wrong? No. Lord, no.” He blew away a tendril of her hair that swept across his mouth when she turned her head. The puff of air wasn’t all that was required, and he had to brush away some of the strands with his fingertips. “Come here,” he said. “Bend your head a little.” When she did, he threaded his fingers deeply into her hair and deftly braided it into a thick plait. He tossed the rope of hair back over her shoulder, raised his head, and pressed a swift kiss against her bewildered smile. “It’ll hold,” he whispered. “Give me your mouth.”

  She did. Cautious of his healing injuries, she made a careful exploration with her fingers across his shoulders, but what she was really doing was holding on. Her fingers pressed into his upper arms, while he palmed her buttocks and squeezed.

  Her stomach retracted as the cadence of her breathing changed. She eased away from the kiss to press her lips against his throat. She felt the thrum of his pulse against her lips. His hands were under her chemise now and sliding slowly up her spine. It was as if he were urging her on, though she didn’t know to what exact purpose. She raised herself up, her knees falling to either side of his hips, and stared down at him. His fingertips glided up and down her spine. He said nothing.

  Rachel reached for the hem of her chemise and pulled it over her head.

  Chapter Ten

  Rachel’s bold, almost defiant gesture was of the moment. Shock followed, and she immediately crossed her arms in front of her breasts. Wyatt’s gaze didn’t veer from her face. She stared back at him, uncertainty mingling with regret.

  He lightly curled his fingers around her wrists. “It’s too cold outside the covers,” he said. “Come here.” Then, instead of drawing her arms out of their shielding position, he drew her down. She dropped her guard and clung to him, and when they rolled together, this time she was on her back.

  Wyatt supported most of his weight using his good shoulder and arm, but his injured side held him with little strain. He raised himself enough for Rachel to unfasten the buttons on his shirt. She slipped her hands under the material. The muscles in his back tensed as she ran her palms along either side of his spine.

  Wyatt bent his head, teased her lips once, then worked his way to the hollow of her throat. He followed the line of her collarbone to her shoulder. Her fingers stilled on his back as he moved lower. When his mouth closed over her pink-tipped breast, he felt her breath seize. Her nipple budded as he flicked it with his tongue. He worried it with his lips until she drew deeply on the air she’d been denying herself.

  Her back arched, and her heels dug into the mattress. She drew her hands out from under his shirt and caught him at the back of his head. Her fingertips stroked and fluttered in his hair. She closed her eyes. Ribbons of heat that had wound tightly in her breast began to uncurl. Her flesh swelled. He laved her areola with his tongue, then drew a damp line to her other breast. She tugged on the curling ends of his hair, guiding him, then holding him. The hot suck of his mouth made her womb pulse. She felt herself responding to him from the inside out, learning things about her body because of what he made her feel.

  The contraction between h
er thighs made her aware not of how he would claim her, but of how she would welcome him. And she would welcome him. She was already damp, and his erection was pressing for entry. Her hips ground against him as she sought relief in the most elemental way. She raised her knees on either side of him and crossed her ankles over the backs of his thighs.

  The position was achingly familiar. She could almost feel the scaly patches of bark at her back and catch the lingering scent of pine. Lying under him was infinitely more comfortable, more secure, and ultimately, more satisfying. She tested their fit, pushing against him.

  He pushed back.

  Rachel pressed her lips together; her moan remained trapped at the back of her throat. Wyatt reared up, abandoning her breast in favor of her mouth, urging it open under his and kissing her until she gave up the cry that was meant to be his.

  “That’s what I want,” he whispered against her mouth. “But not all that I want.” He tore at the tabs on her drawers, loosening them. Her fingers were searching for the drawstring to his. Each time she rubbed her knuckles against his skin he felt as if he might come out of it. “God, Rachel. Oh, sweet…” Behind him, her ankles unlocked. Her fingers scrabbled to tug at his drawers. He caught her hands, pushed them aside, and breathing hard, reined himself in.

  Rachel caught fistfuls of the sheet to keep her hands from wandering. It was all she could do to restrain herself from touching him. “Are you going to leave me?”

  He blinked. His voice rough, he said, “A twenty-mule team couldn’t drag me out of here.”

  “Oh.” She started to reach for him again, but he blocked her.

  “I need a moment, or I’ll—” He stopped, just shook his head. “Trust me.”

  She had to. She had no experience to draw on. “You know I was never Mr. Maddox’s mistress, don’t you?”

  “I know.” He brushed her lips. “You could have told me when I asked.”

  Rachel averted her eyes, shrugged.

  “It’s all right.” He kissed her again. “Later.” He slipped his hand under her drawers, felt her inhale sharply, and cupped her mons. His fingertips slid easily between her damp lips. She made a grab for his wrist, but when he didn’t move again, she let her hands fall away. He watched her face, saw the shadow of uncertainty that crossed it. He waited her out, as he always did, and with the same deliberation and exquisite timing that he applied to drawing his gun, Wyatt drew his fingers across her clitoris.

  It might as well have been a trigger.

  She jerked, sucked in a breath. Her hands fisted in the sheet again. Her mouth parted. The steady stroking of his fingers was a caress, and something more. His touch was insistent, relentless. There was pressure, almost infinitesimal at first, then gradually increasing and unavoidable.

  Rachel felt the inexorable rise of tension in her body. It swept her up; caused her to lift her hips, press herself against his hand. There was heat there, and the first inklings of pleasure.

  He slipped two fingers inside her. She might have cried out except that his mouth found hers again. The thrust of his tongue matched the rhythm of his fingers. He felt the give of her body, the thrum and twitch of arms and legs vibrating with pleasure.

  He gave her no time to wonder at it. Removing his hand, he moved over her and settled solidly between her thighs. He fumbled with his drawers, released his cock. Taking her by the wrist, he drew her hand between them. Her fingers splayed and curled tentatively around his erection. She regarded him warily, her eyes a fraction wider than they’d been a moment earlier.

  He pressed forward, nudging her open. She hardly knew that she was guiding him. His entry startled her. She wanted to draw a deeper breath; wanted a moment’s respite. He gave her neither.

  Rachel released him. Her hand settled at his back. Her fingertips pressed whitely against his skin as he seated himself inside her. She sucked in her bottom lip and caught it with her teeth. Her dark eyes captured her wince.

  Knowing that he hurt her, Wyatt held himself still. She held him so snugly that it was almost impossible not to move. An involuntary tremor seized him, a sharp pleasure response that made him think he would not be able to wait any longer for her to accommodate him.

  Rachel saw the restraint he imposed on himself in the taut line of his jaw and the muscles working in his lean cheeks. His eyes were heavy lidded, yet watchful. The centers were dark and wide, stamped with desire. His beautiful mouth was slightly parted as he drew uneven breaths. The familiar, vaguely secretive smile was absent.

  “You can have me now,” she whispered.

  And so he did.

  Wyatt’s hips lifted. He withdrew, thrust again, and rocked her back. She clutched his shoulders and pressed her knees against him. He carried her with his movement, and she rose and fell, matching his rhythm. She contracted around him, trying to hold him each time he drew back, blurring the distinction between pleasure and pain. He groaned softly, drove deeper.

  Rachel felt heat spark and spin. Certain now of where it would lead, she wanted more. His face hovered above hers. His body strained. Her breasts were achingly tender, the rosy aureoles puckered around her nipples. When he touched her, it was almost too much to bear, and she found that it wasn’t yet quite enough. Short of being inside his skin, making his experience her own, she didn’t know what would be enough.

  She grasped at the pleasure he seemed to keep just beyond her reach, certain this time she would not be denied.

  She wasn’t.

  Her back arched. Her heels dug deep. Every part of her body was engaged in free fall as Wyatt pushed her over the edge. He followed her almost immediately, and she felt his response shudder through her, and knew it to be as powerful as her own. He buried his face in the curve of her neck as his injured shoulder finally gave way. His hips still stirred against her. She cradled him with her body, and there, between her thighs, she held him closer.

  Only moments passed before Wyatt was aware of his weight pressing on her. He remembered the clumsy way he had collapsed when his shoulder couldn’t support him. Biting back a curse, he started to draw back.

  At the first indication that he was going to leave her, Rachel’s hands tightened. The movement was merely a reaction, but it became purposeful when he tried to ignore her. A sound that she recognized as distress rose from the back of her throat.

  “I’m crushing you,” Wyatt said.

  She shook her head. “You’re not.” It wasn’t entirely true, and if there had been more light in the room he would have seen her flush at the lie. She didn’t want him to leave her just yet, though the explanation for it was not fully formed in her own mind. She couldn’t have offered it to him.

  What he did was turn on his side, pulling her with him so they remained joined. The swiftness of his move startled Rachel. There was a moment of awkwardness as their legs tangled and their arms sought new positions. He kept her hips flush to his by pressing one hand just below the small of her back.

  Wyatt shut his eyes as an unexpected shudder swept through him, this one riding the knife’s edge of sweet pain. “Don’t move.”

  The guttural roughness of his voice had an effect on Rachel opposite of his words. She could not stay the quiver that began at the back of her neck, tripped lightly down her spine, and radiated outward to her fingers and toes.

  He clamped down on the curse that came to his lips and kissed her hard instead. When he drew back, they both needed to catch their breath.

  “Are you all right?” Rachel asked, carefully exploring his shoulder with her fingertips.

  It should have been his question to her, he thought, but she found her voice first. “Fine.” He tried to shake off her hand, but she was insistent.

  “And here?” she said, slipping her hand between their bodies and laying her palm over his chest wound.

  “I’m fine, Rachel. You won’t have to stitch me up again.” He regretted his terse, clipped tone even before he saw the shadow cast by hurt cross her features. His apology didn’t come quickly
enough. She’d withdrawn her hand as though scalded and was offering a hasty apology that also should have been his.

  He let her go on because it seemed important to her, but when she fell silent, he simply shook his head. “Is it so different now?” he asked. “You used to stand up to me.”

  Searching his face, her own expression uncertain, she didn’t respond.

  “I don’t like to be coddled, Rachel. No, don’t apologize again. Tell me I’m an ass, or at least that I’ve been behaving like one, and we’ll be done with it.”

  “Until the next time,” she said. “You’ll be an ass again.”

  He smiled with only one corner of his mouth as if it pained him to lift the other. “I’m sure I will.” This time when he began to ease away from her, she let him go. He found it strangely disappointing.

  Wyatt tugged at his drawers, righting himself, and threw back the covers. He slipped out of bed and went to the bathing room. When he came out a few minutes later, carrying a basin, pitcher, and washcloth, Rachel was already sitting up in bed. She looked at what he had in his arms and immediately got to her feet. Correctly gauging his intent, she crossed the room and took possession of everything.

  “I don’t like to be coddled, either,” she said. She walked determinedly past him into the bathing room and shut the door sharply with the heel of her foot.

  Wyatt stared at the closed door for a full minute after she was gone, then shook his head, largely in admiration, and returned to bed. When Rachel reappeared she was wearing a nightgown and her braid had been neatly replaited and secured with a narrow emerald-green ribbon. Her cheeks were rosy from the scrubbing she’d given them, and her eyes were bright. She met his gaze unwaveringly, though he thought she might have held it to prove something to herself as much as to him. Her smile, slight as it was, seemed forced.

  He watched her veer toward the armoire. “Leave your robe,” he said. “Come back to bed.”

  “Sir Nigel always sends someone to inquire about breakfast.” She opened the doors of the armoire. “They’ll be here soon. I’d prefer to be decent.” Her fingers hesitated on the shoulder of her own flannel robe; then she passed it by, and on impulse, selected his. The sleeves fell almost to her fingertips. She rolled them back as she crossed to the window, aware of Wyatt watching her. She hoped he was confused by her choice. She certainly was.