Chapter 12
Blade prayed Stormy didn’t notice his stumble over the word ‘my.’
He never should have taken Candy on that carriage ride past his family’s mansion. Patrick was born ten months later, which meant she’d stopped taking her herbs right after that excursion.
Not knowing if he was Patrick’s father haunted him. Even worse was the fear she’d bedded a more virile steamer rat after he shipped out two weeks later.
“How would this madam know the names of your niece and nephew?” Stormy’s brow arched keenly.
He exhaled with relief. “She said she had a telegram in her valise at the hotel. I told her to make it quick.”
“So, you took her to your room?”
She knows? Barely masking his shock, his mind tackled this new puzzle. Someone at the hotel must have snitched to Vance. He should have seen this coming.
He should have seen a lot of things coming.
Stormy rubbed her arms as if to warm them.
“You’re cold.” He took off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. “That cape is pretty, but it’s thin.”
“Don’t change the subject.” She glared at him, but didn’t shrug off the jacket. “You couldn’t wait to get Purdy to your room.”
“She had a telegram addressed to Vance from a private investigator in St. Louis agreeing to investigate my family.”
“Did this investigator have a name?” Stormy looked skeptical.
“E. Peabody. He listed their ages and where they go to school. Natalie’s dance tutor and Patrick’s fencing coach.”
“Why would Vance investigate you? You’re just a cowboy who grew up in a city. And, how would Purdy get her hands on this wire?”
“The teletype agent knew she was bringing a carriage of girls up for Founders Day.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“The agent has a standing appointment.”
“For sex,” she said. “He decided to cut the delivery time by having Purdy deliver the wire.”
“You’re right.” Someday, he’d explain that he’d paid Purdy to pump the agent for any transmissions mentioning his family. He wanted to tell Stormy everything. He just had to figure out how.
Stormy looked pleased with herself as she stood on one foot and skimmed her shoe back and forth through the top of the grass. In the moonlight, she looked like a mischievous pixie, preparing to fly off after stealing his heart.
She was everything he’d want in a wife—smart, direct, honest, full of piss and purpose. She loved her land and her way of life, and he did, too, but gazing at her under the star-filled sky, he realized he was wrong to want it all for himself.
The Hawkins ranch wouldn’t be the same without her and her father. They were as much part of the land as the cows and the grass. They hadn’t asked him to leave, despite his probing and wouldn’t-you-like-to questions. Instead, they’d embraced him. Welcomed him to stay.
Stormy hadn’t, though. When she wasn’t avoiding him, she was downright peevish.
All his life he’d had a way with women. From his mother’s high-society friends, to bar maids and whores working Missouri River docks, to the widows and wives of ranchers.
Stormy was the exception. She’d charmed him. Since their ride home from putting in Albert Schultz’s good-for-nothing bull, his johnson had wagged like an excited dog’s tail. He’d whacked his thumb more than once when nailing barbed wire because he’d been speculating if her puss hair was as red-gold as the brows over her clear blue eyes.
“Will Purdy give the investigator’s letter to Vance?”
“I’m sure she will. The telegraph agent could lose his job.” Not wanting to think about what Vance might do after Purdy delivered his telegram in the morning, Blade stepped behind Stormy and began to knead her shoulders. He moved his fingers in deft, rhythmic circles along the base of her neck as he imagined how silky her skin would feel under the work-roughened pads of his thumbs.
“Mmm.” She moaned with pleasure. “Maybe Vance will leave it be now. You are who you are, and you can’t pick your family.”
His heart beat a cadence that put every part of his body on alert.
She leaned back against him and rolled her shoulders as if she was trying to shake out a kink.
“Where does it hurt?” he asked softly.
“The top of my head.”
He pressed a kiss into her hair. “Does that help?”
“A little,” she said. “More might be better.”
Invited, he slid his hands forward and massaged her collarbones as he kissed the top of her head everywhere it could be sore. He wanted his lips to erase the memory of Vance’s abuse and claim all her thoughts. He lowered his hands to the neck of her dress and toyed with the swell of her breasts.
She drew a quick, open-mouthed breath.
He brushed the tips of his fingers across her nipples. They stiffened under the fabric of her dress, and he fought the desire to roll them between his fingers. His ball sac tightened as he waited for a cue. Some sign she wanted him to do more. There was so much he could show her.
She reached back and set her palms on the sides of his thighs.
Blood rushed to his johnson. As it swelled to its full length, he marveled. He truly thought he’d never feel anything there again. This sprite of a woman, warm and alive in his arms, had brought it back to life.
He cradled her breasts, first underneath, and then wholly over the soft, round mounds while she swayed against his erection. He wasn’t sure if she moved with deliberate intent, or if her movements were innocent squirming, but he had to still her or he’d lose control.
He clamped one hand around her waist and slid the other inside her bodice. His fingers found the stiff bump they sought, and he squeezed in a steady one-two, release-two count.
A little cry escaped her lips, and she arched her back. Her fingers clamped his thighs, and he bit his lower lip to keep from begging her to unbutton his jeans.
He knew now what he wanted to do to her. For her. But first, he wanted her permission. He refused to do anything that she’d interpret later as forced or unwanted. “Do you want to stop?”
“No. I’ve wanted you since I sighted my Winchester at your head.” She slithered down until his hand slipped out of her bodice. Turning around, she rose on her toes and offered her lips.
He was stunned by the ferocity of her kiss. Her lips parted, and her tongue met his, darting and teasing until he broke away. He hiked up her skirt. “Lean back against me and spread your legs.”
She shivered in his arms as he exposed her bare skin to the night air. As soon as he had her skirt bunched up, he gripped the material with the hand imprisoning her waist and toyed with the triangle of hair between her legs.
“More,” she pleaded. “Please.”
The head of his johnson rose like a flag up a pole.
“Lace your fingers behind my neck.” He probed between her folds and teased her opening. After wetting two fingers with her slippery heat, he slid them to her clit.
She sagged against him.
“I’ve got you.” He locked his legs and tightened his hold on her waist.
She squeezed his neck as he stroked. Her clit enlarged and pulsed as he circled its base. When it had swelled firm, he spiraled slowly up to its peak and caressed the tip with a feathery touch. She thrust her hips forward, and he flicked faster.
Her pants turned to moans.
He slid his fingers deep inside, touched her maidenhead, and pulled out. He could pleasure her without tearing it. That could come later.
Suddenly eager to taste her, he raised his fingers to his mouth and savored her salty nectar. Then, knowing this pause would make her ready, he re-slicked his fingers at her opening and loved her clit with tight circles. Harder, faster, relentless until she gasped and slapped her hands over his.
Hugging her as she throbbed with release, he felt exhilaration and satisfaction. Her first sexual encounter had been purely pleasurable. No pain, no blood, and he hoped, no regrets.
As if she’d read his mind, she turned, wrapped her arms around his waist, and rested her head on his chest. She sighed like a contented woman.
He closed his eyes and grinned. She was his, and they had all the time in the world.
Several minutes later, she stirred. “Blade, could we do that again when we get home?”