Page 74 of The Widow and the Wanted

Something about tending to her intimate like that makes a yearning bloom up under my ribs.

She sways slightly, wandering easy between my thighs. Knee-high to a grasshopper she is. Puts her right there—eyes level with mine, close enough I can feel her breath on my damp skin, smell soap and that crisp hint of winter on her clothes.

The cabin goes quiet, and time seems to slow with it, her pretty lashes batting at me.

Good God above, this woman. Her face would make a preacher renounce his vows.

Death still lingers in my bones. Had that bullet struck a few inches to the left, it’d be a whole different tale. Man don’t get a second breath just to waste it.

My palms skim her waist, then settle at her hips where she flares beneath my fingertips. I knead slow, awed at how a woman can be made so right. How her warmth, her soft give, can offer comfort and want in the very same touch.

“Mr. Maddox, your hands are wandering.”

I cup the back of her neck, my fingers tangling in the soft hair at her nape the way I've been dreaming on since that first night she told me to go straight to hell.

“Can’t help it, wild. You feel so damn good,” I say, hooking my other arm around her waist like a cinch strap. Hauling her in close and hard, right between my knees where she settles like she was cut and measured for the spot alone.

“I’m fixing to steal a kiss if you don’t stop me first,” I warn, giving her a chance to shove me away if Okee’s the only man she’s got eyes for.

But she don’t fight. Don’t hesitate or pull back. Her mouth just meets mine warm and sweet, and a low, ragged sound slips out of me—helpless, desperate-like. She pulls back an inch, just enough that our lips brush when she speaks.

“You ought to be lying down,” she says. But it ain’t stop.

“I will,” I murmur. Her lashes drop for a second, then lift again, flashing them sage and juniper gems. Just the smallest tilt of her chin enough to show the invitation in it. The sight of her glistening lips makes my cock thicken against the towel. “Lord, if that bullet don’t finish me, your mouth might.”

My heart stutters hard, and for a second I’m afraid I’ll sway. The wound tugs like it means to remind me who’s boss, but I swallow it down. I lean back, and the bed frame creaks under the weight. I keep hold of her, not yanking, just guiding until she’s nearly in my lap.

“Lay with me,” I say, quieter than before. “Let me lay you down proper.”

She gives me a look. “You are in no condition to be layin’ anybody down.”

“Watch me.”

She inhales, eyes darkening. Then she lets it happen, easing down onto my lap careful. Her skirt snags, and she grabs onto my shoulders for balance a split second before my vision goes white and a blaze of pain rips through me.

“Hellfire and lightning,” I hiss through gritted teeth, vision narrowing. “Not sure if you recall, but I was recently shot.”

She stills with a grimace. “I’m sorry. Are you all right?”

The pain ebbs back to a dull throb. I lean in and ease Lula down onto the bed, slow and careful, keeping my weight off her and off my own torn side.

“So damn good I can hardly stand it.”

I hover over her, propped on my one good arm, close enough to feel her breath catch when mine brushes her mouth. Then I kiss her again, deeper, her fingertips on my back. After the shock of ice water, the heat of her feels almost indecent.

“You’re supposed to be healing,” she whispers, but her head tips back anyway, giving me more skin to kiss. She laughs—breathless, half scolding. Hair fanned like wheat across the patched quilt, eyes wide and glittering. One hand slides up into my hair, tugging just enough to make me feel it.

“I am healin’.” I lower my head until our foreheads touch. “Your mouth’s healin’ me.”

“You said it was killing you.”

“It’s doin’ both.”

Her lips part on a protest that never quite forms. Instead she lifts her chin and catches my mouth again, harder this time. I groan into the kiss, low and rough, and she answers with a small, needy sound that makes heat coil tight in my gut.

The cold water, the fever, the bullet—something about all that knocks a bolt loose in my skull. I’m here. I’m breathing. I whisper in her ear. “I been wantin’ this. Wantin’ you.”

Her legs shift, wrapping loose around my hips. The fire pops behind us, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. Outside, wind rattles the shutters again, but in here the only sounds are our breathing and the creak of the cot frame.