Page 27 of The Gunslinger’s Bride (Montana Mavericks: Historicals #1)
Situating himself more comfortably on the floor, Brock explained the dog’s injuries and how they were going to help him get better and stronger.
Jonathon wore the same excited expression he’d worn on Christmas morning, his innocent delight and enthusiasm tugging at Abby’s heart. She prayed the dog would survive.
The canine fell into exhausted sleep and Jonathon covered him with the blanket, continuing to stroke his head.
“Time for you to go back to your bed,” Abby told him.
“Do I have to?”
She nodded. “Yes, darling. It’s late and you’re a growing boy.”
“Can Mithter Brock tuck me in?”
Both sets of blue eyes appealed to her. She nodded her assent. Brock held out his hand. “Come on, partner.” Together they strolled into the bedroom.
Abby added fuel to the heater. Rather than put up a futile struggle, she scurried to her room for blankets and a pillow, and placed them on the divan. Brock returned at the same time. “He fell right to sleep,” he reported.
“You’re staying to watch over the dog, I suppose.”
He leaned back from the waist, stretching his spine and emphasizing his imposing size, and nodded. Unable to pry her hungry gaze from him, she watched as he carried the basin, towel and tin to the kitchen, and listened as he apparently washed at her sink.
He returned, carrying his shirt, his chest bare, droplets glistening in the golden hairs. Abby swallowed. His hair looked as though he’d run his fingers through it; his powerful arms were sleek and solid. “Do you have a shirt?” he asked. “Mine smells like a wet dog.”
She managed a nod and found one of Jed’s flannel shirts in the back of a drawer. Brock accepted the folded garment and laid it on the back of the divan, before he sat and removed his boots. Abby came to life and arranged the blankets and pillows, making him stand aside.
She finished and stood back.
“Thank you,” he said finally.
“That must have hurt,” she said, referring to the words she couldn’t remember hearing him speak before.
“I did say please about the blanket,” he said with a smirk.
“I’m really a very polite person.”
“Yes, and I’m your fairy godmother.”
He chuckled—a rusty sound that surprised and pleased her. She softened a little more than she knew was wise, and found herself thinking about his needs and comfort. “Have you eaten?”
“Hours ago.”
“Would you like something? And perhaps a cup of coffee?”
“Now I know you’re right.”
“About what?”
“You are my fairy godmother.”
She turned toward the kitchen. “If I was, I’d turn you into a toad and let the dog eat you.”
“I think you’re mixed up,” he said from behind her.
“Fairy godmothers grant wishes, they don’t turn men into toads.”
“You’re right. Men do that on their own.”
He pulled out a chair and stood behind it, shrugging into the shirt, which wouldn’t close over his chest. The cuffs rode halfway up his forearms.
She placed a slice of pie on the table and sized him up with a frown. “Forget the shirt.” She glided behind him and grasped the collar, peeling the garment over his bare back and down his arms. “I’ll wash yours, and if I hang it near the heater, it will be dry by morning.”
“It’s late, Abby—”
“Eat your pie.” She tested the coffeepot, found it hot and poured him a cup. “Sugar?”
He nodded.
Washing the shirt gave her something to do other than stare at his naked torso while he ate and drank. She wrung the water from his garment, rolled it in toweling and then draped it over the back of a chair she pulled near the heater.
“Thank you,” he said, placing his plate and cup in the enamel pan.
“That’s twice.”
“Told you I’m polite.” He caught her wrist, where the fabric was wet from the chores, and turned her toward him. “Mind my manners, say please and thank you.”
There was nowhere for her gaze to go except the broad expanse of smooth, hair-dusted skin or his mobile lips. Her gaze fluttered from one to the other.
“May I please kiss you?” he asked.
Her heart jerked against her ribs. At that moment, his mouth was the most appealing sight she’d known, and she’d love nothing more than to feel it against hers. “You’ve never asked for a kiss in your life.”
“Sure I have.” He lazily grazed her wrist bone and his eyelids lowered to a slumberous slant.
She concentrated on breathing. “When?”
“Just now.” One hand went behind her waist and edged her closer. Oh, but he smelled good. Familiar.
She raised a hand to protest, but realized it would come in contact with his flesh, so let it flutter. “That doesn’t count.”
“Why not?” Heat spread from his fingers to her tingling skin beneath her dress.
She was losing track of the conversation and didn’t know if she wanted to reply, anyway.
She moved her hand again, and this time allowed herself to touch him.
His warm skin flinched beneath her fingertips.
Surrendering to her own craving, she flattened her palm on his chest. Beneath her hand his heart beat steadily. He was so warm, so alive….
He closed his eyes and cursed under his breath, but she heard it.
“That was not polite,” she said, her voice more breathless than she’d intended.
He leaned toward her, each inch heart-stoppingly slow, and inclined his face to touch his nose to her hair. “What wasn’t polite?”
“That word.” Daringly, she ran her palm from his chest downward and caressed his hard belly for her own pleasure, slid her hand to his ribs.
With a groan he said another coarse word, pressed his face to her temple and inhaled.
They stood that way, hearts beating erratically, breath escaping in shallow pants, for an eternity. He released her wrist to bring his hand up and cup her jaw, turning her face to his. He spread his hand beneath her ear and worshiped her with his eyes.
“Yes,” she said with a sigh.
“Yes what?”
“Yes, you may kiss me.”
That spectacular mouth turned up in a self-satisfied grin. “Maybe I never said please before…” he inched so close, the warmth from his lips teased hers “…but you never said no, either.”
At that moment, he could have said anything and she wouldn’t have cared, so attuned was she to the sensual onslaught of his dizzying nearness. She slid both hands to his back and pulled him closer.