Page 45 of The Gunslinger’s Bride (Montana Mavericks: Historicals #1)

“I love you,” she said again, testing the power of those words.

A luminous sheen in his blue eyes told her she’d shaken him, but he said nothing.

Her heart softened. Fluttered. This fearless man, who fought outlaws and faced down gunfighters without a quiver, trembled when she made love to him…

wept when she professed her love. Yes, he loved Jonathon—but he loved her, too. Had loved her first.

She smiled through her own tears and framed his be loved face in her hands. “I love you,” she said again, this time a heartfelt promise, rather than a confession or a test. “And I want you. Forever.”

He hauled her up against him and kissed her hard, parting her lips, tasting her, leaving the buttery taste of corn bread on her tongue.

This kiss was a melding of souls, a blend of cleansing and forgiving in the form of a greedy consummation.

She released his cheeks to wrap her arms around his neck and cling to him.

That he could really be hers at last was a joy that filled her mind and her heart.

Experiencing the liberation of not hating herself for wanting him like this, she gave herself over in newfound freedom. Happiness welled from the depths of her being in the form of tears.

Brock released her and, holding her hands, knelt and gazed up. “You’ll marry me, Abby.”

The laugh she emitted sounded more like crying. “Was that a question?”

He gripped her hands. “You know I love you—say you’ll marry me.”

That was the best proposal she could hope for, so she nodded her agreement.

Threading her fingers into his silky hair, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his, kissed his eyes, his forehead.

He gripped her bottom through her skirts and petticoats, forcing her to straighten, and pulled her hips toward him, pressing his face into her skirt.

Abby’s heart pounded.

He got to his feet and pressed himself against her.

She reached for the buttons of his shirt.

“I probably smell like I’ve been working all morning,” he said.

She continued to open the front of his shirt. “I have hot water and soap.”

“That’s sounds like a proposition.”

“If I’m going to trust you, I want you to trust me, too,” she said.

“I trust you.”

“Then show me your gun.”

He stilled, as if wondering what she was asking.

“Show me that one,” she said, pointing to the revolver at his right hip. The one she’d seen his hand on.

Hesitantly, he drew it from the leather holster.

“Now show me the bullets.”

He knew now what she was asking to see; she recognized the decision he made to comply.

He turned the barrel away, deftly thumbed the release aside and revealed the ends of the bullets in the cylinder.

“Turn it all the way around,” she said, with a vague idea of how the cylinder held the bullets and how the repeat action turned it to place another bullet in front of the chamber.

Brock turned it slowly, the ends of the bullets moving past, until an empty chamber came into view.

He had fired a bullet. The one that hit the kid’s hand. And his gun had been back in his holster before anyone had time to realize what had happened. She would bet the store that Linc Manley’s gun hadn’t been fired.

Brock raised his gaze to hers.

“Thank you,” she said.

Without looking, he slid a bullet from his belt, fed it into the empty chamber, flipped the cylinder back into place and holstered the gun. Just as she’d known, he kept all the chambers full.

“You can take that off and put it under my bed,” she suggested.

“Am I going to make it to your bed?”

“Well…” She continued unfastening his shirt, pulling the hem out of his pants, and stripped it down his arms. He wore a flannel union suit. “This is interesting.”

“It’s cold out.”

She unbuttoned that, too, and his pants, while he lay the gun belt on the table. “Remember that day in here—the day we kissed?”

“I remember.”

“I thought of pushing you right down on the floor and…”

“And?”

“And you still need to wash, right?”

She left him standing with his pants open, his union suit unbuttoned, and poured warm water into the sink.

“Want to take those boots off, cowboy?”

He made quick work of the boots and the pants, his underwear folded down over his lower body.

Abby soaped a cloth and handed him a towel.

She washed his face, pausing to kiss him tenderly.

He closed his eyes and released a deep sigh.

After soaping his hands and arms and chest, she rinsed the cloth and removed the suds, having him lean forward over the sink so she could rinse him.

Drying his shoulders and chest, she kissed the warm damp flesh, tasted him with her tongue.

“I think these got wet.” She indicated the under wear.

“You’re still dressed,” he said.

With a seductive smile, she unbuttoned her shoes and kicked them aside, rolled down her stockings and slid them off her feet.

After undoing the buttons of her shirtwaist, she removed it.

Brock kissed her neck and touched his tongue to her collarbone, while unfastening her skirt, untying her petticoats and shoving them out of the way.

He had knelt to help her out of the layers, and without rising, pulled her to him, crushing her to his bare chest. With only the thin layer of her cotton underclothes between them, Abby felt the heat and strength of his hard body.

She ran her hands over his arms and shoulders, and shuddered with anticipation when he buried his face against her breasts and cupped her bottom.

“How can it be so wonderful each time?” she asked incredulously. “Will it always be this way between us?” Truly amazed and overcome by the power of sensation and desire that raged unchecked between them, she closed her eyes and soaked Brock in through her pores.

He opened her chemise and suckled her breasts, and pleasure rippled through her, an erotic expectancy so sweet and intense, she bit her lower lip and groaned. He cupped her through her drawers and she ground herself against his palm.

She wanted to kiss him. She bent forward and covered his mouth with hers. She wanted him inside her, filling her. Pushing him back, she tugged his underwear down at the same time he disposed of hers, and she straddled him quickly, urgently, watching his expression as her body took his.

She kissed him. He moved beneath her.

She stroked his chest. He cupped her bottom and gazed at her breasts, her face.

Her braid fell over her shoulder and he used both hands to remove the tie and work the hair loose, spreading it over her shoulders, her breasts.

She kissed him. He grasped her hips.

She ran her finger across his lips. He drew it into his mouth and sucked it.

She held her breath. He smiled, slow and lazy and oh so brazenly. He knew he turned her inside out. He knew she loved it. Knew she loved him. And that was okay. He should know. Anyone who was loved as much as this man should know.

“I love you,” she said.

He reached up and cupped her face, a smile reaching his eyes. “And you do it so well, my Abby, my love.”

She loved him unashamedly, without reservation, without fear.

He held her still for a moment, meeting her gaze. “This time we might make a baby, Abby.”

She smiled and moved sensuously against him, knowing she was pushing him to the edge. “This time you’ll be here when he’s born.”

She watched emotion and pleasure cross his features, shared his release, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead with her rumpled petticoat.

“There isn’t another woman like you in all of Montana,” he told her, a tender smile on his lips.

“And you would know,” she teased, kissing him.

“Nor in all of the West, actually.”

“My, your conquests are broad.”

He chuckled. “I love you, Abby.”

“Yes,” she said. “I believe you do.”