by Ivy McAdams
She tilted her head back and gasped, arching her body up into his hands. His lips trailed down her throat and along her collarbone. The hot energy between her legs flared, and her body moved restlessly beneath him. One of her legs parted his, pressing against the hard erection she found between them.
His lips staggered against the skin of her shoulder as he blew out a shuddering breath.
His reaction was so musical to her ears that she switched her hand for her leg and pressed into him again, feeling the length of him against her fingers.
Teeth grazed her shoulder as his body quaked. One of Mason’s hands slid up her chest and against her cheek, and she stopped to stare up at him, finding a cloud of arousal in his eyes, but also a spark of something else. Something sweeter that drew a smile to her face.
His hands moved down to slide along her legs, catching beneath her dress, and running up over her knees.
It was the same as by the stream, an electric spark of excitement along her skin. The same as in her dream, where she’d longed for him to go higher.
This time he did.
His hands moved up her thighs, hard fingers over her soft skin. They slid nearly all the way to the junction between, and she lifted her hips in hopes that he would continue. His fingers dropped away, parting her thighs. Her breath caught, passion stirring the hot blood coursing through her. His fingers skimmed the edge of her bloomers, trailing over the center of her, and she gasped.
Through a hitch in her breath, she whispered his name. Even in the dim light, she could see his eyes dance. He pressed the heel of his hand against the sensitive node between her legs, and she wiggled beneath him with a soft moan.
His magic hands pulled every good feeling she’d ever had to the surface. Her skin grew feverish with a need she’d never experienced before. One so strong a whimper lodged in her throat. She lifted her hips to him, asking, begging for more.
And she didn’t have to ask him more than once.
His fingers hooked the edge of her bloomers and pulled them down. He settled himself between her legs as he gathered her skirts and pushed them up to her waist.
Her hands roamed over his chest and shoulders, feeling his slick body as he worked the belt and laces of his pants. Her fingers slid along his hips and around to grip his backside, pressing into the hard muscles she found there. When he lowered himself over her again, she drew her knees up on either side of him and squeezed her fingers against his skin.
Stray strands of hair fell into his face as he gazed down at her. She met his eyes, focused on the beautiful man and her own hero above her. Rescued from horrible circumstances and an even more awful fate. She couldn’t wait for him to rescue her from the anxious need in her body.
She’d never wanted a man like she wanted Mason.
Her hands slid free of his hips and wrapped their way around his neck and into his hair, pulling him in to press her lips to his. The mouth that twisted against hers in earnest was hot and hungry, and she loved it.
When he rubbed his length against her hot center, her breath caught. The heat in the pit of her stomach roared. She lifted her legs on either side of him to wrap them around his hips.
Her muscles trembled in anticipation, and when he finally sank deep within her, she leaned her head back with a moan.
Never had she been filled so perfectly and felt so incredible. She wanted nothing more than to lay there, feeling as safe, content, and amazing as she did at that moment. Until he began to move.
He drew back and plunged deeper, claiming her body and soul. Her lips parted as she fought to contain the array of curses and blessings on her tongue as his body rocked hers. His hand slid over her hip and around her back, tilting her hips against his in a way that escalated all the amazing pulses of heat within her.
She cried out, pressing back against the mat and moving her hips in time to meet his, driving him in to the hilt and pulling a groan from the depths of his throat. The sound spurred her hips faster. The fiery pressure in her belly was so intense. She was going to explode.
His brow twitched, furrowing as he opened his mouth in a silent groan that she could feel in her chest. Just as she could feel his body tense and the length of him harden further within her, and her hips jerked. He grabbed her backside tighter, pressing her hard against him as he groaned aloud. The hot tension inside her boiled over and shot out along her arms and legs, rolling her into a spasm of energy as she clung to him.
His arms wrapped around her body as it shuddered and collapsed. He rolled to his side, pulling her with him to settle against his chest. Her cheek rested on his skin, and she drew in the intoxicating scent she found there.
After days of anxiety and anticipation, it didn’t take long for sleep to find her, and she slept better than she had since leaving Boston.
Chapter 10
A soft rumble of voices woke Bridget the next morning, and her eyes fluttered open to gaze around at the tent above her. White canvas lit with warm sunlight. The twinkling of leafy shadows danced across the ceiling. She stretched with a lazy smile. Her body felt delightfully used.
Except for her face. She touched her fingertips to her cheek and winced. The skin didn’t feel as tight and swollen, but it was tender.
She rolled over and dug in the corner of the tent where a small stack of supplies sat. Among them was a shaving kit. She popped it open, retrieved a palm-sized circle mirror, and held it up to examine her face.
A purple bruise ran along her cheekbone and smeared up toward her temple. Oscar had popped her good. The asshole.
Thank goodness for Mason.
That charming, wonderful man who’d rescued her away. Then worshipped her body in a way that blew her mind. Her skin and insides prickled at the memory, already ready for more.
Except, where was Mason?
The voices outside caught her attention again, and she frowned, staring at the side of the tent as if she might see the people through it.
There was a group out there talking.
Who were they? Where was she?
She pulled her dress on straight, adjusting the collar and skirts, and ran her fingers through her hair. Once she felt at least half presentable, she parted the tent flap and stepped out.
A group of four stood on the other side of the tent. Mason’s back was to her, and in front of him was a short blonde woman with long wavy hair, a tall stocky man with a square jaw and a dark hat pulled low over his eyes, and a thick, dark-skinned man with large muscles and kind eyes. Before she could call Mason over and ask who they’d run into, her gaze traveled beyond the group to the wide campsite beyond.
They hadn’t run off to a single tent in the forest. A campsite of over ten tents and lean-tos sat in the clearing.
It looked far too similar to the outlaw camp she was used to staying in.
What had she gotten herself into?
“Mason,” she called quietly, unsure if she wanted further answers.
He turned, and his face brightened. The soft lines in his face, the smile on his lips, the way his eyes glowed when they landed on her. They all warmed her and quickened her pulse.
What had she been so concerned with again?
“Bridget,” he said as he reached for her.
The others peered around him as he stepped closer, sliding his hands up her arms and pressing his lips into her hair.
“Good morning, angel,” he whispered.
There had to be a good explanation. There was no way Mason had hidden them in an outlaw camp.
“Where are we?” she asked under her breath, pressing in closer in an attempt to hide from the prying eyes behind him.
“Well, I know it’s not much,” he muttered, rubbing a hand along the nape of his neck. His gaze fell from hers, and she thought she discerned a tinge of red in his cheeks. “But I live here. We all do.”
Bridget nibbled at the inside of her lip as she soaked in his words. So he didn’t live in a nearby town or a farm. She’d hoped he was at least somewhat c
lose to civilization. Didn’t the western frontier have towns? It’d been so long since she’d walked down a street or stopped in a store to pick up something.
Though she much preferred feeling safe and protected. She wouldn’t trade it for a trip to the nearest town in a heartbeat.
She trusted him. The rest of his group, however, she wasn’t sure of yet.
She took Mason’s hands and tilted her head to catch his eyes.
“Who is ‘we’?” she whispered.
He looked at her silently for a moment, perhaps gathering his words, or deciding whether to tell her at all. She hoped it wasn’t the latter. When he did finally speak, he shifted to the side so she could see the others behind him.
“My friends. Family. We live here.”
The men stood tall and stoic as they regarded her. The blonde woman's hands were clenched in front of her, lips pursed and twitching as if she were fighting a smile with everything she had.
Bridget frowned, looking the woman over and wondering if she had a substance problem. She’d seen multiple women with abuse issues back in Boston.
“This is Clara,” Mason said as he motioned to the blonde.
The woman grinned, her hazel eyes dancing as she held out a hand. Bridget smiled, still confused but relieved to see the happy face.
“Good morning,” Clara chirped, a light Irish lilt in her voice.
Bridget's smile widened. Another family from across the ocean. Bridget's had been in Boston long enough to lose most of their accents, but not their looks. Her heart fluttered at the memory of her first meeting with Mason, when he'd called her an Irish Princess. She nearly giggled aloud at the thought and shook Clara's hand.
“Good morning to you.”
“Glad to see you well,” Clara continued. “So this is why Mason’s been smiling and practically singing this week.”
He lowered his head with a breathy laugh. It tickled Bridget, and she squeezed his hand, her heart thumping with a surge of emotion.
Hearing that he’d been as affected by her as she had by him sent her skin tingling.
“I wasn’t sure what wild adventures Mason had been off on the last few days,” Clara continued, “but I was at least glad to hear him come back home safe and sound last night.”
Bridget tilted her head a fraction, and Clara pointed to the white tent just feet away from Mason’s.
“Neighbors!” The blond grinned.
Bridget’s eyes fluttered as she registered the information. Clara had been that close to them the night before. Obviously awake. Heat rolled up Bridget’s neck and pooled in her cheeks. She drew in a sharp breath as she looked back at Clara. The woman winked, and Bridget’s stomach flopped.
What a first impression.
Mason’s fingers closed over Bridget’s arm, and he leaned into her, whispering into her hair. “Don’t worry. She’s teasing. She’s a hard sleeper.”
Bridget forced a small smile, but the twinkle in Clara’s eyes told her otherwise.
“This is Clay,” Mason said, nodding toward the strong, silent fellow in the black hat.
The man nodded, tipping a finger to his hat. His gaze was hard, but his eyes didn’t look as if he meant her any harm. She eased out a silent breath.
Then Mason motioned toward the even larger fellow, skin as dark as charred wood. “And this is Jeremiah.”
He looked like he could break her in half, besides the revolver on his hip. But his eyes were soft. The edge of his lip turned up as he pulled at the brim of his hat in her direction.
“Ma’am.” His deep voice rattled through her, and she smiled in return.
“Morning.”
“This is most of us today,” Mason said. “The other half are...on the road.”
Bridget’s eyes jumped to his, finding an odd familiarity in his words. “There are more of you? On the road?”
Mason's nose wrinkled, lips pressed in tight as if he had something he wasn't keen on sharing. She frowned.
Clara stepped closer and put a hand on his arm. “Mason, it’s okay. Surviving doesn’t make you a bad person.”
His head bobbed slightly, green eyes finding their way back to Bridget's. A whirl of questions weighed heavy in her chest. What was he hiding? And why? She hated to admit that they still had so much to learn about one another. But they had shared. They were close. What was so hard for him to tell her?
“We’re not really family out here,” he managed to blurt.
Bridget’s eyes moved from Clara to Jeremiah and back, narrowing slightly. That was an easy assumption. And not what was bothering him.
“Okay.”
“We’re more of a ragtag group of survivors. A team of friends. A, uh―”
He was stuttering, the color in his cheeks deepening. Her fingers squeezed into his. She wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or nervous that he was at least trying to tell her. Did she want to know? Maybe she should stop him before he blurted out that Clara was his wife or something else that would make her sick to her stomach.
“I mean, we banded together to be more efficient and safe. Kind of like―”
“―a gang,” Clara cut in, giving him a deadpan stare. “We’re a bunch of outlaws out here, sugar. But you’re welcome to join us for breakfast.”
She gave Bridget a sweet smile, though next to her Mason had paled and looked as if he might be sick.
At first, the knot of nerves in Bridget’s stomach rolled and tightened. She’d ended up in another gang of outlaws. What were the odds that after a month of torture with Oscar and his gang she could end up in another outlaw gang?
But as the reality sank in, she realized how helpful that truth truly was to her.
Any normal man of good standing and respect would turn her away when he learned her secrets. Perhaps with Mason, she had a chance to come clean.
A rush of emotion filled her chest and face. Complete and utter relief. Tears burst forth from her eyes.
The others leaned away in surprise. Except for Mason. Her sweet Mason, whose brow creased so sharply with concern that she cried harder.
“Please, Bridget. I’m sorry,” he whispered as his arms slipped around her waist.
Her body shook, and his face broke, lips pressed in and tilted down as his pain surfaced. His eyes were so deep and open, she was afraid he might cry as well.
“Oh, Mason,” she choked as her arms slid up his arms to wrap around his neck.
The mix of pain and confusion on his face was nearly too much for her. It made it even harder to fight back the wave of tears to speak with him. As the raw relief ebbed just enough, she managed a smile through her tears.
"Thank God for you, Mason," she repeated her sentiment from the night before, the feeling behind it even stronger than the last time.
His brows furrowed harder, utter confusion on his face.
Then she leaned in and kissed him. His hands on her back jumped in surprise, but he was quick to cling to her. Between her short ragged breaths and the tears streaming down her face, she whispered against his lips.
“Anyone else might turn me out, Mason. But you...you might just understand what I’ve been through.”
He pulled back just enough to look at her, desperate hands cradling her face close to him, careful not to disturb her injury. “What are you talking about, angel?”
“I’ve had my own run-in with outlaws already. I doubt anyone else would understand.” Her breath hitched, and she settled herself, clinging to one of his arms. “I want to tell you where I’ve been for the last month.”
Chapter 11
“So I answered the ad,” Bridget said with a shrug. It’d been the most logical thing at the time, to run off to the western frontier looking for adventure after being courted by a dud her father thought would be her perfect match in Boston.
The ad Roy Moss put in the paper had been short and sweet.
Recently inherited a large cattle ranch. Wanting to settle down and start a family. Looking for a woman in her twenties to be my w
ife. You will have household and ranch duties and all the wide-open spaces and forever skies you can stand.
It hadn’t been poetic, but it’d caught her attention.
Only the afternoon she’d arrived, Mr. Moss hadn’t been waiting on her on the platform as he’d said he’d be. She’d wandered until she’d found him, killed over a pocketful of change and the gun on his hip. She’d screamed, and one of the outlaw attackers had grinned at her.
Oscar Winters.
It was if he'd enjoyed her screaming because his face always lit up when she did.
He’d snatched her up, thrown her on his horse, and the group had ridden back to their base camp down the road. He’d introduced her to his tent and how little respect he had for women.
Mason listened with a taut jaw and clenched fists. She hated the idea of causing him discomfort, but the glint of rage in his eye also stirred something deep within her. A validation that she wasn’t as worthless as she’d felt for far too long. Mason was angry, and it felt good that he cared that much for her.
“What did you say that fella’s name was again?” Clay asked, eyes narrowed and arms still crossed over his chest.
Bridget glanced over at the others, embarrassed to realize they were still there, listening to her story.
“Winters.”
Clay looked pointedly at Mason, then around at the others. There was a message in that look that Bridget was dying to know, but the name meant nothing to her.
“He’s just some outlaw in a gang, right?” she murmured.
“Only the worst one around. He’s a Croaker,” Clara said.
Bridget’s brow furrowed. “I’ve heard people call them that. Not with anything less than disgust either.”
“Those men are bad news,” Mason said.
“You’re telling me,” Bridget sighed.
“Did anyone see you?” Clay asked, eyes on Mason.
Bridget frowned, trying to follow the conversation.
“Maybe. That Oscar fella chased us for a while, but I don’t know that he ever saw anything but the back of my head.”