Gambler's Tempting Kisses

by Charlotte Hubbard

  “Now then,” Papa continued with a smile, “tell me why your husband would expose you to this relationship from his past, unless the benefits outweighed the risks. He’s not the sort who’d be cruel to you on purpose.”

  Where had Papa hidden this compassion all these years? Charity wished that her answer was less likely to hurt his feelings, now that he was in such an understanding mood. “Dillon thought Phoebe might’ve seen Mama and Erroll Powers,” she began quietly. “She knew them, all right. She was the one who suggested we look for them here in Wichita.”

  “Ah.” Papa cleared his throat expectantly. “Did she say anything else? Perhaps tell how long ago—”

  “Mrs. Thomas has a talent for storytelling, it seems, and her information wasn’t very complimentary.”

  “I see.” Her father looked around the lavishly furnished room as though he felt embarrassed for showing her a sensitive side he’d kept hidden for most of her life. “No sense delving into things beyond our control—that’s for God and your mother to settle between themselves. I’ll leave now, so you’ll be rested when Dillon returns . . . probably find us a church, so we can attend services tomorrow.”

  She watched Papa until he shut the door, wondering if their conversation had actually taken place. Charity had seen her father sort through parishioners’ problems with the same level-headed patience he’d just shown her, but being the recipient of such wisdom was a new, immensely comforting experience. Like being soothed by the hand of the Lord.

  Charity felt her resentment melt away, along with the tension that had kept her rigidly distant from Dillon for twenty-four hours now . . . twenty-four lonely, aching hours of holding the wrong grudge. Sleep was suddenly the last thing she needed, and the urge to see her husband made her hurry to the mirror. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed with anticipation, and before common sense could slow her down she stepped out of the room and descended the stairs.

  Douglas Avenue stretched before her in either direction, thronged with people doing their Saturday shopping. To the west she could see a vast maze of wooden corrals and gates, reminders of when cattle and cowboys clogged these streets only a few years ago. The Douglas Avenue Hotel and the Texas House dominated the shops that stood shoulder-to-shoulder beside them, their plate glass windows bright with sunshine that pierced the ominous clouds rolling in from the prairie. Charity walked east along the avenue, guessing she was more likely to spot Dillon at that end of town.

  The people she passed were plainly dressed and industrious-looking—wheat farmers, she was guessing, because of the supplies the men were hoisting into wagons and the leathery faces that spoke of days spent in the heat and the wind. Most of the women wore calico, although a few sported fashionable hats and dresses, their parasols tilted toward the unrelenting sun. It could have been a street in Jefferson City, and Charity strolled contentedly along, window-shopping when she wasn’t searching for her husband’s familiar form.

  She spotted a white steeple, probably the church where Papa was inquiring about services. Then she stopped, directly across from a building called the New York Store. Two Indians were standing beside the large window, staring fixedly at her.

  A man jostled her, but Charity scarcely noticed. The brick-red faces across the avenue were expressionless, with somber, dark eyes that seemed riveted upon her. One of the Indians wore his shoulder-length ebony hair loose, held in place by a leather band that bisected his forehead; his companion’s hair was pulled back in a braid. Both were dressed in shabby white men’s clothing. They were a breed apart from aggressive, arrogant Jackson Blue, projecting the pathetic image of a beaten people. Yet their gaze never wavered.

  Determined not to appear frightened, Charity turned to study the window display behind her and was seized by two hands that locked upon her shoulders.

  “Do you see why I’ve told you never to walk strange streets alone?” Devereau demanded in an urgent whisper. “I could’ve been anyone, Charity, and you could’ve been whisked away before your father or I knew to come looking for you.” Still grasping her tightly, he glanced across the street to where she’d been staring. The Indians were gone. “And where is your father?”

  “He—he went to see about attending services tomorrow,” she stammered. Her heart was hammering from the shock of being accosted. “I was looking for you, because I wanted to . . .” Charity stopped explaining, all desire to make amends replaced by resentment.

  “Well, it’s a good thing you found me,” he muttered, turning her toward the hotel as he took her elbow. “We’ll discuss this in the room. I don’t want to repeat the public argument we had in Abilene, if you don’t mind.”

  Hurrying to keep pace with Dillon’s long strides, Charity did mind being ushered along as though she were an errant child caught in her misdeeds. She pressed her lips together, holding her temper until they’d marched into the Occidental and past a desk clerk who smirked knowingly at her.

  The door to their room was barely closed behind her before Charity wrenched herself from Dillon’s grasp. “You can’t just herd me down the street like some little heifer!” she blurted. “I’m a married woman, perfectly capable of—”

  “I know,” he said with a chuckle. Dillon crossed his arms and leaned against the door, watching her vent her frustration as only Charity knew how.

  “I was looking for you, Dillon, because after talking to Papa I realized how silly I was to—oh, never mind! You’re not worth it!” She turned away, blinking back tears that only infuriated her more.

  “You’re absolutely right.” Noting her jutting chin and clenched fists, Devereau grinned openly. His sulking child-bride was now the vibrant woman he preferred, and he didn’t care what caused the transformation so long as she didn’t shut him out with her awful silence again. “Perhaps I was a bit overbearing—”

  “Damn right you were.”

  “—but watching two redskins ogle you while you returned the favor would make any new husband jealous of—”

  “What?” Charity could see enough of his face in the gilt-edged mirror to catch the flicker of his dimple, and she wheeled around to confront him. “You’re laughing at me! This is all a joke to—you know I wasn’t ogling those—”

  “I know what I saw,” he replied with a teasing shrug, “and if you’d rather feel the arms of some savage around you, holding you the way I—”

  “You’re the most despicable—obnoxious . . .” Charity fully intended to leave the room, but Devereau moved to block the door. When she reached up to shove him aside, he pulled her against his rigid body. Her next protest was stifled by a kiss so powerful it rocked her head back, the kiss she’d been longing for but had wanted to bestow herself.

  When Dillon realized she wasn’t responding, he gently released her. “I didn’t intend to corral you like a—heifer—out there, honey,” he whispered, “but you do need to watch out for yourself. Wichita’s close to Indian territory, and I’d never forgive myself if ... why are you staring at my vest, sweetheart?”

  Charity sighed. “I was coming to tell you ... I thought you’d be glad to see me, and instead you staged a big act like—like Papa does.”

  He winced, wishing he’d handled the incident differently. “I was glad to see you, Charity—glad to see the sunshine of your smile again,” he murmured against her ear. “And I was in such a hurry to get you back here because, well—I didn’t want to kiss and make up out there on the street. It could lead to behavior that gets me kicked out of town again.”

  His grin teased her until she couldn’t help looking into his playful eyes. “Lewd and lascivious behavior, Mr. Devereau?” she asked quietly.

  “Pure, unadulterated lust,” he replied, relieved to see her sense of humor returning. “The kind that pops a man’s pants buttons. The kind Phoebe Thomas is too hardened to share or understand. The kind I feel when I see your hair floating around your shoulders and your eyes snapping with laughter . . . the kind I missed so damned badly last night, honey.”
>
  Charity’s mouth fell open at Dillon’s eloquence. His gaze was warm and direct, all signs of teasing gone as he mesmerized her with a smile full of passion’s promise. “I missed you, too, Dillon.”

  “Show me how much.”

  His whispered challenge sent a bolt of summer lightning through her body. Was that distant thunder she heard, or the roar of her own pulse? Charity wasn’t sure how to begin—she didn’t know how to lead a man in the intimate, physical way Dillon was asking for. In a sudden burst of inspiration, she tried to think of how Phoebe might have taken matters in hand.

  When her fingers closed firmly around his manhood, Devereau rejoiced. It was an effort not to tear her clothes off, and the only control he had over his burgeoning need for her was the thought that her hesitant, unschooled advances would fuel his ardor by forcing him to wait for release.

  Yet Charity was already unbuttoning his shirt, nuzzling his chest with eager lips as she bared him above the waist. Her fingers were surprisingly nimble, and his buckle and buttons gave way without causing her a moment’s frustration. Before he could whisper his approval, his wife’s hands were spanning his bare hip, shoving his trousers and underwear down past his thighs. Dillon grabbed at both sides of the door jamb to keep his balance, the blood rushing through his head. Surely she wouldn’t be so bold as to ...

  With Devereau’s shaft pointing directly at her, her next move seemed obvious yet unsettling—until Charity recalled how much he had enjoyed pleasing her with his mouth, and the unexpected rapture she’d experienced because of it. She knelt to kiss the rounded pink tip of him, inhaling the earthy scent of his secret parts, and then lowered her mouth very slowly. His groan and gentle thrusting were all the encouragement she needed.

  Dillon felt himself being carried away on a tide of urgency. Taking deep, gulping breaths, he gently pushed Charity away. “Lie down on the floor,” he breathed. “I don’t want to hurt you, or offend you.”

  Scowling, Charity felt herself being rolled backward. She doubted that anything her handsome husband could do would seem offensive; his smile tightened with desire as he slipped his hands beneath her dress to lower her underwear. “Dillon, I—”

  “Shhh, I want you to enjoy this, too,” he murmured before kissing her firmly on the mouth.

  Charity felt her silken pantaloons slither over her shoetops and then Dillon was lowering himself onto her, his eyes half-closed. They became one quickly and forcefully, his breathing as agitated as hers, yet her mind refused to go along with it. She bucked beneath him, shoving at his chest. “I was showing you how much I missed you last night, remember? Roll over and let me finish, Devereau.”

  Dillon felt himself being pushed sideways onto the rug. Charity was scrambling on top of him, never losing the tight, intimate grip she had on him even though their clothing made the maneuver tricky. The determined glint in her eye made him chuckle. Then he sucked in his breath as she sat up and slid down the length of him again and again. “Charity, I—”

  “Promise me you’ll never make me feel small in front of another woman,” she ordered in a husky voice.

  “I—I promise.” His hoarse laughter nearly choked off his reply. It took all his restraint not to rush ahead of her deep, purposeful thrusts, but he wanted Charity to discover her own needs and responses, things he couldn’t teach her with words.

  “And promise me we’ll never waste another night being angry at each other,” she continued, although her desire threatened to destroy even her command of the simplest language.

  Dillon hadn’t been angry at her after their meeting with Phoebe Thomas, but he was in no position to quibble. “Y-yes ma’am,” he replied in a strained voice. He saw her eyes closing and her jaw going slack as the fire of their lovemaking consumed her. “Mrs. Devereau?” he whispered.

  Charity braced herself, her hands flat on the floor. With great effort she raised her hips and opened her eyes, suspended above him. “What?” she rasped.

  Dillon grinned devilishly. “Don’t stop until you can’t stop. And don’t let me quit before then either.”

  “You . . .” Charity instinctively sought the places and pressures that would bring them both release, but Dillon grasped her hips and held her above him again. “Now what?” she panted. “Dammit, Devereau, I—”

  “Never, never fake your own pleasure with me, my love,” he said with deliberate emphasis. “It’s highly insulting. And Phoebe wasn’t nearly as good at it as she thought she was.”

  Why anyone would want to shortchange herself with a lover like Dillon Devereau was beyond her, but Charity didn’t have the strength to contemplate such pretenses. Whimpering, she lunged toward him again, finding the exquisite fit that would send them both to the heights of this new glory she’d found with him. Wondrous shudders overtook her and she clung desperately to his neck, too incoherent with joy to reply with words.

  Devereau heard all he needed to. He wrapped her in his arms and spent himself until he was drained of the resentment and boredom and loneliness other women had left him feeling at this moment. Charity filled him with her unstudied warmth—spontaneous combustion was another of her finest talents, he decided. He rested on the floor, her sweet weight so perfectly fitted against him, until both of them could breathe normally again.

  “Let’s undress and get into bed,” he murmured. “Until my card game tomorrow afternoon, I’ve nothing better to do than make love to you, Charity. In fact, there is nothing better than making love to you.”

  The tenderness in his golden eyes made her gulp against a rush of happy tears, and she didn’t remind him that Papa would expect them to attend church. For now, all that existed was this man who could turn her soul inside out with a single smile—a husband who offered his past as a source of the most pleasurable enlightenment, if she would accept it as such. Charity kissed the tip of his nose, slowly stood up, and offered him her hand.

  As they explored each other’s senses and preferences, Charity felt like a graceful dove soaring above the things of this earth on the luxurious currents of Dillon’s affection. Her leg muscles grew limp, her lips ached from what must have been a million kisses, and she was unaware that her husband was in the middle of another anecdote about his cowtown acquaintances when she drifted off to sleep, nestled against the comforting length of him.

  Chapter 15

  When she awoke, the room was lit by a single lamp and Dillon was watching her emerge from her dreams, appearing dreamlike himself as he smiled at her. He scooted onto the edge of the bed and reached for her hand. “Are you all right, sweetheart? You’ve been asleep so long, I was ready to wake you.”

  “What time is it?” Charity rose up on her elbows, shaking away her drowsiness as she took in Dillon’s earnest expression. He was dressed in a clean white shirt and gray striped trousers, looking freshly shaved and rested.

  “It’s nearly eight. I brought us up some breakfast, but if you’re not hungry—”

  “I’m starved,” she insisted, sitting up to emphasize her reply. Languid sensations lingered in her body, reminding her of how they had spent the previous evening. She recalled their exchanged promises, which, though centered upon carnal matters, were somehow every bit as sacred as the marriage vows they’d taken. And to think Phoebe Thomas had only pretended to be satisfied when she was with Dillon . . .

  Charity then realized it was Sunday morning, time to prepare for worship, and she didn’t want to enter God’s house with unexpressed apologies on her conscience. “Yesterday after you went into town, I finally realized how stupid I was to blame you for Phoebe’s slatternly behavior,” she said quietly. “That’s why I went out alone to look for you. I’m sorry for the way I assumed—”

  “The apologies are all mine, sweetheart.” He reached over to knead her lovely bare shoulders, gazing directly into her eyes. “Phoebe hasn’t changed a bit since our Abilene days, and I should’ve found someone else to ask about your mother’s whereabouts. I can’t blame you for being furious with me,
although I certainly don’t regret the way we made up. Do you?”

  Charity grinned coyly, recalling each intimate nuance of their lovemaking. “I was more jealous than angry. She’s very . . . fetching—that was the word Papa used.”

  “You told your father about our visit to her store?”

  “Only because he quizzed me about why I wasn’t speaking to you. And I left out the stories about Mama being at Mattie Silks’s place.” She glanced toward the tray of food Dillon had left on the bedside table and lifted the linen cloth from it. Hunger stabbed her empty stomach when she smelled the warm bread, and she took a generous slice. She was pleased they wouldn’t have to rush downstairs to eat, because these quiet times talking to her husband were moments to savor.

  The lamp cast a golden aura around his hair and shoulders; the rain-cooled breeze from the window brought out his vital, masculine scent—another reason Charity preferred to remain in their room just now. “We had quite a talk about you, Mr. Devereau,” she continued in a soft voice. “Papa’s very happy to have you for his son-in-law, and he convinced me how unfair I was being, holding you accountable for Mrs. Thomas’s wicked ways.”

  Dillon chuckled, biting into the bread she was holding in front of his mouth. “You’re sure there wasn’t more to it? He’s not exactly enthused about this trip, you know.”

  Charity looked deep into Devereau’s earnest eyes and knew that forgiving him was one of Papa’s finest ideas. “He admitted we didn’t marry under ideal circumstances, but he was concerned about us being at odds so soon. I don’t recall such a time myself, but he told me he and Mama were inseparable the first few years they were together.”