They continued to play. Randall lost the next hand and took a drink, then the one after that. Then Miranda lost again, then him. The whiskey was strong, but it could have been much stronger. He wasn’t exactly swigging down gigantic gulps and could tell that Miranda wasn’t either. Still, after a few more hands, the mood between them took on a different shade of tension, more fuzzy and slippery than brittle.
He still wanted to know what she was trying so hard to avoid talking about, though. “So once again,” he tried after they’d both settled into the rhythm of the game and the mellowness of the alcohol. “What did Starla and your uncle say that has you so irritated?”
She pursed her lips, sorting through her cards. “It’s irrelevant.”
“I don’t think so.
“It’s irrelevant because it’s not true,” she repeated, stronger, swaying just a bit in her seat. She didn’t seem fully drunk, but she was definitely a bit tipsy.
“What’s not true?”
“That I need to loosen up.” She ended her sentence with a hiccup.
He couldn’t help it. He burst into laughter. Maybe that was the whiskey working on him. “They obviously haven’t seen you stuck in a saloon during a blizzard.”
“It has nothing to do with the saloon or the blizzard,” she fired back with less inhibition than she might have before the whiskey. “It has to do with—” At the last minute, she clapped a hand over her mouth.
A hazy grin spread across Randall’s lips. “Has to do with?” he prodded her.
“Nothing,” she said.
“Randi, are you calling me nothing?” He sensed their game reaching its end.
“Of course not, you’re—” Once again, she stopped herself with a look of alarm and wonder. Wonder about how she could say such things or wonder that she felt them at all, that’s what Randall wanted to know.
He set his cards aside, face up, revealing the king and queen of hearts. “What am I?”
“Are you laying down your cards early?” Her voice shook. “In that case, I win.” She put down her cards as well, including a pair of aces.
“Yes, love, you win. And you will always win.” If it was the alcohol turning him into a lothario, then thanks were due to the bottle. He had a feeling the confinement and the snow would have gotten him to the same place anyhow, though. “Go ahead and claim your prize, Randi. I can see exactly what you want. I’ve been seeing it in your eyes, in the tilt of your head, the softness of your lips, for days now. And I want the same thing, Miranda. I want you.”
“I—” She blinked rapidly, swaying closer to the table, propping herself against the edge…or perhaps using the table as the only thing that was keeping her from flying into his arms. “It isn’t right,” she whispered. “It isn’t proper or respectable.”
Randall shrugged. “I think we both forfeited the right to call ourselves respectable the moment we each stepped into this saloon.” And then he added his final ace to the argument. “You know, one way or another, we’re going to face scandal for being snowed in together. Might as well make it worthwhile.”
Her bottom lip trembled, but whether it was because she was on the verge of crying or laughing or bursting into some other kind of emotion, he couldn’t tell. She sat there, frozen, her eyes blazing as her thoughts zipped through her head so fast he could practically see the smoke.
And then, all at once, she blinked, and the decision was made, the game was over. She stood so fast that her chair tipped backwards and clattered to the floor. “I do, want you, Randall. I’ve wanted you from the moment you got up on that stage to do your silly brush presentation. More than I ever wanted that stupid lout, Micah. Vicky can have him. She can have everything about that brittle, boring life. I want this life. I want you. And now that we’ve gone through all of the things in the attic and discovered,” she swallowed, pressing her hands to her stomach, “things, I want you even more. I’m tired of being prim and proper and missish. I want to let go. I don’t care if it makes me the same as every other woman who’s slept in this saloon. I want you.”
Randall stood, stepping quickly around the side of the table to be closer to her. “Then take me, darling. I’m yours.”
Chapter 8
A sizzling rush of defiance flashed through Miranda. Yes, defiance—at the ridiculous restrictions she’d been raised with, at the lifeless lady she’d forced herself to be all these years, and at the part of herself that had held onto that for so long. It wasn’t even the whiskey at work. She’d deliberately taken smaller and smaller sips as the game went on. Her head was spinning, but not from that kind of intoxication. Uncle Buford had done a wonderful thing. He’d given her the means to free her true self from the chains polite society had wrapped her in, to stop comparing herself to Vicky and pretending to want the things her sister wanted. Now was the time to unwrap the gift of who she truly was.
She threw herself across the scant space between her and Randall, reaching for his head so that she could pull him close and claim the kiss she’d wanted for what felt like an eternity. His arms closed around her, pulling her closer still, and a relieved groan welled up from his chest as their lips met. It wasn’t a teasing, coquettish kiss either. She opened herself to him in a way that wouldn’t have been possible just days ago, her tongue meeting his with an urgency that was almost comical.
She’d never kissed with tongues before. She’d only ever heard whispers that it was done. Fortunately, Randall knew what he was doing. He tasted her deeply, one hand shifting to caress her breast through the layers of fabric she suddenly wished weren’t there. He nibbled on her lip, slanted his kiss so that he could suck the air right out of her. Then he moved on, planting hot, damp kisses along her jaw and down her neck.
“Oh, why did we wait so long to do this?” she sighed, tugging the hem of his shirt out of his trousers. As soon as his shirt hung loose, she spread her hands across the heated flesh of his abdomen. Waves of excitement shivered through her.
“Because we were under the mistaken assumption that we had to behave ourselves,” Randall answered, his breath hot against her neck.
“We’re in a saloon,” she sighed, leaving his skin to work the buttons of his vest loose. “No one behaves themselves in a saloon.”
“What were we thinking?” Randall agreed.
He straightened, and his gaze focused on her chest, or rather her clothes. As she finished with the buttons of his vest, giving him a moment to shrug out of it and drop it to the floor, he studied her blouse. She wasn’t wearing anything fancy, just a simple blouse and skirt with a wide belt, as had become the fashion. But he seemed confused.
“They’re in the back,” she panted, then turned, lifting her hair—which was only half up, the rest free down her back—to show him a row of buttons.
“Thank heavens.” He breathed out and reached for the fastenings of the wide belt first. “For a second there I thought I was going to have to rip the clothes from your body, and that’s not as easy as it sounds.”
She couldn’t help but laugh, at the absurdity of his comment and the entire situation. But also at the wriggling pleasure that filled her as his hands made quick work of the buttons down her back. Her blouse and then her skirt sagged loose. Cool air kissed her warm skin, and as soon as Randall had pushed the lightly puffed sleeves of her blouse down over her arms, he kissed her as well.
A shudder hit her at the brush of his lips against the back of her shoulder, and she sighed loudly with the joy of it. Who would have thought that the simple act of a man kissing her and smoothing his hands along the stiff fabric of her corset from behind could provide such scintillating bliss? It wasn’t nearly enough, though.
She went to work on the hooks of her corset, and as soon as it dropped to the floor, she spun to settle herself back in Randall’s arms again. “It’s not fair for me to be the only one undressing,” she whispered, glancing up at him with a new kind of impishness. She unfastened the buttons at the top of his shirt, but before she could make it
through more than a few, Randall pulled his shirt off entirely.
“You’re right.” He tossed the shirt aside and went to work on the fastenings of his distinctly tented trousers.
Never had undressing or watching someone undress felt more like unwrapping a Christmas present. Maybe it was the alcohol working its magic that banished every bit of self-consciousness, though she suspected it was much more. She licked her lips and watched hungrily as inch after inch of Randall’s skin was revealed, broad chest, flat abdomen, strong thighs, and, at last, an impressive staff that sent expectant prickles dashing through her. When he kicked aside his trousers, standing tall, her knees went weak and a distinct part of her clenched with need.
“Now you’re the one being unfair.” His voice took on a new, silken, almost demanding tone. She pulled her eyes up from his manly bits in time to meet his eyes as he reached for the hem of her chemise.
He made quick work of the flimsy garment and of her drawers as well, leaving her in nothing but her stockings, her garters pinching in a way that made the rest of the sensations of her body that much more heightened. Her initial instinct was to cover herself, but she fought that, reaching for him instead.
“You’re so beautiful.” His hands caressed her bare hips, dipped down to explore the curve of her backside, then ventured up her sides to test the weight of her breasts. “But then, I knew you would be.” He imparted his words against the line of her neck, followed them with soft, succulent kisses.
“You’re the most magnificent thing I’ve ever seen.” The words sounded deep and strange as she arched toward him, letting, no, hoping, no, aching for him to touch her in a thousand intimate ways.
He seemed to read her thoughts, brushing his thumbs over her nipples until they formed tight, aching buds. She let out a breath that could well be described as a whimper and spread her hands across his back.
As intoxicating as the moment was, there was too much strain in exploring each other standing up. She felt it, and she knew Randall felt it too when he moved his hands to her waist and bottom and lifted her clean off the floor and into his arms. She wrapped her legs around him by instinct, then gasped at the sensation of that stiff part of him rubbing against the juncture of her thighs. It was like kindling bursting alight. She knew that she needed much, much more of that.
Randall twisted and marched straight to her tiny bedroom, pushing the thin curtain aside with one hand and holding her against him with the other. There was hardly space to turn around in the teensy room, so with one sharp pivot, he twisted to lay her on the narrow bed, then descended to cover her. A whole new world of delight met Miranda as he nudged his way between her thighs and kissed her. He guided her to lift her arms above her head, then left them there as he traced his fingers and palms down the length of her body.
The long, sensuous exploration left her feeling exposed and deliciously helpless. She was his, completely, and he seemed determined to make the most of it. His mouth followed where his hands led, and as he enveloped one breast, raking his tongue across her nipple, she gasped in delight.
“Randy.” She breathed out his nickname, all hints of the silliness it usually brought to mind replaced by pure intimacy.
He hummed in victory, leaving her breast to kiss his way down the flat of her stomach, around her navel, and lower still. He scooted further down the tiny bed as he went, until with a sudden jolt he nearly fell off the end. His eyes went wide in shock and he tensed as he balanced himself, then he broke into slow, luxurious laughter. Laughter which only heightened Miranda’s feeling that she was about to explode into light.
“All right,” he said, crawling his way back up until his face hovered right above hers. “Looks like we’ll be saving some things until we have a larger bed.”
Miranda’s thoughts scattered in a thousand directions, caught between “what things?” and “you mean we’ll definitely do this again?” She couldn’t get a single thought to pass her lips, though, especially when Randall dipped down for another soul-stealing kiss.
When he broke that kiss, giving her a chance to breathe, his hand was already moving down across her hip toward her inner thigh. “We’ll just have to try this, then.”
The titillating hint of his words was followed moments later by the stroke of his fingers across the most intimate part of her. Miranda gasped and arched, trying her best to wriggle her legs wider apart in the confined space. Her efforts were a smashing success, and he delved deeper, sending bolts of pleasure through her. He found and teased a particular part of her, and she gasped, “Yes, let’s try that.”
Devilish laughter shook his chest, adding to the already unbelievable sensations his hand was producing. Her body thrummed to all of it, reaching higher and higher as he stroked and circled, until she hit a swelling burst of sensation with a loud, “Oh!”
The throbbing, shivering, electric feeling of utter pleasure and intimacy swallowed her whole, like nothing she’d ever experienced. But as amazing as it was, she didn’t want to experience it on her own. Instinct drove her to reach for Randall, to close her arms around him, hands reaching for his backside, nails pressing into his flesh, urging him to give her more.
He accepted her prodding with a growl that had her pulsing with need all over again, before her body’s shudders were completely finished. He shifted, gripping her thighs and maneuvering them until she was even more open to him. Her breathing came in short, shallow gasps, her skin prickling as she knew her whole world was about to change.
She felt a hot insistence sink into the part of her already slaked with pleasure, and then he pushed. Not only did the whole world change, but she embraced that change wholeheartedly, straining into him as he filled her. The momentary shock of tearing within her was quickly replaced by the instinctual perfectness of being stretched, taken, possessed. She cried out with bliss at the feeling, repeating those cries with heavier and heavier breaths as he thrust and moved inside of her.
Soon his cries mingled with her own, the two of them giving into utter abandon. The tiny bed creaked and thumped against the wall to the point where Miranda would have laughed if she wasn’t so absorbed in the pleasure of Randall. And then his body tensed, an otherworldly moan of completion welled from him, and he gradually subsided into gentle rocking. Even that gave way as he relaxed, spent, and flopped to her side as best he could.
There wasn’t enough space in the bed to spread out, but Miranda didn’t care. She wanted to remain wrapped up with Randall for as long as possible. If it made her just as wicked as any of the other women who had done the same thing in the saloon’s beds, then so be it. In her heart, she knew that what she’d just experienced went far beyond anything the whole world had ever known.
The moment Randall peeled his eyes open the next morning, he knew things were different. And that was putting it mildly. For the first time since arriving at The Holey Bucket, he woke up warm. The soft heat of Miranda’s body twined with his warmed him inside and out. He wasn’t going to lie, she felt good stretched beside him in the tiny bed. There wasn’t really room for both of them, but they were making do. Just like they had for the past…was it six days now? Seven? He’d lost track.
He went to move, rolling to his side to begin the process of extracting himself from her so that he could go light the fires. That’s when his head throbbed.
With a groan, he sank back down to the bed by Miranda’s side. Moments later, her fuzzy voice formed a syllable something like, “Whaaa.” She twisted slowly to lay on her side facing him, their arms around each other because there was nowhere else to put them. At last, her eyes fluttered open, though she couldn’t quite meet his gaze.
Randall went back to thinking about his aching head. He hadn’t had that much to drink, had he? Had…he? He had. He must have, though it hadn’t seemed like it at the time. His breath hitched as he thought about just how guilty he was going to feel over taking advantage of Miranda when they were both a little more inebriated than they should have been.
She hesitated, holding her breath too. Her gaze slowly lifted to meet his. Once it did, a smile spread just as slowly across her face, and she stretched. The lithe movements of her body had him gasping in a breath even before she said, “Wicked.”
She took another breath, let out a cat-like groan of pleasure, then all at once she snapped taut, sitting up. “Oh, dear.” She scrambled for the blanket, clutching it to her chest to hide what he would really have liked a better glimpse of. In the process, she tugged the blanket completely off of him, revealing what he would probably do best to hide. “Oh, dear!”
A borderline hysterical look came to her eyes. Randall couldn’t tell if she was about to burst into laughter or tears. “Are you all right?” He sat up straight, his arms and legs suddenly feeling too long and bulky in the narrow bed.
Miranda’s eyes drank in the sight of him, growing wider by the second. “We really did all that, didn’t we?”
“We did.” Blast it, but he couldn’t tell if she was delighted or horrified. All he could judge from the tension in her perfect, shapely body was that she was emotional. How was he supposed to know what he should be feeling if he couldn’t judge how she felt? “Does your head hurt?” he asked clumsily. “Mine hurts.” He rubbed his temples, eyes closed.
Miranda shook her head. “No, I’m fine.”
He opened one eye. “Does…anything else hurt?”
Her cheeks flared pink. “Um…”
“I’m so sorry,” he breathed out in a rush.
“Don’t be!” Her eyes snapped wider.
Wild Western Women Mistletoe, Montana: Sweet Western Historical Holiday Box Set Page 28