He would not take no for an answer. As surely as night follows day, she knew that J. T. Flannery was not a man to be thwarted, especially on his wedding night.
And the man who stood in the doorway behind her lived up to that conclusion as she viewed his tall form in the mirror. Not hesitating one little bit, he crossed the threshold, closing the door firmly behind him as he entered his bride’s domain.
“Chloe?” His voice was a husky drawl, and she heard her name murmured in syllables that drizzled desire, even as they fell from his lips.
She turned her head, and J.T. watched as her startled look dissolved into confusion. Sitting before the mirror, with an enormous amount of white cotton material surrounding her, she resembled a cloud with an angel perched in the center. And at that thought, his mouth twitched into a smile. Not an angel, not his Chloe. Perhaps a very young, very innocent woman, but he’d heard her ripe language too often to designate her as a heavenly being.
She rose quickly, smoothing down the yards of fabric she sat amidst, her face flushed as though she’d been interrupted in the midst of a private and personal perusal of herself. Her mouth was turned up at one corner, the smile trembling on her lips, and she clutched her hands before her, her knuckles white, her fingers tightly clasped together. And in her eyes was a shadow that might have been fear, if he hadn’t known that Chloe feared no one and nothing on this ranch.
Except perhaps the unknown. She’d worried about Peter, wondering what he was up to, and had fretted about the purchase of the paint stallion until he’d set her mind at ease. Now she looked up with an expression of uncertainty that touched his heart. Chloe was afraid of what would happen, here in this room, between bride and groom.
And so J.T. grinned at her, sitting on the chair next to the door to pull his boots off. He tossed them in the direction of the wardrobe and watched as she hastened to sit them upright, side by side, as if any occupation that would fill her hands was better than waiting for her future to begin.
He pulled his stockings off and laid them next to his chair, his movements slow, his gaze flickering over her as she moved around the room. Her hairbrush lay on the floor and she stumbled over it, bending to pick it up, her cheeks flushing anew.
“I’m glad you left your hair down for me,” he said quietly. “Would you like me to brush it for you?”
Her glance touched him and veered to one side, where the door was tightly closed. “It’s all snarled,” she said, absently picking at several strands of hair tangled in her brush.
“Go sit on the bed and I’ll help you with it,” he offered, rising and ambling toward the quilt-covered feather tick. His fingers casually slipping buttons from their moorings, he dropped his shirt on the floor before he sat down on the edge of the mattress to wait for her. She was slow in moving toward him, her feet brushing against the braided rug, her toes curling under as she reached his side.
“I’ll tell you what, sweetheart,” he said with an easy smile. “Just sit on the floor in front of me and I’ll be able to reach it better.”
She nodded, handing him the brush, and slid to sit between his feet. Her knees rose and she pulled the gown over them, enclosing herself in its folds, looking like a child buried in a snowbank. Yet this was no child he dealt with, but a young woman who had had no mother to speak with, whose father had treated her as a second son, and whose total experience with men probably consisted of the few kisses they had exchanged.
His fingers worked at unsnarling the mess she’d made, brushing out one curl after another, pulling the brush through the length of dark, silky waves, and his fingers ached to tug her head backward so that her face would be exposed to him, enabling him to scatter kisses over its surface. It would frighten her, he decided, but another time he would not hesitate to capture her to play the game of love in such a manner.
For several minutes he brushed, easy, smooth strokes that seemed to put her at ease, and then he tossed the brush aside and, easing his hands beneath her arms, he lifted her from the floor, catching her as she would have fallen. She groped for him as he swung her in his embrace, and together they sprawled across the width of the bed. Her face was rosy, her eyes wide, and her mouth was an invitation he could not refuse.
He brushed it with his own, then eased back to meet her gaze. “Sweetheart, are you afraid of me?” he asked quietly, and watched as her teeth pressed against her lower lip to stop its trembling.
“No, I don’t think so,” she whispered. “I just don’t know what you expect of me, and I wasn’t sure what we were going to do tonight.”
“I’m not sure, either,” he admitted. “I want to make love to my bride, but if you say no, I’ll understand.” And probably die of frustration.
“I thought maybe we were just going to share the bed, because you didn’t want anyone to think…” Her voice trailed off and he rescued her with a quick nod.
“I care more about what you think, Clo. And if you’re not ready for me to make you my wife, I’ll wait.” But, damn! I sure don’t want to.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever be any more ready,” she admitted. “When we talked the other day, I thought we could just share my room for a while, you know, maybe a couple of weeks or so, before we…before you…”
He’d be dead with this much temptation in front of him for a couple of weeks, he thought glumly. “I think you’re ready,” he said decisively, bending to kiss her again, teasing her with butterfly strokes that fell across her face.
She giggled. Chloe, who laughed aloud, who grinned joyously at times, actually giggled, and his heart twitched in his chest. Now, she’d done it. Invaded for sure the last citadel of his defenses, creeping past his intention of holding himself aloof and remaining in control. With one small, girlish giggle, she’d brought him to his knees, that gurgle of laughter magnifying her innocence.
“Chloe? Can I take off the rest of my clothes?” And if the answer was no, his own needs would simply slip further into limbo. Whatever it took, he vowed silently to provide her with a wedding night to cherish.
She blinked at his query and solemnly nodded, then watched as he lifted from the bed and blew out the lamp she’d left burning on the table. In the darkness he heard her breath catch in her throat, and he spoke of nonsense, of the food eaten and the dances danced and the stack of gifts left on the parlor table. In moments he’d stripped to his drawers, and stood over her.
She was easy to spot, there in the middle of the bed, her nightgown white against the quilt, her face a pale oval, surrounded by dark hair. “What do you want me to do?” she asked, and he was humbled by her words.
He sat beside her and drew her up onto his lap, his palm pressing her head against his shoulder. “I just want you to enjoy our time together,” he said easily. “Do you know anything about making love, Chloe?”
“No, I’m afraid not.” It was a sad little whisper, as if she felt somehow lacking.
“Well, then this should be as easy as pie,” he said cheerfully. “You’ll just do whatever I tell you, won’t you?”
Her hesitation was brief, but her head nodded after a moment. “All right.”
“Unbutton your nightgown, sweetheart,” he said, his even tones belying the rapid beat of his heart.
Her fingers, normally agile, seemed to turn into an assortment of thumbs, as she fiddled with the buttons, finally reaching the bottom of the placket after much mumbling and muttering on her part. “There.” As if some great accomplishment had taken place, she heaved a sigh.
He slid one hand beneath the white fabric and she jerked, a movement he hushed with kisses that took her attention. She lifted her face, the better to meet his lips, and his hand found the treasure it sought. Round, firm and possessed of a small, puckered nubbin at its peak, her breast filled his palm.
Glory be! A rush of exaltation filled him to the brim, and he kissed her more deeply, pressing her lips apart with the tip of his tongue. She responded quickly, opening for the gentle invasion, and her arm crept up
to encircle his neck.
“You taste like hard likker,” she whispered, gaining her breath as he pressed a series of kisses across her cheek.
“And how would you know what hard likker tastes like?” he asked with a chuckle, his thumb moving casually across the crest of her breast.
“I snuck a taste of Pa’s once, but I didn’t like it. It’s not so bad secondhand though.”
“Your mouth is sweet, like the wedding cake Tilly made for us,” he told her. “Do you suppose this tastes the same?” His hand squeezed gently at its contents and she inhaled sharply.
“I never heard of such a thing. Why would you want to taste me there?”
It was going to be a long night, he decided, and about the only way he was going to make any progress was to strip Chloe of her covering. And then seduce her.
“You’ll find out in just a few minutes,” he said bluntly. “But I think we’ll do better if we get you out of this bolt of yard goods first,” he said, hoisting her against himself and tugging at her garment’s hemline. It slid easily up the length of her legs and with a judicious amount of shifting and tickling and smothering her laughter with his mouth, he had it pulled over her head. In another moment he’d slid from his drawers and tossed them to the floor, then returned to her, pressing her against the feather tick and wishing fervently that he’d left the lamp glowing.
She was warm beneath him, her breasts against his chest, her legs held in place by his thigh. With an experimental wiggle she managed to lift one knee, and the solid weight of his thigh slid to be sandwiched between hers. Her breath caught, an audible sound, and he bent to whisper against her ear.
“Did I hurt you?”
“Oh, no. It just felt…kinda, sorta…odd.” And as she spoke, she lifted her hips, enclosing his muscular leg more tightly in place.
“Odd? As in good or bad?” His tone was amused as he waited patiently for her to absorb the movement of his thigh against her body.
“Oh…good, I think.” She looked up at him, squinting in the dim light provided by the moon and stars outside the window. “You’re not teasing me, are you?”
“No, sweetheart. I just want this to be…” He sought for a word, and murmured it with quiet certainty. “Perfect, absolutely perfect.” His head dropped to her breast and he brushed his nose across the plump surface. Beneath his mouth, the pebbled crest was a temptation he could not resist and he nuzzled it with his lips, aware of her stillness as she absorbed this new sensation.
He suckled gently, drawing his prize to be touched by the edges of his teeth and was rewarded by a murmur of pleasure. Chloe’s hand swept to her mouth, stilling the moan, but he reached to remove her fingers.
“I want to know if you like what I’m doing, sweetheart. I can’t hear you with your hand over your mouth.”
“Oh, Jay.” It was a gift he reveled in, the joyous whispering of a name she’d never spoken before, that only his mother had used in his childhood years. “Jay?” She repeated it, lifting her hand to touch his cheek, an unspoken message that told him she was willing to travel this road with him. And then her fingers made their way to the back of his head, tunneling through dark hair, gripping him with the strength of a woman whose hands were strong and agile.
And yet she was soft, rounded and purely female. His hand slid to span her belly, one finger circling the rim of her navel, before it probed gently within the small hollow. Shifting his weight from her he exposed her lower body, and his palm slid to her hip, the better to explore her silken skin. He lifted her leg higher, his fingers brushing the smooth flesh behind her knee and up the inside of her thigh, slowing his pace as she shivered and caught her breath again.
“Chloe?” Teasing the dark thicket of curls, he listened to her soft murmurs, his fingers careful as he discovered the flesh beneath. “Do you trust me?”
Her head nodded, a jerky movement, and her breathing was shallow and choppy, as if she hesitated on the brink of a cliff, torn between throwing herself on the mercy of what lay out of sight, or withdrawing into what was old and familiar.
J.T.’s mouth opened over her breast again as his fingers teased the exquisite, moist flesh that proclaimed her a woman. She twitched against his agile hand, then repeated the movement, a low whimper telling him she had discovered a new source of pleasure. One long finger traced through folds of flesh, searching for the place he yearned to make his own. His body throbbed with anticipation, his arousal even now pressed eagerly against her hip, and he eased himself with a careful movement.
Not yet. Not yet. His mind repeated the admonition and he gritted his teeth against the temptation to pierce that hidden place without further delay. Not yet. Not yet. He’d gained her trust, and to take his own satisfaction without bringing her to pleasure would undo everything he’d managed to accomplish.
There…he closed his eyes, willing his eagerness into abeyance, as his finger dipped within the constricting muscle. She whimpered against his ear, rising up beneath him to capture that errant member, and he moved it within her body, exultant as she met each thrust.
“Do you like that?” he asked softly, increasing the depth of his exploration by tiny increments. Until he reached the telltale barrier that proclaimed her a virgin.
“Do something,” she whispered, her movements more urgent as he slid his finger from her body, and then back, once last time, to where her muscles clenched tightly.
“All right, sweetheart,” he said, rising above her, lifting her legs higher to provide easier entry.
A shout from the yard, just outside the bedroom window, halted his movement and he turned to look unbelievingly through the window as men milled about the yard, mounted on horseback. And then another voice rose, calling his name.
Chapter Eight
Beneath him, Chloe stiffened, one hand grasping for the sheet, the other pressing against his chest. “Jay? What’s wrong?”
“Hell, I don’t know,” he snarled. “But it better be a damn sight more important than what was goin’ on here just now, or there’ll be bloodshed out there.”
His head dropped to rest against the side of her face, and his murmur was low. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.” And then he was gone from her, rolling across the bed to snatch at his pants and shirt, his feet sliding into his boots as he fought with buttons and buttonholes.
Chloe watched from the bed, dazed by his speed, frightened by the sounds of the men in the yard. Gathering the sheet around her, she rose and scrambled to the window, standing to one side, lest she be seen. “They’re bringing your horse out from the barn right now,” she told J.T. and heard his grunt of acknowledgment as he tucked in his shirt.
“Stay right here, Chloe. If there’s trouble, I don’t want you in the middle of it.”
He’d given her orders before, and she’d managed to coax her way past his reservations. But the tone of his voice warned her against any protest she might think to utter this time. “I mean it,” he said harshly. “You stay in the house.”
“All right.” It was the least she could do, this simple accedence to his will. And then he was gone, making no attempt to muffle the sound of boots against the floors, allowing the back door to slam shut behind him.
She was dressed in moments, searching out her underwear which still lay on the chair where she’d dropped it prior to donning her nightgown. Snatching a pair of pants and a shirt from her drawer, she slid into them quickly. Should he change his mind, she’d be ready to ride with him.
Stumbling over the rug in the hallway, she clutched at her foot, hopping on the other as she made for the kitchen. Once at the back door, she watched through the screen as J.T. tightened his cinch. One of the men had hung a lantern in front of the barn, and the faces it exposed to light were stark and angry.
“How many head?” she heard J.T. ask as he mounted his stallion.
“Tom didn’t know for certain. Said it looked like about fifty.”
“Damn, we can’t afford that,” J.T. snarled. His glance back at
the house was quick, and he spared a moment to ride toward the porch.
“Rustlers,” he said, the single word holding a wealth of fury in its depth.
Chloe’s gaze swept the mounted men. “Where’s Pete?”
“That’s what I’d like to know,” J.T. said shortly, and then he was gone, the rest of the men riding out behind him. Six men heading toward the north, where the heart of the Double B’s herd was in summer grazing land. There wouldn’t be much they could do in the dark, and yet by morning’s first light, they might find tracks. And Chloe knew that doing nothing in the meantime was not to be considered.
It was the way of a rancher to protect his holdings, and Chloe did not envy anyone J.T. warranted deserved his anger. Including Pete. Maybe especially Pete, given the fact that family loyalties should amount to something, and J.T. would be protecting Chloe’s interests, first and foremost.
She closed her eyes, her mind scanning the events of the evening. Pete had been there after the ceremony, and even during the dancing. For a while, she’d watched him hover in the background, holding a plate and eating. Had he been among the dancers? She’d seen the ranch hands dancing with young women from town, all but Corky, who was with the herd.
And now that she scanned her memories, neither had Pete been among those who frolicked across the barn floor, their feet flying in time to the music and Howie’s chanting of the calls.
“Where do you suppose that scallywag’s gone to?” Behind her, Tilly’s husky tones only added to Chloe’s fears. “I knew he was stewin’ about you marrying J.T., but I thought once the deed was done, he’d settle down. Guess I was wrong,” she added glumly, tugging the belt of her wrapper tightly about her abundant waist.
“I don’t even know him anymore,” Chloe told her, turning from the doorway as Tilly stretched to light the lamp over the table. “Maybe he’s left for good this time.”
“Or maybe he’s runnin’ with the wrong crowd,” Tilly predicted. Sniffing at the coffeepot, she grimaced and turned toward the sink. “This could use a fresh start,” she said, rinsing it in the sink and measuring a handful of fresh grounds. In moments she’d held it beneath the kitchen pump, and filled the blue-speckled container with water.
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