The Marrying Kind

by Sharon Ihle

  "Relax," he said, tossing her drawers aside. "There's no hurry—remember?"

  But there was for Libby. She had a terrible need to hurry, especially now that he'd nudged her legs apart with his knee. She could feel herself radiating heat, craving his touch in the most private of places. And when he did touch her there at last, Libby thought she might die from the pleasure. Reacting with an almost primitive spontaneity, she clenched Donovan's upper arms, her fingers digging into the hard muscles there, then raised her hips to press herself against his fingers as hard as she could. It was an instinctual move, a way to make sure he continued to caress her until there were no more surprises. She sensed that something, the final discovery, lay just around the corner, a heartbeat away.

  "Donovan, don't stop... I feel so... so, oh..." The words, coming between gasps, sounded odd to her, husky, and almost foreign. "What do I do now? Tell me what you want me to do."

  "I do," he whispered, sounding vaguely amused. "You enjoy."

  He abruptly shifted his hips after that, and in the next instant, pushed something hot and hard gently against her maidenhead. Donovan hovered there for what seemed like forever, slowly gaining entrance to her body, then gathered her tightly in his arms. With a muttered oath she couldn't understand, at last he drove home with one final thrust.

  Pain lanced through her, swift and sword-like, and Libby had to bite her lip to keep from crying out. She couldn't turn into a blubbering baby now, not after all the coaxing she'd done to urge him to bring her this far so fast. Hadn't he warned her to slow down? Donovan shifted his body again, and preparing herself, she quickly braced for another wave of pain. It didn't happen. Instead of withdrawing and thrusting into her again, he only moved back far enough to see if she was all right. Far enough, in fact, to see the tear pooled at the corner of her eye, a betrayal of the promise she'd made to herself.

  "I hurt you," he murmured, his voice hoarse with emotion. "I'm sorry."

  "No, you didn't. Not really."

  But he didn't believe her. If he had, he wouldn't have cupped her face between his hands the way he did, or gently kissed the teardrop away. Funny, how that little show of affection touched her, tough and independent as Liberty Ann Justice considered herself to be, for that innocent gesture prompted more tears, sent them spilling over both eyelids in a flood of embarrassment.

  "Oh, my God, I'm sorry. I don't know what's come over me." Libby hiccuped, feeling like an idiot. "I don't mean to be so—"

  "Eager?" he said, making it easy for her.

  At his bemused tone, the gentle, non-accusing way he spoke, Libby dared a glance into Donovan's eyes. They were smiling warmly, as was his mouth—a mouth, she suddenly realized, she couldn't wait to feel against her own again. Still feeling slightly silly, Libby nodded, teeth tugging at the spot she'd bitten on her bottom lip, and whispered, "Maybe a little too eager, I guess."

  He laughed deeply. "In that case, I guess I ought to see if I can't get you going again."

  Before she could question or even encourage him, Donovan was kissing her, plumbing her more deeply and thoroughly than before. When she began to stir restlessly beneath him, he slipped his hand between their bodies and quickly brought her back to the edge of that final surprise. Then he started moving within her, hard pulsating male driving in and out of velvety soft female, filling and stretching her until she thought she'd go mad from the delicious frustration of it all. A moment later, with a sudden and surprising intensity, she climaxed in a hard, molten rush, an explosion so fiery, Libby was sure she must have melted at her very core.

  Right on the heels of her own release, before she'd gathered an ounce of her wits again, Donovan collapsed against her breasts, his body jerking and thrusting in the final throes of his own passion. Then at once, he stilled and, bodies locked together as one, they rested.

  * * *

  Libby stirred in her own bed the next morning, satisfied, but vaguely disappointed. She felt almost robbed. As she slowly awakened and regained a few of her senses, the night and Donovan's fiercely gratifying love-making came back to her. That's when she realized what was missing.

  Donovan.

  Opening her eyes, Libby turned her head from side to side, even though she knew in advance what she'd find. She was alone, and had been since he'd gallantly escorted her upstairs to her room. He'd left quickly after that, muttering something about taking care of business, and urging her to get a good night's sleep. But she hadn't slept all that well, she recalled, still feeling bereft and unfulfilled.

  Oh, she was physically satisfied all right, and in ways she'd never imagined the body could be satisfied. In fact, had she not personally met Zeke, the rancher, she might almost have understood how his wife could have stayed with him long enough to bear at least the first child, if not all thirteen. Almost.

  Physical satisfaction obviously hadn't been enough for the poor rancher's woman—and it sure as hell wasn't enough for Libby. She knew now that she wanted more, much, much more, and to hell with Victoria Woodhull and those who claimed that "free love" was the only way for an intelligent, independent woman to live. If she hadn't guessed it about herself before, Libby now knew for certain that she didn't want to be "free" to love other men. She wanted Donovan, and only Donovan, for as long as she lived. And, impossible a dream as it might be, she wanted him to want only her.

  In the hallway outside Libby's room, Donovan leaned against her door, fingers splayed around the doorjamb. He'd been standing there for ten minutes dreading what he was sure would turn out to be the kind of confrontation he'd avoided all his life—mainly because he'd had enough sense to avoid virgins. But then, along had come Libby. Absently caressing the mound of wood beneath his palm the way he'd caressed her satiny skin the night before, he considered the fact that women like Libby probably didn't give up their virginity easily—and that when they did, such a gift most surely came with strings. Ties he was not interested in making.

  So he continued to stand there, terrified of the strings she might have in mind for him, thinking that by now she'd had time to weave them into a piece of hemp thick enough to hang him. How could he have let himself get into this situation? Had he completely lost his mind? Donovan had wondered that same thing last night after taking Libby up to her room. He'd run out of his own house like his ass was on fire, run like a frightened rabbit—him, frightened, and of a woman, of all things.

  Rationalizing what he'd done, what he had to do now, Donovan decided that not much of what had happened last night had been his fault. He was almost certain that Libby would never have bedded him, had he not turned out to be a Savage. She'd gotten what she'd wanted—just not for as long as she'd hoped. So why should he feel guilty?

  Relaxing a little at the thought, he finally worked up enough courage to tap on her door. He heard what he thought was a muffled yes, so he opened the door a crack and peeked in. "Libby? May I come in?"

  "Oh, ah... of course."

  He heard the rustle of the bed coverings and of Libby adjusting her position. Giving her enough privacy to put herself together, Donovan kept his gaze averted until he'd reach the foot of the bed. When he finally did chance a look at her, he was surprised by what he saw.

  There were no recriminating glances or signs of regret in her expression, no pouts or remorseful sighs. In fact, after the wild night they'd spent together, he could hardly believe how bright and innocent she looked this morning. She was wrapped up to her neck in a virginal white nightgown, her loose auburn hair mussed, but tamed enough to tumble over her shoulders in seductive waves. He managed to shake off the urge to plunge his hands back into that silken hair, and might have been able to resist the impulse to get close enough to inhale another whiff of her springtime scent—but then she turned those big calf eyes on him, eyes that demanded no promises and told no lies.

  Donovan inched his way to the edge of the bed. "Mind if I sit down?"

  "Of course not." She patted the mattress next to her hip. As he sat down beside her, she
went on in a much softer voice. "I missed you last night. I wish you could have stayed in here with me."

  "I, er," he cleared his throat, not quite as prepared for the confrontation as he'd thought. "I had to go back to the saloon. I work there, you know." Something had changed in her eyes. They were no longer calf-like, but predatory, with the kind of look that said she'd staked her claim on him—on a Savage. That thought made it easy for Donovan to explain the way things were while he still could. "Libby, let me make this clear. Even if I hadn't gone back to Lil's last night, I wouldn't have stayed in here with you. I make it a habit not to sleep with... well, I like to sleep in my own bed, alone."

  "Oh," she said breezily, "I guess that does make sense, now that I think of it. No complications that way, right? No getting used to a person snuggled beside you during the night, waking you up, and all."

  "Ah, that'd be about it, all right."

  He narrowed his gaze, studying her deeply, the way he studied a new player in a poker game. Something was amiss. She was too cheerful, too understanding, but her expression was impossible to read well enough to figure out what she was up to. If she'd been playing poker, she probably could have bluffed him out of a boxed flush with that expression. It occurred to him then that she might not be bluffing, that she didn't care any more than he did, and his "no strings attached" terms really were just fine with her.

  Oddly disappointed by the thought, he snapped, "I might as well get right to the point of why I stopped to talk to you before I went to my own room."

  "Please do." Beneath the quilt, she drew her legs up and hugged them to her chest. Then she dropped her chin to her knees and glanced up at him like a mournful little puppy.

  Donovan had to look elsewhere before he could go on. He settled his gaze on the little bit of lace at her wrists. "I'm trying to be as delicate as I can about this, without causing you any embarrassment."

  "Why should I be embarrassed?"

  Oddly disconcerted himself, he shrugged. Libby gave him a tight smile, gesturing for him to go on. Feeling as if he'd just been invited to dig his own grave—with his tongue—he explained himself. "I just wanted to make sure you remembered what I told you last night, and that you're not expecting too much from me today."

  Libby laughed, surprising him all over again. "Apparently you think I've given you some sort of gift, but I assure you, I don't look at it that way at all. As far as I'm concerned, I finally got the chance to find out what this lovemaking fuss is all about."

  So flip was she in her remarks, Donovan thought she might as well have added, "and you were handy." Suddenly irritated, he snapped, "I'm glad to hear that. I do appreciate your position, but I still feel like I owe you a little something. I thought if I were to have a good long talk with R. T. today about your newspaper, that it might, you know, go a long way toward making things right between us."

  So that was it. Libby had been sitting there in a tug-of-war with her heart, trying desperately to listen to Donovan with only her mind so that she might understand exactly what the underlying purpose for his visit might be. Now she knew. He needed to offer something, had to find a way to make things even between them—not right. Clearly, he couldn't bear the idea of being beholden to her. Or maybe he felt trapped. As much as she wanted him, all of him, Libby wasn't about to accept anything he offered under either of those terms. Gaining editorial freedom for the Tribune was the only thing she was supposed to care about.

  Swallowing her pride and a few unshed tears, she toughened her heart and her voice as she said, "Now that you mention it, that does sound like a rather nice compromise. You'll do it, then? You'll talk R. T. into letting me run the Tribune my way?"

  His gaze flickered with speculation for just a moment, then turned playful. "You got it. In fact, I'll go have that talk with him first thing this morning."

  Libby offered her hand, hoping that he wouldn't notice how badly it was trembling. "It's a deal."

  He slid his palm across hers in a very provocative manner, then gripped her hand tightly. Taking her by surprise, Donovan pulled Libby out from under the quilt and across his lap. Nuzzling her behind the ear, he whispered, "I can think of a much better way to seal our deal than shaking on it. What do you think?"

  Robbing her of the opportunity to think at all, Donovan slid the fingers of his free hand into her hair, then turned her head around until her lips met his. He kissed her deeply, fiercely, stealing her breath, and as she'd feared, a good part of her mind. His lips blistered a trail along the side of her neck, then settled against the hollow at her throat where he began to murmur to her, the sound slightly muffled.

  "I've heard it said that the first time isn't usually so good for a woman." He raised up and caught her in his impassioned gaze. "I don't know if that's true, but I figure as long as we're striking a bargain, you might as well get your money's worth. Besides, I can promise you this—slower is better."

  Unable to prevent an automatic reaction to both his words and his touch, Libby sucked in her breath. She shouldn't be allowing him this. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew that melting every time he touched her could only hurt her in the long run. But where was she to find the strength to turn him away now? How could she, while Donovan was doing such marvelously wicked things to her?

  He was kissing her everywhere, her throat, her mouth, the lobes of her ears, sliding his erotically charged hands under her nightgown, along her inner thighs, and at last, reaching and caressing the most wanton part of her. She inhaled sharply at the first onslaught of sensation, and his scent flooded her like mulled wine, hot, heady, filling her senses to overflowing.

  She knew she should stop him all right, that she ought to demand he at least hear her terms before things went any further. But he hadn't played fair. He'd bribed her by offering another little gift, a surprise package she simply couldn't refuse.

  Libby had never, in her entire life that she could recall, done anything slowly.

  * * *

  True to his word, three hours later Donovan sat in his father's office, listening to him from across the huge slab of polished burled walnut that served as his desk.

  "So you see," R. T. concluded, "there's really nothing I can do to change that policy and help your friend out. Maybe you ought to remind her how lucky she is to have been given the reins of the Laramie Tribune at all, and ask her to stop all this nonsense about equal rights. It'll wind up costing her dearly, if she doesn't."

  Deeply disappointed, not just for Libby, but with his father somehow, Donovan couldn't quite let it go at that. Hell, what would it hurt the man to give just a little? "Maybe I wasn't clear enough. I'm not asking you to turn your entire publishing empire into a forum for equal rights. Libby runs the Tribune in Laramie, not in San Francisco. I don't see how it'd hurt you to compromise a little by letting her write something about the women's vote, say once a month or so."

  R. T. folded his hands together and propped them in the middle of his ink pad. Speaking in a deceptively soft voice, he said, "Perhaps I didn't make myself clear earlier. Thomas—you remember him—the brother you attacked the other night? It may interest you to know, by the way, that you did some damage to his front teeth. Considerable damage, I believe."

  Donovan shrugged. "The son of a bitch had it coming. If you're thinking I ought to apologize for punching him, you'll have a long wait."

  R. T. waved him off. "No, I don't expect that from you. Thomas can be a bit of a hothead, but my point is that he runs S and S Enterprises for me, which owns Savage Publishing. As general manager, he's instituted a strict policy against any of those businesses promoting equal rights in any way, shape, or form."

  "I understand that, I guess." Donovan leaned forward in his chair, leveling a sharp-eyed gaze on his father. "I also understand that you're the man who approves—or breaks—those policies for each of your vast holdings."

  R. T. smiled as if really enjoying himself. "Now, why would you think a thing like that?"

  Returning his
father's smile, feeling like he'd just walked into a game of showdown, winner take all, Donovan felt his pulse quicken as he said, "Good training, I guess. It started a long time ago when I was just a kid. A kindly stranger taught me a few things about gambling."

  His unflappable exterior seemed to ruffle just a bit. R. T.'s voice softened. "A stranger, you say?"

  Pleased to see that he had his father's rapt attention, Donovan rattled the coin in his heel for good luck before realizing the significance of what he'd done. His own manner less gruff, he went on to say, "A stranger who drove several damn fine points into my thick skull. The first was a little adage: A fool and his money are soon parted." R. T. glanced across the desk and nodded conspiratorially. Feeling he somehow owed it to the man, Donovan added, "I'm sorry to say, those words were the first things to cross my mind the minute I met Andrew."

  Leaning back in his chair, R. T. let out a weary sigh. "I suppose I can understand that. Andrew was, well, he never quite grew up, in many ways." He frowned down at his hands for the longest time, but then brightened considerably and asked, "And the next point... Son?"

  Donovan was more than happy to comply. "To always remember that, no matter how many games of chance I learned, or how well I thought I knew them, the knowledge would be useless unless I learned at least as much about the fellas I was playing against. I have, thanks to that kindly stranger, learned a helluva lot more about people over the years, than about the games they play."

  R. T. laughed robustly, something Donovan had never heard him do before. "I guess you remember a little something about your father after all."

  "Yes, I guess I do. And that's how I can tell who calls the shots around here. Now what do you say? Will you give the lady just a little more freedom with her paper?"

  R. T. didn't even pause to consider the request. "We haven't known each other for long, Son, and I really don't want to get into a situation where we could find ourselves exchanging harsh words, so let me say this just one more time. Savage Pub—" then he corrected himself—"or rather, I have a very strict policy against such nonsense, and I am not in the least inclined to let up on it. Now that's enough of this business talk—unless, of course, you want to discuss coming to work for Savage Publishing."