Guilty as Sin (Sinful, Montana Book 1)

by Rosalind James

  “Chickens,” Jace and Lily said together. How are your animals doing? That had been a coyote.

  The moment Jace got the gate open, Tobias was through it. Lily fastened it behind her, and Jace took her hand and followed the dog, focusing his light on the ground ahead of them.

  The gate to the coop was standing open, he saw through the sheets of silver rain. And there was a new sound now, as they came closer. An intense, alarmed cackling, shrill as screaming.

  Lily had bent, was heading into the low door that led into the pen when Jace pulled her back.

  “I need to see,” she said, pulling against his grasp. “What’s in there. Something’s got them.”

  “Tobias,” Jace commanded. “Go get it.”

  The dog didn’t need to hear it twice. He was inside the enclosure, then squeezing his head and front legs into the coop itself. The door to that was open, too. Jace could make out the blackness where there should have been solid wall. The cackling grew even louder, more frantic, and Tobias was backing out again, turning in a half-circle, shaking his head violently back and forth three times, then running for the entrance.

  Lily jumped back, and Jace did, too. The light picked up a pale form clamped in Tobias’s jaws, and a bundle of orange feathers beyond. The dog charged through the gate, shook his head again, then flung the thing hard, and it sailed into the darkness. Dead, Jace would swear, and the chicken with it.

  “Good dog,” Jace said.

  The cackling was still going on inside the coop. Lily said, “There could be more. I need to see. What was that?”

  “Couldn’t tell,” Jace said. “But no. If there were more, Tobias would be going back for them.”

  “The nesting boxes,” she said, and ran through the rain to open the door at the back of the coop. She shone her light inside, and when Jace got there, he shone his, too.

  Chickens running back and forth, cackling in distress. Feathers on the ground, orange and white. And no darting body of a predator.

  “Gone,” he said. “They’re still flustered, is all.”

  She nodded, and then she was turning the lever to close the coop door, going around to the front again to close the gate to the run.

  The storm was fully overhead now, the weather gods putting on a show, lighting up the night. And then the light changed again.

  Lily saw it before he did. “House lights.” They’d gone out, and the blackness was complete.

  He said, “Truck. Let’s go.” They had to get out of the storm, but it wasn’t going to be in the house, not yet.

  She said, “Yes,” and ran with him one more time, a matter of meters to where the truck stood at the bottom of the drive. Jace pulled the tailgate down, told Tobias, “Up,” and the dog went. Lily was already in the cab, and he jumped in, fished his keys out of his pocket, started it up, and hit the headlights.

  She said, “Drive straight up onto the lawn. Right up so you’re in front of the living room. Light it up.”

  He was already going, and she had her bag in her lap. She didn’t pull out the purse gun, either. It was a larger revolver, probably the one that had been in her thigh holster.

  He pulled to a stop where she’d said, the beams on high, shining into the house. The curtains were drawn, but it would help. She had her hand on the door handle, and he grabbed her arm and said, “No.”

  She yanked against his hold, but he didn’t let her go. “Yes,” she said. “It’s my house.”

  “I’m trained for this,” he said. “You’re not.”

  “I’m—” she said, then stopped. He let go of her, reached for the Glock in his ankle holster, and said, “I’ll let you know when it’s clear.”

  “No,” she said. “I’ll go with you. You go left, I go right. I’ve got the kitchen, you’re up the stairs. One door up there, to the bathroom. Dressing room’s this side of the bedroom. Entrance is a curtain, but there’s plenty of room to hide in there.”

  “Back door?” he asked.

  “Side door. Kitchen.” She had her keys out, understanding what he meant. That the lit-up living room meant that anyone in the house would expect them to come in the front. “I’m on your six.”

  He was out of the truck as her words registered, Glock in one hand, Maglite in his hand but not switched on. No sense advertising your position. He motioned Tobias with a hand. The dog leaped over the side of the truck and took up a position behind Lily.

  It didn’t matter what Lily’s story was. Jace still hated that she was here, and he couldn’t stop her. He moved in, squinting against the pelting rain, stepped to one side when they reached the kitchen door, and waited while she unlocked it. She handed the keys to him, and he realized why. She had no pockets. He stuck the bunch into his own pocket and held up a hand, fingers spread, hoping she’d understand him, and counted down.

  Five. Four. Three. Two. One.

  He went in fast and low, and sensed her moving to his right. Kitchen, and she had it. He pressed himself against the arched entrance to the living room and checked it out. Enough light from the headlights to make out shapes. Nothing moving. Tobias moved at his side like a ghost, alert but not alarmed, and Jace let out a breath. If someone were down here, the dog would know.

  “Clear.” He heard the word, soft and low, from behind him.

  “Going up,” he said in the same tone, and didn’t wait to hear if she answered.

  Stairway. Fatal funnel. One way up, one spot for a gunman to cover. He went up crouched all the way down. Untrained shooters shot high, their gun hands jerking up in their excitement.

  Nothing on the landing. No sound but the racket of rain against windows and roof, the nearly constant rumble and louder explosions of thunder. He was into the bedroom, which held a bed, two nightstands, and not much else. Bathroom next, looking behind the door, throwing aside the shower curtain. And finally, the dressing room.

  A lot of clothes. Nobody hiding amongst them. Tobias was sure of it.

  “Clear!” Jace shouted down to Lily, turned on the torch, and swept it around again to doublecheck.

  “Toss your keys,” she shouted back. “I’ll turn off your headlights.”

  He could have argued. He didn’t. He threw the keys down, saw the flash as she switched on the light of her phone, and a minute later, the light glowing through the front window went dark. He got downstairs as the kitchen door slammed closed and the light came closer, and then she was there.

  Muddy. Soaking wet. Alive.

  She said, “Power failure.”

  “Yeah.” He was breathing hard, adrenaline letting itself go, and so was she. She dropped her phone on the couch and set her revolver down next to it.

  She looked straight into his eyes. She stepped right into his arms.

  He dropped the light.

  He had a hand over her wet hair, another one around her back, and he was pulling her up onto her toes and taking her mouth.

  Not gentle this time. He couldn’t. She was gasping into him, her hands on his shoulders, then pulling at his jacket. He stripped it off, reached for her again, pulled her soaked sweater off, then got his hand on a firm, round breast. It felt great.

  She made a sound. A whimper.

  He was going up in flames.

  Shoes. Ankle holsters. He had them off, and she was doing the same thing with her own shoes.

  Outside, the house shook with the force of the storm. Inside, she shook from cold, and from him. He knew it. And he needed to be closer. He got a forearm under her thighs, picked her up, and took her mouth again, and she wrapped a hand around his head and kissed him back.

  Upstairs. He hadn’t managed to turn off his torch before dropping it, and it lit his way across the room to the stairs. He was still kissing her, her mouth was opening under his, and he wasn’t sure how he made it up to the top of the stairway, except that he was there, tumbling her onto the bed, and coming down over her.

  Her hands were under his T-shirt, pulling it with difficulty over his chilled skin, the wet fabri
c resisting her. He helped her out, yanked it over his head, and tossed it as her hands went to his waist. She got a leg over him, flipped him onto his back, and he could swear his eyes rolled back in his head.

  Her hands were on his belt buckle, but if she was going to be over him like that? He needed to touch her. He was pulling that clinging, silky top up and over her head, and finally, her breasts were filling both his hands.

  He couldn’t see her, but oh, could he feel her. Her skin was cool under his searching hands, and her gasping breaths were loud in his ears when he pulled her down over him and took one puckered nipple into his mouth. It was pink, he knew it without seeing it, and it was sweet, hard, and perfect. Her palms were on the bed on either side of him, her body sprawled over his, and she was making some noise, rocking over him, looking for more.

  This time, he was the one flipping her, putting her on her back, dragging the soaked leggings over her hips, down her legs, and off her. Whatever she was wearing underneath them came with them, because when his hand stroked up her leg again, there was nothing there but cool, silken skin. Her thighs parted like she couldn’t help it, and he was there.

  Oh, bloody hell, yeah. Wet, and warm, and open. She was yanking his belt loose, pulling down his zip, and he wanted that, and still, he focused on what he was doing. He needed to be here. When his wet jeans were off, though—well, he had to notice that, because that was even better. He was sliding up her body to kiss her mouth again, threading his fingers through her hair, holding her head for him, and her hands were on him, moving up and down his back like she needed to feel more. Like she needed to feel everything.

  He was going to give her more. He was going to give her everything.

  She couldn’t think. Too much sensation. Too much Jace. Inky darkness, drumming rain, and his hard mouth on hers, stealing her breath. His lips moving to her neck, her throat. His hand on her breast like it had to be there, like he needed her as much as she needed him. And then he was kissing his way down, that hand still gentle, but so firm, lifting her breast for him, holding her there.

  She should be participating. She couldn’t manage it. She was making some noise, and her hips were moving in time with his mouth. The lightning flashed, and she caught a glimpse of muscular shoulders, but what she felt was his fingers threaded through hers, holding them hard against the mattress. His mouth at her breast. His other hand stroking down her body, and her legs opening to let him touch her.

  There. Yes. Like that.

  She didn’t realize she’d said it aloud until he said, his voice oddly tender, “Baby, I’m going to. You hold on. I’m going to.”

  So she did hold on. And he did.

  His hair was wet, and her hands wrapped themselves in it and held him there. The rain still pounded the roof, but the darkness didn’t matter anymore, because her eyes were closed. She felt his hand, and then his lips. And, finally, his tongue. He hit exactly the right spot, she sucked in a hard breath, and he must have heard it, somehow, because he did more of that. More of what felt the absolute best.

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes. Please. Oh…” And she felt that smile again against her tender flesh, his hand gently nudging her thighs farther apart, a finger stroking its way inside, finding the spot there, too, and going to work.

  No rush. No judgment. No pressure. Nothing but patience. Nothing but every bit of his attention. He was exactly where he wanted to be, doing exactly what he wanted to do, and she knew it. She could relax into the feeling, could lose herself in the electric shocks of his mouth on her, rivaling anything the lightning could offer. She could call out, could say his name over and over again, and she did. And he took her pleasure in and multiplied it until she lost her words. Until she lost control. Until she let go.

  She was hot. She was sweet. She was coming, her muscles tightening around his fingers, her thighs tensing hard, her cries filling his head. She knew he was the one doing it to her, too. She’d said his name.

  He made sure he stayed with her every bit as long as it lasted. And then he slid up her body again, felt her arms wrapping around him in the darkness, and kissed her, long and deep. Using his tongue and his lips and his teeth, invading and exploring her, sucking her lower lip into his mouth, biting gently at it, and feeling her response.

  “Please,” she said when he finally gave her breath to say it, “tell me you have a condom. I need you inside me.”

  Were there five better words in the world? “I have one,” he said, before he had to take a second and kiss her again, because that was just how sweet her mouth was. “In my wallet. Hang on.”

  “One,” she said with a sigh. “We’d better make it good.”

  He laughed, and if it didn’t come out steady—well, you couldn’t blame him, not with a woman like this. “Oh, baby. We will.”

  Of course, he may have had to do some crawling on the floor, some patting around in the darkness. And she may have done some giggling, too, although as always, she hadn’t waited for him to take care of it. She was down there with him in the dark, finally saying, “Jeans. Yay. Here.”

  He moved toward the sound of her voice. And promptly bumped heads with her, hard enough that he rocked back, then grabbed for her. “All right?”

  “Ow.” She was laughing, and moaning some, too, but in the “pain” way instead of the “hurts so good” way. “Yeah. Fine. Ow. Did I kill the mood? Say no.”

  “Nah. Not possible.” Head pain? What head pain? He had his wallet out of the soaking-wet jeans, had found the packet. “Get yourself up on that bed again and on your back, and the mood’s right there.”

  She sighed. “I love it when you sweet-talk me.”

  This time, he was the one laughing. He stood up, reached a hand out and found her arm, pulled her up with him, and tumbled onto the bed with her. She reached a hand down his body, found what she was looking for, and said, “Oh, yeah. Guess you’re right. I think you’ve got this.”

  “Mm.” It was about all he could manage. She’d distracted him. He got the condom on in the dark, found her mouth again, kissed her with absolutely all the sweetness he had in him, so grateful that she was here and needing to let her know it. “Such a pretty girl,” he told her, his hand stroking down her cheek. “Such a lucky fella, hey. Let’s see what we can do.”

  He wasn’t in any danger of losing the mood. It would take a freight train to do that. But she might need some kissing and touching and loving first, so he did it, and she forgot to laugh and was wrapping herself around him again, and saying his name again, too.

  When he slid inside her at last, he had her forearms in his hands, and then his hands were moving down her arms, because he had to thread his fingers through hers, had to feel her that way, too.

  It was all good. Until she wrapped her legs up high around his waist. And stiffened.

  She stayed like that. She was holding her breath, too. Holding herself still.

  “What?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “My… my leg,” she gasped. “I just need to…” She unwrapped her leg, but she was still absolutely tight under him, and not in a good way. “Never mind. Please.”

  He’d already rolled to his side, though, and felt for her thigh. Her muscles were rigid, her breathing loud. “Sorry,” she said, sounding agonized. Her leg, her psyche, he couldn’t tell which. Both, maybe.

  “No worries.” She was massaging her thigh, and he added his touch to hers, digging in just a little, stroking slow and long, rubbing the ease back into her leg and, he hoped, into her mind. “We’ll get to it,” he promised. “We’ve got all night.” He felt a rough spot marring the skin. “This the place? You really did hurt it.” It was more than a strain. That was a wound.

  “Yes. But it’s better. Muscle spasm, that’s all. Too much running in the mud.” She laughed, a husky sound, wrapped her arm around his neck, and pulled his head down for a kiss. “Start over?”

  “Mm.” His hand moved up her body, settled on a breast, because he wanted to feel it again,
and because she loved it. “What way would feel better? What wouldn’t hurt?”

  “Oh.” She took a breath. “Uh… from behind. No, uh, stress on my leg. Would that work for you?”

  He had to smile, and then he had to kiss his way over her cheek, across to that sweet spot below her ear. “Is that a trick question? Turn over, baby. We’ll see how it feels. If you want to stop, if it hurts, we’ll stop. I promise.”

  A sigh, and she was doing it. His roving hands found her dropping onto her elbows, drawing her knees up under her. She was rocking back and forth like she needed something, and he knew what it was.

  Did it work for him? When he was kissing his way down her spine, drawing his fingertips down it, hearing the breath she sucked in for a different reason this time? And later, when he was inside her, with one hand flat on the mattress and the other one hauling those gorgeous hips back hard? Yeah, you could say it worked.

  He took the slow road, and that was all good. He tuned in to her body like it was his, felt every curve, and took every breath with her. When it felt good, he knew it, and when it felt better, he knew that, too. And when his hand trailed all the way down her spine again to that wonderful indentation just above her tailbone, and she shivered? A flash of lightning at the window, and he saw her there beneath him, all ivory curves, saw himself stroking deep inside her, and it was almost over right then.

  His thumb was still rubbing that indentation, and when she turned liquid under him, he slipped his hand around in front, found her sweet spot, and felt her shudder and surrender a little more.

  He barely knew what he was saying, but he was saying it anyway. “Yeah. That’s it. Give me some more of that. Come on, baby. Give it to me.”

  “Jace.” Her hips moving back into him, her voice muffled, like she had her face all the way down, pressed into her hands. “Please. Oh, please.”

  He could swear he felt her convulsions before they arrived, and the darkness came on him like thunder. He was plunging deep inside her, and she wasn’t hurting one bit. She was winding up higher and higher, and then she was letting it all go.