Down & Dirty (Bundle) (14 page)

He laughed. “Your horny ass is going to kill
me, woman.”

Hazel curled her fingers around the back of
his head and inched back until she was straddling his thighs. Her
other hand slid down the front of her body as she looked up at him.
“Watch,” she whispered, and the teasing glint was gone from her
gaze, replaced with something hot and intense.

Then her eyes drifted shut, leaving him to
watch her face as she slipped her fingers between her legs and
rubbed them over her clit. “This is what happens when I think about
you.”

Incredibly, lust heated his blood again. He
slid his hand over hers and nipped at her chin. “You start
fingering yourself?”

She nudged his fingers lower until they
brushed at her entrance. “I didn’t think you’d ever touch me, so I
had to do it myself.”

Oliver teased her with two fingers before
pushing them into her. “It’s hard to do this right without a good
angle,” he observed. “Like… this.” He curled his fingers inside
her.

“
Oh --” Her eyes popped
open and she panted as she ground down against his hand. “Oh, God.
God, touching myself is never this good.”

“
It never is, honey,” he
whispered. “Come again. I want to feel it.”

She leaned forward and caught his mouth in a
desperate, tongue tangling kiss, clumsy with need but perfect all
the same. Tiny noises escaped her, choked and desperate and lost in
the depths of his mouth as she kissed him.

His cock stirred between them, and he bit
her lower lip. “Let it go, Hazel. Come on.” He moved his fingers
faster and hummed against her skin.

A keening moan escaped her lips as she came.
It was soft and quiet, just her open mouth pressed against his
cheek as she panted and rocked with him. He caught her mouth,
entranced by the pleasure he’d coaxed from her.

Entranced by her.

He swept his hands slowly over her back.
“Food, or we’re both destined for the grave.”

“
I can cook.” The words
whispered against his cheek as she nuzzled her way toward his ear.
“I’m actually good at it. Haven’t got the patience for baking, but
I like to cook.”

“
We’ll see what we can come
up with.” Oliver pulled her tighter to his chest and stood. “I’m
going to go check on the stock again, make sure they’re set ’til
morning. I’ll come help you in the kitchen when I’m
done.”

She laughed and nipped at his ear. “Bad
idea. You’ll be fucking me on the table while the food burns.”

“
Nope. I may not have shown
it so far, but I have a little self-control.” He set her down by
the bed, kissed her cheek and pulled up his pants. “See you in a
minute.”

He made it out of the bedroom before his
hands started shaking, and Oliver sucked in a deep breath outside.
For a moment, he’d forgotten Hazel didn’t belong in his house.
Didn’t belong to him. Her presence there had been as natural as his
heart beating, and it had been a long time since he’d felt
that.

Not since Marissa,
a little voice whispered, and his hands shook even
more. Hazel didn’t remind him of his wife, not really. Marissa had
been quiet, reserved. A little more like him. But they both carried
the same air of innocence, though he had no idea how Hazel had
maintained hers for so long.

He cursed and strode toward the barn. That
innocence called to him even as it held him at bay, afraid of the
risk involved with the responsibility of taking it. But he had, and
now he had to figure out how to do right by her. Jack had told him
Hazel was infatuated with him, and taking her to his bed was the
last thing to help her get over that.

But I had no
choice.
The truth of the words didn’t make
him feel any better. Even now, she was probably in his kitchen,
planning their future together.

Would that be so
bad?
The thought stopped him cold even as
he reached for an empty feedbag. Would it? It was a simple, logical
question. There were worse things than having someone to talk to or
sit with, someone to warm your bed. Needing companionship wasn’t a
crime. Hell, in ranch life it was more of a necessity than anything
else.

He filled the bag with oats and reached for
the next, his mind whirling with the possibilities. Hazel was
pleasant and interesting. He liked her. No reason not to ask, see
if she’d consider it.

No reason at all.

Hazel attacked the potato in front of her
with a vicious determination, chopping it into haphazard pieces as
she muttered angrily under her breath. Oliver’s big, manly hands
and low voice and the way he felt inside her were a combination
that made it all too easy to forget why she was here.

Because he didn’t want you
to die.
Letting herself get swept away in
the moment was dangerous in so many ways. She was already starting
to forget -- the scene in the bedroom made her cheeks burn. To tell
him about her fantasies, to tell him that he was her only
fantasy…
No wonder he ran.

And then she’d offered to
play house with him. The stupidity of that had settled in on her
after he went outside. She should be building up the walls around
her heart, not puttering around in his kitchen in his shirt,
cooking for him as if she belonged here. If there was one thing
Oliver had made clear over the past few weeks, it was that she most
certainly did
not
belong here.

She slammed the knife down through another
potato and yelped when the sharp tip of it caught her finger. She
jerked her hand away before she could bleed on the food she’d
chopped up. “Damn it!” The dishtowel next to her wasn’t exactly
clean, but she pressed it to her finger anyway and swore again as
her injured finger ached in protest at the rough treatment. Tears
of frustration filled her eyes, and she shoved the chair back from
the table to rise unsteadily to her feet.

And, of course, that was when Oliver chose
to enter the kitchen. His nostrils flared, and his brow furrowed.
“Are you bleeding?”

“
I cut myself.” She
clutched her hand and the dishcloth against her chest and took a
step back. “Where’s the bathroom? I can go clean up if you finish
cooking.”

“
Let me see.” He pulled the
towel away from her hand and grimaced. “That’s not so bad. Here,
hold it like this. It’ll heal faster.” He wrapped the dishtowel
around her finger and caught her gaze. “Are you all
right?”

He was staring at her like
he cared, like he was
worried
. Her chest felt tight and it
took every scrap of self-control not to melt into his arms. “I’m
fine. I was going to stew some potatoes.”

He brushed a stray lock of hair from her
forehead. “Knife slipped?”

“
Yes.” She hated how
breathless she sounded. “I didn’t get much else started. I wasn’t
sure what you wanted to eat.”

“
I’ll put the potatoes on,
and we can have sandwiches. I’ve got some roast beef I need to
slice up.”

She swallowed and took another tiny step
back. “Do you mind if I clean up anyway? I-I don’t know where the
bathroom is --” But she had to get away from him and give herself
time to steel her resolve.

He dropped his hand. “End of the hall. Take
your time.”

Hazel fled.

The bathroom was simple and neat. A huge
copper bathtub dominated one side, and she ran her fingers along
the edge and wished the miracle of instant hot water existed out
here. The thought of sinking up to her neck in a hot bath was so
heavenly she sighed in longing.

But there wasn’t time for a bath, and even
the thought of it conjured different images, images of sliding into
that tub with Oliver, of wet, naked skin and his hands on her body.
Of the sound of his voice, whispering to her as he made love to her
--

“
Fuck.” Squeezing her eyes
shut, she banished the images. No lovemaking. No tender sex staring
at his face. If lust rose in her body again she’d fuck him. And
when it stopped…

A small, chipped mirror sat over the sink.
She stared at her reflection for a few moments, her heart beating
too fast. When the fever faded she’d go back to her life. She’d
wait until the dreams of spending the rest of her life in his arms
faded. And she’d move on.

She pretended it was the stinging pain from
her finger that brought tears to her eyes as she sought out a towel
and began to wash.

Chapter Four

By the time she returned to the kitchen
Oliver had set out a platter of roast beef slices along with
lettuce leaves and tomatoes. He stood by the table, slicing some
bread. “I can’t bake, either, but the preacher’s wife makes a good
rye loaf.”

“
It looks delicious.” She
settled into the chair, wishing she’d found something more
substantial to wear than his discarded shirt. There was no way to
keep the proper distance like this. No way to convince herself that
she didn’t belong at his table, in his kitchen… in his
life
.

“
Do you think we should get
married?”

The words were so unexpected -- so
unbelievable -- that she gaped at him for a moment, sure she must
have misunderstood. “Should -- what?”

“
Get married,” he repeated
as he stacked the bread slices on plates. “I think it could
work.”

For one second she allowed herself to
believe that Oliver Russell had fallen magically in love with her.
Or, even better, had always been in love with her.

She’d always had an overabundance of
romantic fancy, but no one had ever accused Hazel Young of being
naive. She curled her hands around the table and forced herself to
meet Oliver’s eyes. “Do you want to marry me? Or do you just think
maybe you should?”

He hesitated. “That might be part of it. But
I like you, Hazel. We get on well, and I don’t really see any
reason why we couldn’t make a go of it.”

“
Oh.” She snatched up two
pieces of bread and slapped them on the plate as she tried to rein
in her temper. “So. You like me well enough to think we could maybe
be happy if you married me out of… what? Guilt and
obligation?”

So much for her temper.

Oliver stared at her. “I wouldn’t make both
of us miserable out of guilt. I meant what I said. I like you, and
I think it could work.”

He liked her. She added beef and tomatoes to
her sandwich.

He
liked
her.

Hazel hated herself for wondering, even for
a second, if she could settle for just being liked if the man doing
the liking was Oliver.

The plate clattered against the table and
she jerked her gaze up again. “You might find this young and
stupid, but I don’t really want to marry someone who likes me
unless he loves me, too.”

His jaw tightened, but he nodded slowly.
“All right. I understand that.” The words were clear, but his eyes
were dark, clouded. “Worth a shot, anyway.”

She didn’t realize that she’d been holding
out hope until he crushed it. Her chair toppled back with a crash
as she shoved herself to her feet. Tears stung her eyes and she
spun, the only goal to get away before she actually cried.

But she heard the heavy stomp of boots
behind her, and Oliver caught her arm. “What is it, Hazel?” he
whispered. “I tried, but you -- What am I supposed to do?”

Love me.
She couldn’t say it out loud. She’d humiliated
herself enough for one day. So she scrubbed away the tears and
turned to peer up at him. “Did you love your wife?”

He pulled his hand away as if burned. “Of
course I did. Marissa was a good woman.”

It hurt so much it made her mean. “Then
maybe you should hold off proposing until you find another good
woman,” she snapped, stalking toward the table. “You know. One you
can love.”

“
That isn’t fair.” The
darkness in his eyes turned stormy. “This has nothing to do with
her, and I didn’t say you
weren’t
a good woman.”

Being so damn hungry had ruined her dramatic
exit, but if she wanted to lock herself in the bathroom she’d have
to bring something to eat. Hazel picked up her plate and refused to
look at him. “You’re right. It has nothing to do with her. But if
you got to marry someone you loved once, I don’t really see why
you’d settle for something less.”

Oliver started to speak, but snapped his
mouth shut and drove his fingers into his hair with a harsh growl.
“If you don’t want to marry me, don’t marry me. I’m sorry I
offended you, but you don’t get to make me feel like shit about it.
You’re the one who said no.”