Romancing the West (21 page)

“Sensory.”

“The sense of touch, to be exact.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“I’ve been working on this story about a man and a woman, mostly this woman, but there’s this man. A pirate.”

“A pirate.”

“Yes.   You know.   A swashbuckler, a treasure hunter, a rogue and a rake.”

“Got it.”

“The woman, well, she’s an explorer, an adventuress. He’s never met anyone like her and he’s fascinated. Not only that, he thinks she’s . . .”

“Pretty?”

She blushed. “Well, yes. But more than that. He’s, well, entranced. He wants to . . . May I be blunt?”

God, no. “Sure.”

“He wants to ravish her.”

She was wringing her hands. Nervous. Just now he wasn’t all that at ease himself.

“I can’t imagine,” he said, tongue in cheek.

“That’s too bad. I was hoping . . .”

He took an unconscious step back.

“It’s flat,” she said, coming toe to toe.

Like hell. “Excuse me?”

“The scene, every scene between Constance and Antonio that’s supposed to be . . . passionate. It reads flat. I didn’t understand that until this morning. I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t know what. Music publishers once told Paris that her lyrics lacked depth. I told her it was because she was writing about things she had no personal connection to. She was writing about love but she’d never been in love. I told her she had to get out there and live, take chances. Life experience inspires passionate prose.”

He backed into the bookshelves.

“I’m trying to write about soul-searing kisses and I’ve never been kissed.”

“Ever?” Damn. Had his voice cracked?

“Surely, you’re not surprised. Look at me.”

What the hell was that supposed to mean? “I see a beautiful woman.”

She smirked. “Yes, but you’re not wearing your spectacles.”

“Talk like that pisses me off, Emily.”

She pursed her lips. “I don’t understand you, Poet. One minute you’re soft, the next you’re hard.”

Christ.

“I don’t understand your . . . kind.”

“You surely don’t.”

“We’re friends, right?”

“Right.”

“Friends help each other out.”

Please, God, bring up your blackmailer. “Yes.”

“I’m just going to come out and ask.”

“Go ahead.”

“Have you always been . . . that is . . . Was there ever a time . . .”

“Spit it out, Em.”

“Have you ever been with a woman?”

He’d never been amused and scared shitless at the same time. Interesting. “Yes.”

“Did you find it . . . disgusting?”

He bit back a smile. “No.”

She leaned in. “So, it wouldn’t disgust you to . . .”

He put his hands on her shoulders, keeping her from pressing up against him. Never in his life had he resisted a woman’s advances. At least he thought that’s what was going on here. He couldn’t be sure. She’d shocked and seduced him at the same time, an odd combination that left him befuddled. Another first. “You don’t know what you’re asking of me, Em.”

“I know it’s a huge favor to ask of a . . . friend, but I’m desperate, Poet. I’ve been working on this story for more than a year. It’s the story of my heart. Even if another soul never reads it, I have to know that it’s my best effort. That it reads sincere. I’m asking you, from one writer to another, in the name of research and artistic integrity . . . Kiss me.”

He raised an eyebrow, an almighty effort since his body had seized up. “Just a kiss?”

She bit her lower lip then licked it. “Well, I was hoping . . . that is . . .”

“Spit it out.”

“I was hoping for a specific kiss. A hot and wet, boner-inducing kiss.”

He laughed. Swear to God, he couldn’t help it.

Her face crumpled. “What?”

“I’m sorry.” He flattened his smile, smoothed his hand over wavy locks that had escaped her braids. He adored those messy braids. “Do you know what a boner is, hon?”

“No.”

“It’s a slang word for a man’s erection. When a man gets aroused, he gets a boner.”

“Oh. So you can’t give me one.”

“No.”

“I’d have to give one to you.”

“Yes.” No.
Shit.

She stood on her tiptoes, leaned into him, her breasts against his chest, her lips against his mouth. Nice, but . . .

“I think I’m supposed to put my tongue in your mouth,” she whispered. “Don’t be alarmed.”

Holy hell.

The moment he felt the flick of the velvety tip, he lost control, took control. He flipped her around so that her back was pressed against the bookshelves, framed her face, and plundered her mouth. Slow and sweet, hot and wet. And, hell yeah, boner-inducing.

She whimpered, soft, sexy sounds as he tasted her, sampled her, tutored her. She wrapped her arms around his neck, splayed her fingers through his hair.

An earsplitting crack of thunder coincided with his heart slamming against his ribs. He tightened his embrace, swept his lips over her brow, her cheeks. He nipped her chin, her lower lip. He prompted her to open her mouth wider, allowing his tongue free rein. She melted against him and followed his lead, oblivious to the storm raging outdoors, stirring the storm within. Again, his heart expanded. His body throbbed, ached. He knew lust. This was lust, and beyond.
Love.
The force of it, the pureness, damn near brought him to his knees.

He took liberties, gliding his hands over her trembling body, memorizing every slight but feminine curve. One kiss. One time. He cupped her sweet ass. She moaned and wiggled against him, deepened the kiss of her own accord.

His mind blanked, his breath stalled. It was the single hottest moment in his life.

Soul-searing.

Emily pulled back, blue eyes clouded with passion and curiosity. “Is it working?”

His mind scrambled.

“Am I giving you one?”

Ah.
Don’t do it, Wright.
“In the name of research?”

The nod was barely perceptible, but all he needed. He clasped her hand and pressed it against his arousal. He expected her to jerk back. The fabric of his trousers was the only thing between her palm and his hard and heavy shaft. She didn’t flinch. She looked at him with a sense of awe, and he thought, if she applied any pressure in the least, one squeeze, one stroke--
in the name of research
--he’d lose it.

“It’s much bigger than the ones I’ve seen,” she whispered.

He blinked down at her. “You’ve seen--”

“In books. Art books. Sketches. Sculptures.”

“Research?”

“The skinny-dipping knight. I didn’t know what a naked man looked like. I needed a visual reference. I thought Michael Angelo’s
David
was impressive, even though his, you know, is much smaller than yours.”

And still she palmed John Thomas.

“It’s very . . . hard. Like a statue’s.” She furrowed her brow. “I’m surprised they don’t call it a stoner.”

The thought of her studying classic nudes . . . This conversation . . . Innocent, yet erotic. He’d never been more aroused, and they were both fully clothed.

Then she did it, a slight brush of her thumb.

He sucked in a breath.

“Did that hurt?”

“In a good way.” He placed her hands around his neck. He kissed her, because he couldn’t stand another word, another stroke. Because this moment had to last him forever. He poured his heart into a slow, deep kiss, pulling away only when he could no longer trust himself not to go farther.

She splayed a hand over her heart, fought for an even breath. “Mercy.”

At least she was capable of speech. He couldn’t think straight enough to form a coherent thought, let alone word.

“That was . . .”

Incredible? Amazing? Earth rocking?

“Inspiring.” She brushed past him, hurried toward her desk. “I have to write this down.” She fumbled with a locket around her neck, took out a tiny key and unlocked the drawer. “Now I know how to handle that scene. I know what Antonio would do.” She grabbed her journal, a pencil. “Drat! I can’t write. I can’t see. I . . .” She picked up his spectacles, examined them. “May I try these, please?”

He held up his hands as if to say
be my guest
because, although his brain had kicked in, he didn’t trust himself to speak.
I just silently, lovingly bared my soul and you’re thinking about Antonio?

“I can’t believe it!”

She took the words right out of his mouth.

“I can see!” She adjusted the spectacles, beamed at him. “Not perfectly, but well enough to read and write. May I borrow these for a while?”

“Sure.”

“I’m going to grab a couple of biscuits and work in my room. Feel free to use my desk.” “For?”

“Writing. Yesterday you said that manual labor spurs your creative process. With all the repair work you did this afternoon, and I do appreciate it, I imagine you’re bursting at the seams.”

He shifted. “You could say that.”

“Have fun polishing your short story.”

“On the long side just now.”

“Need any help?”

“I think I can handle it.”

Clutching the journal to her chest, she turned to leave then turned back. Her grateful expression made him want to shoot himself. “Given your . . . preferences, you really went above and beyond with that kiss, Poet. You don’t know what it meant to me.”

Apparently, nothing near what it to meant to him. “Anything for art.”

Smiling, she disappeared into the hall.

He imagined her in her room, sitting on her bed, writing about Constance and Antonio, and boner-inducing kisses. He imagined himself . . . alone.

He prayed for the storm to break. For Mrs. Dunlap to come home.

He cursed the day he met Athens Garrett.

Territory of Arizona

T
he
American circus was as vibrant, raucous, and thrilling as she’d imagined. For two hours Kaila sat breathless and bedazzled by clowns, jugglers, acrobats, and various animal acts. The kaleidoscope of fun was heightened by Zach and Zoe. Their excitement and wonder was infectious. The man introduced to her as Mr. Parker appeared equally entranced.

The only fly in the ointment, if that was the correct usage of the American cliché, was Athens Garrett.

With the exception of the few times she caught him smiling at his children’s animated reactions, he looked decidedly unimpressed. She worried that she’d spoiled the experience for him. Although he purchased her ticket, a very thoughtful gesture, she had the distinct feeling he’d done so at Zoe’s urging. Mr. Parker was quite amiable and Zach, though guarded, didn’t seem to mind her joining the family outing.

Athens was aloof. Cordial, but aloof. It bothered her immensely, even though he’d warned her they had no future, intimating their coupling was a one-time affair. She’d assured him she’d be able to pretend as if no intimacies had transpired between them. So far, she’d kept her word. The moment she’d seen him and his beautiful family coming toward her, she’d shut down her emotions. It was second nature. But the longer they sat next to each other, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh, in the crushing midday heat, the more her resolve melted.