Synopsis
Book by Gregory Jill
Extrait
"Wait--wait just a minute!" Maura pushed his hands away as he began to sweep her nightshirt over her head. She tugged it back down. "I never said I would let you . . ."
"You never said you wouldn't."
"You didn't give me a chance to say anything!" Breathing hard, she knew she had to decide: stay or go. Yes or no.
Once and for all.
"Well?" he growled. "What do you want to say?"
Maura had no idea. She simply stared at him, trying to think, trying to keep her mind on the decision before her, when he looked so ruggedly handsome, all she could think about was how she'd like to comb her fingers through his black hair, or touch that dark stubble along his jaw, or . . . kiss him.
"Time's up," he announced suddenly, and with one movement swept the nightshirt over her head and tossed it on the floor. Her hair cascaded down, bright as the flames of the fire, to swirl around her shoulders, and her golden-brown eyes went wide with shock.
Now she wore only her thin white camisole above the long johns and coarse brown socks. She was practically naked.
"Just hold on a minute," she cried. Breathing hard, she crossed her arms over her breasts. "I have to think."
"I thought you wanted to stay warm."
"Taking off my clothes doesn't seem like the way to do that!"
He seized her then, and pulled her close. "Trust me--it works."
For a moment she was dizzy with the nearness of him. Her breasts were thrust up against his chest, the rough flannel of his shirt scraped her tender flesh. His breath was warm on her cheek, and his mouth was only scant inches away from hers . . .
"I don't even know your name," she whispered desperately.
There was a heartbeat of silence. Then he spoke flatly.
"It's Lassiter."
Snowflakes hurled themselves against the window as he braced himself for her reaction. He knew damn well what was coming. It was always the same.
"Lassiter?" He heard her sharp intake of breath. She jerked back, but not before he'd felt the slamming of her heart against his chest, the shudder of fear jolting through her bones.
"Not . . . Quinn Lassiter?" she asked in a trembling voice.
"The same." He watched her grimly. He knew what they said about him, what she would believe just by hearing his name.
Quinn Lassiter, deadliest man in the West. Fastest gunfighter alive. There's a lump of steel where his heart should be. He kills as casually as most men spit.
She went pale as the snow swirling outside the window. "I've heard of you," she croaked.
He shrugged. "Probably a pack of lies."
"They say you've killed more than twenty men. Is that . . . true?"
"More or less. But--"
"And they say you shot Johnny the Kid between the eyes, and captured the entire Melton gang single-handed. Is that t-true?"
"I reckon. But--"
"And last spring," Maura plunged on, her pulse racing, "you fought three gunfights in one morning and killed all three men with only two bullets . . ."
"It wasn't anything special," he growled. As her lips parted and her eyes grew glassy, he lifted a brow. "I reckon this means you are scared of me?"
His hands went to her bare, creamy shoulders, so narrow and vulnerable beneath his fingers. She was tense as a knot of wire. Fear, hesitation, and uncertainty vibrated through her.
"Am I right? Answer me."
"Scared? Why, no. Why in the w-world should I be scared? It's only--" Maura jerked back from beneath his hands and bolted off the bed as though she'd been shot from a cannon. She snatched up her nightshirt and held it in front of her like a shield.
"It's only that I forgot. Completely forgot. You see, I left something on the stove. Burning on the stove. So silly of me . . . careless, really. I have to go. Or we'll have a fire. I have to go . . . take it off the stove . . ."
"Maura."
He reached out, seized her wrist, and yanked her back into the bed. Whipping the nightshirt from her limp fingers, he tossed it to the floor again.
"You think I'm going to shoot you?"
"Of course not. Only . . ."
"You think I'd hurt a hair on your head?"
"N-no, never." She glanced up at him from beneath her lashes. "W-would you?"
"No. Never." He cupped her chin in his hand and forced her to meet his eyes. They were gray as slate, but somehow his expression was softer, more rueful than it had been before.
"I'm going to make love to you, angel. Real nice, hot, hang-onto-your-hat love. If you want me to, that is. I'll keep you warm all night long. Fact is, I'll make you sweat. I'll even make you burn."
"You . . . will?"
"Yep. And you won't need clothes, and you won't need fires." He slid a hand slowly, languidly down her bare arm and Maura shivered. "That's a promise."
His eyes . . . She stared into those mesmerizing silver eyes. Something inside of her was melting. Maybe it was her last lick of sense. But in that moment she knew something she hadn't realized before. Quinn Lassiter didn't want to be alone tonight any more than she did.
"Still afraid?" he asked softly.
"No. I'm not afraid," she heard herself say, and it was almost true. Before she even realized what she was doing, she lifted her arms and wrapped them around his neck. Her blood pounded at her own daring. He was all muscle. All steel and musky male scent. She could feel his strength in her fingertips. It shocked and frightened her, more than his name had. But it also excited her. She clasped him tighter.
"Hold me," she whispered, gazing up at him through wide golden-brown eyes. "Just for tonight--all night--will you hold me?"
Quinn Lassiter hauled her up against him then. One powerful arm encircled her waist, virtually imprisoning her against the steel of his body. One hand twisted itself firmly in her hair, an act of possession. "Sweet Maura, don't you worry. I'll do a hell of a lot more than that."
Then he lowered his head and slanted his mouth to hers, cutting off any more doubts, any more words.
It was a hungry kiss, demanding and needy, and yet strangely tender and warm. Maura, who had never even had the opportunity to speak more than three sentences to a man without worrying that Judd or Homer would break his jaw, and who had certainly never ever come close to kissing a man before, was convinced that it was the most absolutely perfect kiss there could ever be. Her mind was reeling over the fact that she was crouched half naked on a bed, in the arms of a legendary gunfighter who would no doubt ride out of her life forever in the morning. But somehow she felt she should make the most of it. Her daydreams aside, she might never have the chance to kiss any man again--unless she did manage to get away from Judd and Homer and Knotsville. This might be the closest she ever came to wonder, excitement--to romance. To the possibility of falling in love.
Of course she knew Quinn Lassiter didn't love her--and she couldn't possibly be in love with him, but the way he was kissing her made her feel loved. And needed. And wanted.
Just for tonight, she told herself dizzily as Quinn deepened the kiss, blurring her mind with dark, lovely sensations that sent pleasure streaking through her. I won't be alone. Just for tonight, I'll have someone. And so will he . . .
His lips were warm, firm, and strong and they knew how to brush, feather, and slant over hers in just such a way that a tingling warmth radiated through her. As he deepened the kiss and the urgency of it leapt through her, she tightened her arms instinctively around his neck, and realized faintly that his hands were stroking up and down her back, caressing her shoulders, drawing her in closer and closer under the spell of pleasure.
He was kissing her ever more deeply, urging her lips apart, each movement becoming more and more insistent, until at last she gave way, filled with pleasure but confused and unsure of what she was supposed to do. Instantly, the moment her lips parted, his tongue swept inside her mouth. She was shocked and tried to draw away, squirming in his arms, but Quinn Lassiter held her fast, his arms imprisoning her, his mouth locked on hers as his tongue boldly licked hers, flicking over it in smooth, light strokes that filled her with such heat, her senses spun. She clutched at him, a whimper in the back of her throat, her fingers digging into his strong shoulders.
Suddenly she no longer wanted to draw away. She wanted to get closer, as close as she could. To her astonishment, her own tongue shyly slid against his in a tentative caress.
Lassiter half chuckled, half groaned. His arms dragged her even closer against him, and he deepened the kiss once more, tasting her fully, exploring her, his tongue thrusting inside her mouth with hungry, deliberate parries. Hell, her lips were as sweet and soft as little pink daisies. As his tongue played with hers, he felt his own need hardening. This girl tasted even better than the whiskey had--more like wine, like pure, potent strawberry-flavored wine.
She strained against him, returning kiss for kiss, her mouth sweet and yearning. Her tongue kept meeting his tentatively, stroking it, pulling back, an intoxicatingly teasing ploy that only made him want her more. Lassiter always took what he wanted, and this time was no exception. He heard her mew like a kitten as the kiss became more insistent, deeper still, and his muscles bunched with tension as her tongue darted forward again in the timidly enticing little dance that made him groan.
...
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