12. Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve

" I 'll have a talking to with Martha, miss, don't you worry," vowed the distressed hotel proprietress. She busily gathered the bedclothes in her squat arms before backing out of the room.

Junior scratched his stubble. He'd need to shave in the morning before meeting with the sheriff. Two hundred and fifty dollars—who knew that pissant Jonesie had been worth anything? "Do you have another room?" he asked the woman, half afraid he knew the answer.

"No, sir, and I'm plumb sorry to tell you that." The woman had gray hair and clean, starched clothes. The little half-moon spectacles on her eyes gave her the appearance of Mrs. Claus from the magazines, and he felt like a bastard for asking.

Isa shifted guiltily on her feet. "Is there, perhaps, a replacement mattress?"

The woman's face sagged. "No, miss, there's not. I'll dock the room from your bill and reimburse you first thing in the morning."

Junior held a staying hand up. "She can sleep in my room. Do you have a bundling board?"

Mrs. Claus' eyes watered alarmingly.

Isa stepped forward, consoling the woman. "Oh, it's fine. He's my brother. I'll make him sleep on the floor." She patted the woman's round shoulder.

As soon as the landlady disappeared down the hotel stairs, heartened by their assurances, Junior turned on Isa. "I'm not sleepin' on the floor, Izzy."

She was already gathering her gunnysack and saddlebags in her arms. Cursing, Junior snatched the saddlebags away and unlocked his door.

"Play you a hand of poker for the bed," she offered on her way in.

"Hell no. You cheat."

Her white smile flashed, and, predictably, his eyes caught on the tempting gap in the center. He hadn't felt the gap during their kiss. It made him wonder what it would feel like on his fingertips. To run his tongue over it.

Damn it, stop thinking of Sol's sister like that.

But it was impossible not to. He'd struggled to keep Isa sister-like in his mind before the kiss. Now…all he could think about was all the ways he'd like to defile her. The things he'd do. The positions he'd try with her. He wondered if her curious nature would track in bed.

"Aren't you going to shut the door?"

Junior blinked. He'd been standing in the doorway, vacuously watching Isa set her bag down. Shielding his embarrassment, he shut and locked the door, then dropped her saddlebags to one side of the bed. Pretending not to notice that she was unwinding the towel from her damp hair, he traversed to his side of the bed and grabbed the item he'd purchased from the mercantile next door to the bathhouse.

"Here." He tossed a tortoiseshell comb at her. When she caught it one-handed, he snorted.

Isa glanced at the delicate curve of the comb, touching the handle that was polished to a reflective shine. "A bit pretty for a cowboy, don't you suppose?"

Junior snorted to hide his burning ears and returned to his bags. "It's not mine."

"Is it your mother's?" she asked innocently.

Mama's boy .

The unspoken taunt narrowed his eyes.

"No, I got it for you when I bought my tobacco," he said evenly, pulling his bedroll out to spread it on the hardwood floor.

"Oh." The silence strung out for an uncomfortable minute. There was rustling near the door, and he fought the urge to look. "Here. This is for you."

Twisting around, he caught something hard against his chest. It was a small, circular tin. Hand cream? He raised a tawny brow. "Where'd you get this?"

"Brenham. Your hands are chapped. You should take better care of yourself." The sharp words belied her blissful expression as she combed tangles from the tips of her hair. Knotted skeins, chestnut when wet, tumbled down her back. "I hadn't realized how much I needed this. I left my brush at Miss Pickney's."

At a loss for words, Junior sat on his bedroll, feet spread and knees up, and began to apply the thick salve over his dry hands. It smelled strongly of beeswax and melted into his skin like butter. He sniffed his palm.

"You should put some on every night." Isa had reached halfway up her hair, combing through the tangles the same way she curried the horses' and mule's tails at the end of every evening.

He covertly watched her comb her hair as he massaged the salve into his fingers. Gradually, his hands became smoother, the calluses no longer cutting, their sharp edges blunting. And slowly, her comb ran through the waves without snagging, wide teeth parting thick locks from root to tip. Clean, full, and warm, Junior felt a peace suffuse him. For the thousandth time, he looked upon her and contemplated her wild prettiness. The sage blouse she'd worn for the last two days had made her eyes appear vibrantly green, the flecks of amber only visible in sunlight. Now, the lamplight bathing her from his bedside table made Isa's eyes glow like gold nuggets in a shallow stream.

Hair adequately brushed, she crouched by her bags, dug around, and reappeared with a familiar book that had grown a little more battered by the day. "Shall we?"

Junior shrugged as though he wasn't thrilled to hear more of Sherlock and Watson's adventures. "If you want." He'd no sooner lain back on his bedroll than she was ordering him up again.

"I go hoarse every night trying to get you to hear me. Come up here. I'm not going to bite you."

"I trust you as far as I can throw you," he grunted, rolling to his knees and bouncing onto the bed. "Anything else, Your Majesty?"

"No, this will do," she replied imperially and fell beside him, jostling his arm. "Now, where were we?"

For an hour, she read to him, and his eyes switched between the book and her animated expressions. Occasionally, she'd catch him, her tiger eyes curious, and he'd face the bare wall with its crack down the plaster. Finally, voice scratchy, she closed the book.

"I think this is one of my favorite books," she sighed.

"Mine, too," he agreed. His lids felt heavy. The cracked plaster blinked in and out of his vision. "I'd best get back on my bedroll."

Isa moved to set the book on the table, but she had to reach over him to do it. Her breasts dragged fully across his face; he blanched and sank into the pillow. Unaware, she turned the light down and blew it out. "Just sleep up here."

"You know what would happen if I did," he growled in the sudden darkness. Why was she playing the fool?

"What would happen?" Her ready defiance never ceased to trap him. Never could he let her challenges go unanswered.

Junior grabbed the shoulders hovering over him and rolled her firmly to her back. " You know what would happen ," he repeated, stressing every word.

Her forearms sliced up, breaking his hold. "We could wrestle for who gets the bed," she teased, putting him in an awkward stranglehold.

Blood rushed through every body part. He broke out of her hold and loomed above her. The room had no windows. Everything felt weighted. Obscure. "Alright. Whoever stops moving wins?"

"Yes." Her excitement was palpable.

Junior lowered his head, tracking the sibilant sound of her "yes." He found her lips and kissed them as tenderly as he would a freshly bloomed flower. Isa went still beneath him, her breath sucking in. Before the surprise wore off and she found control of her limbs, he pulled away, the lush sound of their lips parting loud in the dense quiet.

"I win." He hoped she couldn't feel the effect their innocent kiss had on him.

Her response was delayed. "That's not playing fair."

"You cheat in poker. Why can't I cheat in wrestling?"

"Do that with all the men you wrestle, do you?"

"No, only the women."

"Oh?" Her voice lost its breathiness. "And what women do you wrestle?"

"Only you." He grinned down at her in the dark and wished he could see her face.

Slender fingers threaded through his hair. Her hands pulled him down. "Shall we have a rematch? Kiss me again."

He fully intended to tell her no until soft, perfect lips settled over his.

I'll tell her no next time.

Right now, she was supple and sweet-smelling beneath him, intoxicating him. Her brother—his best friend—was far away, asleep in his own house, in bed with his own wife. Junior had no wife and hadn't been home longer than a week in years. He also couldn't remember the last time he'd lain with a woman. What would a little playing hurt? Surely, that's all he was doing with Isa. Playing. Teasing. Kissing without a means to an end. No expectations of going past the point of no return. She'd remain whole while they were on the trail because he wasn't an animal.

But he sure as hell wasn't a saint.

Not to mention Isa was kissing the sense out of him, mouth wide, tongue questing. Control snapping, Junior broke the kiss and grabbed her wrists. He held them above her head in one hand, feeling the damp silk of her hair against his arm. He kissed her aggressively until she was the one straining, pushing full breasts against his chest, her stomach flush against his. One of her legs rose to wrap around his hip. Without breaking contact, he maneuvered them, settling her deep into the center of the mattress to align his hips with hers, his body insistent. The urge to move, to rock, to grab and pull her was a rampant thing inside him.

If she knew what she really did to him, this mindlessness, she'd laugh. She'd never let him go, and he'd sit like a tome on her bookshelf or a plaything, gathering dust.

It was best if she didn't know the truth.

Isa didn't need to know how deeply her hooks had sunk into him, so embedded he'd never get them out. He'd never tell her about the letter in his billfold that had saved him. Or about the little room he'd rented in Austin years ago just because he wanted to keep an eye on her. Sol knew and kept it secret under the assumption Junior did it for the family's peace of mind. After all, Miss Pickney was only one old woman, and Isa was sly, always up to mischief. He would watch from afar many mornings as she walked to college, tall, elegant, and stylish in her godawful hats and enormous sleeves.

These secrets were to protect him. Not her.

Kissing her exposed one of his most coveted secrets. It was impossible to feel her writhe beneath him without revealing it. With his lips was an admission of how much he thought of claiming her. His pelvis pressing hard against hers was a declaration of how much he wanted her. Junior had never kissed another woman the way he did Isa. Not a whore, not a widow, not a promiscuous neighbor. With Isa, he wanted to brand her. To own her. On her lips he would leave a glowing "JS" so no other man could claim them. Everyone would know who this full, wide mouth belonged to.

Isa's legs flexed, hips twisting, and Junior let her roll him to his back. He released her and looked at the black-against-black outline of her face in the dark. The air was heavy around them, their breathing hard. And then, her fingers were on his jaw, down his scarred neck, to his open shirt. Her palms trailed along the crisp mat of hair on his chest, then lower, to his flexing ribcage.

"If I could paint a picture forever in my mind," she whispered from above, barely audible, "it would be of this moment. I'd close my eyes and see you this way with my hands. With my body."

The tendons tightened in his neck. Junior grabbed her hand, lowering it further. When it reached the undone button of his jeans, she hesitated. Raggedly, he said, "And I'd paint one of this moment. The part right before you turn brave and jump into the deep end of the creek. The part where you're a little scared."

"I'm not scared," she breathed, but he felt the fine tremor in her thighs. Could hear it in her voice. He understood. His own hands trembled. To hide it, he gripped her knees which were bracketing his torso and pushed her down until she was seated on his thighs.

"Prove it," he dared. A voice told him he was wrong. That he was the most loathsome and licentious of scoundrels to goad her into slaking her curiosity like this.

Isa didn't hesitate again. One by one, she undid his buttons, knuckles brushing the triangle of hair, until the opened clasp revealed the root of his erection. Junior sucked in a breath, and she stopped.

"What now?" she asked.

With some effort, he sat up, tugged his shirt off, and threw it in the vicinity of his bedroll. He lay back, placing his hands where her nightgown had rucked above her knees. "Your turn."

You're a no-good son of a bitch, Stone, his conscience hissed.

Isa's ugly wrapper whispered to the floor near his shirt. Although he couldn't see her, the knowledge that she was naked within arm's reach stimulated him. Squeezing his eyes shut didn't help; his heart raced as frantically as before. Of their own volition, his palms slid from her knees to her thighs that went on forever, supple with well-developed muscles from years of riding, running, and swimming. His hands mapped them out until they reached her hips, and he tried to picture her sitting naked atop him like a goddess in a mortal man's fantasy. Isa's hands covered the back of his, sliding them over the flare of her hips, along the valley of her waist, pausing at her ribcage. They stalled, held suspended between one action and the next. Drunk with want, Junior brushed the underside of her round, heavy breasts with his thumbs. Air passed shallowly from her lips—her ribs rapidly expanded and compressed—in and out, in and out. The barest touch of her fingertips guided his knuckles now, so he slid his broad palms over her round breasts, feeling their shape. Their weight. The skin was tight and smooth, jutting at the peaks. Her nipples tightened, and she gasped softly when his hands made a slow, sure pass over them. Isa dropped her hands to grasp his lean hips.

Junior released her breasts and pulled her down so that they were flattened against his chest, his mouth hard upon hers. Her clever tongue blanked his mind, and he drew on it fervently, stroking her jaw with his fingers. It felt as though he would bust in his jeans, and he slid his hands down the strong, slim line of her back to grip her buttocks in each hand, squeezing the way he had the first morning they'd woken up together.

Isa pulled back. " Junior ." It was the closest thing to a plea he'd ever heard from her, and he tenderly kissed her eyelids, her nose, her soft, swollen mouth.

"I know," he finally managed, gripping her so hard that she shifted up to escape the punishing touch. Her breasts brushed his chin. "I know." He captured a nipple in his mouth, drawing on it the way he had her tongue, and she moaned. She smelled sweet and was softer than satin, and he paid homage to her breasts, rubbing his stubble over the sensitive curves beneath. He bit the skin at the edge of her nipple, sucked hard, then gently laved the hard peak with the flat of his tongue. Tiny kitten sounds escaped her throat, unexpected and unbearably arousing, and she rubbed against the straining edge of his open fly. He broke away with a low groan. Using the handfuls he had of her bottom, he worked her on him leisurely, and her mouth followed in a kiss that was anything but.

Instinctively, he slid one hand down to the hot, damp place hidden between her legs.

Isa stopped rocking; her lips had gone stock-still against his. To calm her, he licked her bottom lip and kissed it. Nipped it with his teeth. Slid his tongue inside the seam of her mouth, then retreated. Playing. Teasing. All the while, his hand moved further south, drifting past shivering skin, past curls, to bracket his fingers around the soft outer lips protecting her sex until he had a palm full of her warm mons. He liked the sounds she made when his fingers parted her, the staccato rhythm of her breath when he touched swollen, delicate skin. And when he breached her entrance, her muscles squeezed him.

Junior had never been inside of someone and felt owned.

He'd never felt the soul of another while knuckle-deep, their heartbeat fluttering around him.

When he disengaged from her, she followed, and he smiled against her lips. Junior's damp fingers traveled only as far as the pleasure point at the top of her sex, making circles around it, hardly touching, in no hurry. Isa's mouth, tucked against his cheek, moaned against his skin. Gooseflesh rose along his arms, his nape. Her mouth opened to trail hot kisses along the line of his carotid artery and peppered little sucking pecks to his skin. Another wave of gooseflesh spread over him, which firmed his touch in response, and the situation in his denims strained to be released. Unsteadily, Junior shoved his jeans down. Stifling a groan of relief when his cock sprang out, he wrapped his hand around it. It was hard as forged iron, the tip leaking.

Isa didn't ask permission to touch it; her hand reached between them, fingers sliding around his knuckles until they were both holding him in hand. Even though he couldn't see her, he sensed her face hovering above, her damp hair fragrant around him. Carefully, he pulled his hand from beneath hers until it was only her flesh on his. The sensation made him throb, almost agonizing in its intensity. Her lips touched his at the same instant his hand resumed its careful exploration between her legs, her tongue dipping in while she stroked him up and down.

Soon, it was a struggle to breathe, to think. Their hands gripped, and their hips moved restlessly. The air between them was humid. Sweat broke out above lips and brows, the skin slippery where their bodies met. Pressure built swiftly on his end. The slicker his fingers became, the faster her hand worked until holding back was no longer possible. He gritted his teeth, grunting. The levee burst, bathing their stomachs in hot, sticky warmth.

"What—oh."

Through the haze of dizzying pleasure, he felt Isa look down in the dark. Isa released him, her hips restless. Having stuttered to a stop when he climaxed, Junior rolled her to her back. His mind was fuzzy. What he wanted to do was dip low and bury his head between her thighs. He didn't; he sensed her closeness. Maintaining a steady rhythm between her legs, he followed the movements of her hips and felt when her body became impossibly lusher. Her noises altered, growing more frequent and higher in pitch until she suddenly grabbed his wrist, pressing his hand hard against her, her lungs like bellows while she climaxed.

Overwhelmed with possessiveness, he tugged his wrist away. Dumb to the mess between them, Junior dropped to his elbows and kissed her slack mouth until he forgot his own hated name.