Gerrity'S Bride (12 page)

His brow lifted. “I don’t think the women hereabouts wear them much. Doubt if anyone on the ranch owns one. Too blamed hot to bind yourself up like a trussed steer,” he said dismissively.

“Well, when I send for my things from Lexington, I’ll have mine if I need it,” she said, searching wildly for conversation that would put off the disrobing process.

He almost told her. But his better sense prevailed. No point in opening that can of beans tonight, he decided firmly. When the stuff arrived was soon enough to let her know he’d already told her grandparents of his intentions.

Outside the windows, the sun had reached the horizon, the sky providing a magnificent display of color in the west. Soon it would be dark, for when the sun went down, twilight lasted only a matter of minutes here, she’d found. It was the dark she craved. Not in her wildest imaginings could she fathom climbing into that bed with just a thin chemise covering her while it was still light in the room.

“Can I have some privacy to wash up?” she asked with sudden inspiration.

Matt eyed her with speculation, then shrugged in capitulation. She was clean as a whistle already, but if she wanted to splash around in the basin a bit, so be it.

“Sure,” he said agreeably. “I’ll just sit over here by the window and keep an eye on the street, and you can go behind the screen and do whatever you have to do.”

She squirmed as she considered her next request. “Well, part of what I have to do requires more privacy than that,” she blurted out finally.

“Uh-huh...” He should have known, he thought in hindsight. “I won’t be long, Emmaline,” he told her, heading for the door. “I’ll just take a walk out back for a few minutes.”

He couldn’t have made it any plainer than that, he decided as he made his way down the back stairway and past the lingering cowhands who were gathered in the alleyway behind the hotel. He’d give her ten minutes. No more.

* * *

She took up barely a third of the bed. The portion she’d claimed was farthest from the door, he noted as he closed it behind himself.

Covered to the chin with the sheet and coverlet, she lay flat on her back, a slender form that he hoped fervently was clad in no more than the lawn chemise he’d bought her. His eyes intent on her, his hand slid up from the knob to shoot the bolt that would ensure them privacy.

Emmaline heard the sound of metal against metal and swallowed.
I’m locked in this room with him,
she thought.
We’re really married, and I don’t know what to do.
She bit fervently at the inside of her cheek, worrying the small bit of flesh as she watched him.
How I wish Delilah had told me what to expect!
She breathed unevenly against the crisp white sheet that almost covered her chin.

“Sleeping, Emmaline?” he asked softly as he approached the bed, one hand busy undoing the buttons on his shirt.

“No,” she whispered into the sheet. Thank goodness, it was almost full dark, only the last shred of twilight remaining to blend with the light of the moon, chasing the shadows from the room. He stood in the moonbeams that cast a ray of muted light in the direction of the bed and released the belt holding his denim pants in place. They sagged against his hips as he pulled his shirt free and slid it from his body.

Turning his back, he walked to the wall to hang the shirt on a hook next to her dress, and she was struck by the intimacy attached to the act. Forevermore, their clothing would share the same wardrobe space, their bodies would share the same bed. Such closeness could hardly be imagined.

He sat on the straight wooden chair next to the bed and bent to remove his boots. With a grunt, he tugged the right one free, then tackled the other. Placing them upright beside the chair, he took off his stockings, reminded that he’d not been able to act out his fantasy of peeling Emmaline’s from her slender legs.

The thought jolted him, and he felt the urgency he’d been struggling to hold in abeyance once more run rampant within him. Rising, he dropped the denims to the floor and stepped out of them, wearing only his short underwear.

Picking up the sheet, Matt slid beneath it, relishing the coolness of the starched linen. With casual ease, he slipped his hands beneath his head, his arms stretched wide on the pillow, and made a great show of settling into the mattress.

After a moment, he lifted his head a bit and looked in her direction. “Got enough room over there?” he asked cheerfully.

“Umm...” she said, not sure how to answer the question.

“Well, that beats yes or no, I guess,” he said, chuckling despite himself.

“When are you going to do it?” she asked abruptly, torn between the anticipation of the event and the endless waiting. Surely he would put his hands on her soon, or maybe he would just...just what?

“Do it?”

She sat upright and was silhouetted in the pale glow from the window, her filmy chemise a small covering against the moonlight. Within it, her breasts were round, proud beneath the fine fabric, the agitation of her breathing causing them to rise and fall with each intake of air.

It was almost more than his meager amount of self-control could handle.

He tugged at her hand, and she turned toward him, her face pale, filled with the unknowing of this act of intimacy. His second tug caught her off-balance, and she leaned in his direction. Carefully his wide palm circled her shoulder and he drew her down to him, easing her into place against his chest. Tenderly he brushed back the abundance of hair she’d released from the ribbon, his fingers tangling once more in the curls.

“I like your hair, Mrs. Gerrity,” he murmured against her temple.

“Thank you.” She shifted against him, her face cushioned by the black hair that curled across his chest.

“So polite,” he said softly. “What would you say if I told you I like your pretty shoulders and your smooth skin?”

She inhaled deeply, a shuddering breath, and nudged his chest with her chin as she shook her head. “I don’t know.” The pause was long, and then she whispered with longing, “Do you? Like my shoulders?”

“Oh, yes,” he assured her, his palm shaping her arm, his fingers aware of the pulse beat at her narrow wrist. He clasped her fingers between his, tracing the length of each and rubbing with gentle care at each knuckle, as though he considered this the safest place to begin his investigation.

“You have nice hands,” she volunteered as he lulled her into a semblance of comfort.

“They’re full of calluses,” he murmured against the top of her head, his nose buried in the scented glory of her gleaming curls. They were almost golden in the moonlight, he decided, inhaling the fragrance of her.

Cautiously he moved his other hand, easing it up her back, until it cradled her head. She was acquiescent as he turned it, tilting it back until his mouth could reach hers. Her lips were warm, and he covered their satin-smoothness carefully, aware of the shiver that vibrated with gentle tremors through her body.

“You said you liked me to kiss you,” he reminded her, their lips brushing together with each word he spoke.

“Yesss....” The word was a hiss against his mouth, and he felt the small shiver of her response as he claimed the prize she had given into his keeping.

The fingers that had run the length of her arm and clasped her hand traveled on. She felt them moving in a gentle quest across the narrow width of her shoulders, the heat of his touch warming her through the fragile covering she wore. Then his palm was flat against her back, each finger imprinting itself against her skin, exploring the length of her spine, imparting a tingling awareness that seeped into her body and settled there.

He surrounded her, from the hand that clasped her head and held her in place for the gentle invasion of his kiss to the wide palm that was pressing her against the heated length of his solid frame. Flattened between their bodies, her hands were teased by the texture of the curls that sprang from his chest. Covering the width of him with a lush carpet, they coaxed her fingers to bury themselves in their curling depths.

He closed his eyes at her touch, the grasping of her fingers, the rasp of her nails against his skin, the tugging of the short curls as she explored with unconcealed eagerness. The arousal he had been aware of this whole livelong day was more than noticeable, he was sure, even to her untutored body. It was sure as hell driving him crazy, he thought with grim determination, and her hands were only multiplying the problem.

His mouth lifted from hers, his lips tugging at her soft flesh with gentle suction, as though he were reluctant to break the contact he had established between them.

“Hey, Mrs. Gerrity,” he whispered hoarsely against her cheek, his breath warm and fragrant with a blend of mint and coffee.

“Mrs. Gerrity?” She repeated the title slowly and inhaled deeply, bemused by his nearness, by the calling of her name. It was going to be all right, she decided dreamily. He was being so careful to treat her like a lady. This being married might be just the thing, she thought, and she snuggled closer.

“Just wanted to know if you’d answer to it,” he murmured in her ear.

“Of course,” she whispered. “Now that I’m your wife, that’s my name.”

He grinned in the darkness and eased back, tugging her with him until she was in the center of the bed and he was leaning over her, his chest pressing firmly against the softness of her breasts.

“But you’re not...not really,” he informed her gently.

“Yes, I am.” Her tone was indignant as she denied his claim. “I’m as much your wife as a circuit judge and a preacher could make me!”

His chuckle was ripe with amusement. “Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, Mrs. Gerrity. All those words couldn’t do the trick. I’m the only man in the world who can make you my wife.”

She was quiet, her eyes blinking in confusion. He watched her, waiting until she should take in the meaning of his words.

“We’re in bed together,” she blurted out.

He nodded.

“You’ve been kissing me and touching me and everything.”

“There’s more,” he told her quietly, even as his rebellious body surged against the warmth of her thigh.

She moved restlessly within his arms, away from that nudging hardness, and he slid his hand down to pull her back against himself.

“Don’t you know what that is, Emmaline?” he asked gently, wondering how long he could hold out against the throbbing tension that was fast taking hold of his aching groin.

“Is this the part...is this when I have to be submissive to you?”

“Is that what you think is going to happen? That I’m going to hurt you?” he asked, lifting his leg to nudge hers apart.

“I don’t know much about this, and I’m not very good at being submissive,” she warned him in a harsh whisper, aware suddenly that he was lifting himself to lie above her and had somehow insinuated himself between her knees.

“I’ll show you how, Emmie,” he murmured, lowering himself against her as he wondered how he would manage to ease the chemise from her. It was tangled about her thighs and stretched taut over her belly. He slid one hand down to tug at it, lifting it from her and pulling it free.

“You’re uncovering me,” she said, her voice wispy, as she considered the movement of his hands against her limbs and beneath her bottom. There was a hardness about him, a strange tension in him, his muscles firm and tight. She thought to protest, closing her eyes as he pushed himself to his knees between her legs. But he took her breath away as he lifted her, stripping off the chemise in one easy motion.

And then her own eyes betrayed her, opening, sweeping down over the naked length of her own body, widening in disbelief as she realized that there was not a single shred of clothing between them.

“This is what happens when people make love, Emmaline,” he said quietly. “This is the part that makes us husband and wife.”

He was so dark. From his head of black hair to the shadowed width of his chest. He was like a creature of the night, upright against the softness of her thighs. Her eyes lowered to where their bodies touched, and she watched as his fingers stretched wide across the lowest part of her belly.

“You’ll carry our baby here, Emmie,” he said in a curiously hushed voice. “You don’t know how that happens, do you?” he asked, resigning himself to his task as teacher. Why hadn’t someone taken it upon herself to tell her? he thought. Surely her grandmother, or someone...

Her head rolled back and forth against the white pillow in silent negation. “I’ve seen women who were in the family way,” she supplied helpfully.

“Yeah...” He dropped his head, breathing deeply, his eyes closed. Then, leaning forward, he captured her chin in one hand and slid his long body the length of hers, announcing his presence against the softness of her belly as he bent to kiss the mouth she offered so willingly.

She wiggled beneath him. “Matt?” She mumbled against his lips. “I feel so warm.”

“It’s okay, honey,” he whispered, coaxing her mouth to open, laving the softness of her with his tongue as he moved his hips in a circular motion. “You feel so good, sweetheart,” he groaned, reaching down to raise her knees on either side of his taut body.

He bent lower, his mouth finding the firm flesh of her breast, and he molded his lips to the rising slope, careful to ease his way gradually as he shaped the lush fullness with his hand. He suckled her, gently and tenderly, aware that this was virgin territory, as much so as the woman part of her that was pressed against his groin.

Emmaline writhed against him, her breathing hampered by the harsh pounding of her heart. He was touching the forbidden places that she had never thought to submit to him, to anyone. His mouth was hot against her, tugging with rhythmic movements and causing waves of heated pleasure to pulse throughout her body until the pleasure was centered in the very pit of her belly. There, where his hard presence pushed against her with a steady pressure.

She moaned his name, and her voice was high and wispy as her hands slipped through his dark hair, holding him in place, lest he leave her, robbing her of the strange spiraling pleasure he brought her.