Pinch of Naughty (5 page)

It was not—unpleasant. Pressure coiled in her belly. Prickles of fire danced up her legs, centering in her cleft. She pressed against his groin, tentatively rotating her hips, seeking some kind of relief.

“That’s it, play with me.” He growled his approval.

His totally obscene suggestion made her channel clench hungrily and she arched upward, seeking more sensation. Again he found her mouth. This time she tried to turn her head, denying his tongue until he shifted his position and began bumping her pearl with his groin.

“Stop,” she panted. The feeling was too intense. Horrifying need that was almost pain raked her into frenzy.

Eleanor shoved against his shoulders, trying to twist away. “You’re suffocating me.”

He came up on his knees, gripping her rump and lifting her to meet his continued thrusts. “There…there…there…” His growls punctuated each tap, focusing her on the spot that screamed for relief.

Wound so tightly she thought she might explode, Eleanor begged him, “Mr. Burke—please…”

Finally, giving into her need, she braced her legs on the mattress, matching the rhythm of his motion, rocking upward to catch his slick rod that pistoned in and out of her.

“Come for me, Eleanor.” It was as though his command released some newly discovered spring and sent it unwinding in a glorious ribbon of sparks and colors.

“Merciful God…” This time when he covered her mouth, she took him, muffling her wild cry with his lips and tongue as he rode her through one orgasm into another. She used her nails, scoring his back again, relishing the feel of his flesh at her mercy.

He growled his pleasure, making her womb clench and begin another climb toward the pinnacle of release. Eleanor pressed her face against his chest to stifle her moans, tasting salty sweat and Mr. Burke.

“Wrap your legs around my hips.” He thrust with quick, hard jabs that ended when his back became a taut, rigid line before he slumped over her. His whiskers scraped her neck eliciting a shiver, and though her body lay sated beneath his, her internal muscles twitched, gently caressing him.

“Good.” His word was little more than a grunt, his voice—sandpaper rubbing her nerves.

Good?
“Yes.” She whispered the one word as his breath brushed her shoulder in ragged gusts.

She closed her eyes, seeking the strength to rise and leave his bed. She waited for him to say good night. He didn’t. His labored breaths changed to snores. Understanding that as her cue to leave, she wiggled from under him and escaped.

Eleanor gave up the idea of sleep. She crept to the bathing room and, using the mirror above the vanity, inspected her person. Horrified, she blinked in disbelief at her reflected image. Her hair, drenched and reeking of perspiration, was a sodden mess, and his salty sweat had dropped into her eyes, staining their color red. Worst of all, a bruise marked her neck where he’d nipped her.

The foundations of her life had trembled under Mr. Burke’s impact. She wanted to huddle under a blanket and think. But she was afraid if she went to sleep she wouldn’t wake up in time to cook breakfast.

Although it was the middle of the night, she bathed before dressing quietly and descending to the kitchen to begin the morning meal.

They say he makes a woman think Sunday is sin-day.
Mable’s words came back to her, reminding her she was only one among many who had graced her employer’s mattress.
You think you can occupy my bed for six weeks and still look innocent?
His words mocked her after one encounter.

The smell of bread rising soothed her and she set to work, pinching off pieces of dough for clover rolls and pretending they were hunks of Mr. Burke’s skin.
There will have to be rules.
No public displays of carnal intent, no innuendo or rude glances, no touching when not engaged in night duty.

The last consideration was important. The imprint of Mr. Burke’s hands seemed branded on her rump.
I need to keep my wits about me and I can’t when he’s too close.

Feeling somewhat better, she rolled and twisted more of the raw dough into strands, making cinnamon swirls before placing the full loaves in the oven to bake. Rather than repeat her earlier folly, Eleanor heaped rashers of bacon on platters, toasted bread and diced the potatoes she’d peeled the night before.

It was such plain fare and guilt for her skimpy night’s offering still plagued her, she added a tray of crepes stuffed with melted cheese and thin strands of ham.

At the first sound of Mr. Burke’s rising, she started scrambling eggs, sprinkling in green onions and adding crushed bacon to the mix. She was at home—in her element—in control.
The kitchen must be my domain.

He came through the door and her self-confidence scampered back inside, hiding in a tight ball. He said nothing, crossing to stand behind her and peering at her morning preparations. She stepped toward the counter, turning to put the platter down so she could sneak a quick glance. He was clean shaven and looked better rested than Eleanor felt. He put his hand possessively on her hip.

“Good morning, Mr. Burke. As you can see, I’m working. I feel it would be better to keep our more familiar encounters for the night.” She edged away from him.

His response was to reach over her shoulder, steal a slice of bacon with one hand and pat her bottom with the other. He surrounded her, forcing her to look back and up to continue her conversation. “Mr. Burke, this is my work area and—”

His mouth covered hers, cutting off her words. She held herself rigid until he released her. When he lifted his head, peering down into her eyes, she steadied her voice before saying firmly, “There must be a clean demarcation between day activities and night duty.”

“Best get it on, I’m calling ’em in to eat.” His manner was offhand, disinterested in her opinion, and he ate the piece of bacon, chewing on it as he stepped away.

She knew she was in hell when fifteen men in dirty boots trailed through the kitchen leaving straw, mud and horse manure in their wake. Eleanor divided her attention between the filth on the floor and her concern about how the men would receive her second meal in Mr. Burke’s employment.

“Better.” Her employer came to the kitchen in search of the coffeepot and approved her breakfast with one word confirming her early assessment. Mr. Burke was the quintessential male—insufferably arrogant.

Eleanor started mopping the floor. She scrubbed hard, removing the most recent layer of dirt before he held the kitchen door open, ready to lead the pack across her wet floor and out the back door.

“You can’t come through. I’m cleaning.” She faced him defiantly.

“Eleanor, you’re not much more than five feet and a pinch and I’ve got you by at least a hundred pounds. You figure you can stop me with that mop?” His eyes, dark pools of wicked humor, challenged her to keep him out. But then he turned and spoke to the men over his shoulder.

“Use the front entrance from now on. No more traipsing through the kitchen. We don’t want to rile the cook.”

Mr. Burke came through the doorway himself though, took another cinnamon swirl from the extras stacked on a plate and leaned against the counter, watching her labor.

She’d been so close to him the night before she knew the exact pattern of his chest hair. The memory of being under him embarrassed Eleanor so much she couldn’t look at his face. Her eyes remained on the mop but she couldn’t stop the blush stealing from under her collar, staining her cheeks pink.

“If you wear a hole in the floor where you’re scrubbin’ so hard, I’ll dock your pay,” he drawled.

“Come here.” His voice was so serious she glanced up, meeting his bland gaze. He brushed crumbs from his hands, straightened his big frame and gestured for her to come to him.

Reluctantly she set the mop in the bucket and crossed to where he waited.

“Never done work like this before, have you?” He picked up her hands, stripping her white work gloves away and studying the new red lines and the blister forming on her thumb in spite of the protection.

“No.” Her response was clipped and sharp. Eleanor was certain his question covered all of her duties so far, although it was her current mopping he seemed to reference. “Any complaints?” He tipped her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze.

Clamping her lips tight to keep from biting him, Eleanor shook her head.

“Cat got your tongue all the sudden, Eleanor?” He taunted her, daring her to whine about any of her duties.

“I have no complaints. Working as your housekeeper and collecting my wage is important, Mr. Burke—entertaining you with conversation isn’t.” Although rage simmered in her veins, she was proud of her steady reply.

“You taste as sweet as your treats.” He caressed her cheek lightly before releasing her and grabbing a cookie on his way out, motioning her to follow him.

The compliment was unexpected and made her blush harder, remembering his lips murmuring against her neck.

“If you need help for any reason, bang on this and someone will come running.” He pointed to the huge bell dangling on a long chain.

“I appreciate your consideration,” she murmured her thanks, realizing from the former day how isolated and alone she’d be when the ranch crew went to work.

He shrugged aside her words and left.

Eleanor returned to the kitchen and finished mopping the floor. It was hard work, generating renewed appreciation for all of the servants who had kept William’s house so immaculately. She owed her current survival to them.

“I didn’t even get to say goodbye to the staff.” The last day in the household, Mother Lacey had visited her early in the morning and informed her that she was being returned to the Alcotts. By the time Eleanor had reached the carriage, she’d been aware that something was terribly amiss.

Wilson, the Lacey’s butler, had impassively helped her into the shuttered conveyance. Black curtains had been drawn, making her fear one of her family had died.

No explanations had been forthcoming. When she’d been driven to ask the Lacey employee for information, he’d helped her into the carriage, stammering over her address as he closed the door, “It is not for me to say. Godspeed, Mrs. Lac… Miss Al… m’lady.”

Thank God my time in
William’s home wasn’t a complete waste.
She’d been so bored, she’d learned each domestic task, enabling her to guide the servants and better manage the household. Hence she was virtually trained for the employment she’d found—except in one area of course—she lacked mattress skills.

Mr. Burke has no concern other than his male satisfaction.
She shuddered, trying to feel disgust, but arousal coursed through her as she relived the moment her body had spun out of control.
He made me feel things I’ve never experienced before.

“I had no idea intimate relations could be enjoyable,” she murmured in wonder. Her naïveté seemed as limitless as his knowledge.

Everything from Mr. Burke’s nose to his toes overwhelmed her. Even his earthy, sweaty man smell drugged her senses when he was near. Her body felt as though it had somehow reinvented itself during the night, commanding her attentions in ways never thought of before. Her thighs ached, her ribs were tender and her sexual center felt strangely hollow, as though hungry to be filled again.

Grateful for the distraction the work afforded, Eleanor did the laundry, making a moue of distaste as she sorted through socks that needed darning, shirts without buttons and filthy denims.

Cyrus frowned thoughtfully as he walked toward the barn. He’d come awake when she’d wiggled out from under him the night before. Figuring she was going to use the water closet and come back, he’d disposed of the filled rubber and played possum waiting for her return. Left alone, he’d leisurely stroked his cock, planning on seconds. She’d crept past the bedroom door and he’d listened to the stairs creak as she descended.

It irritated him more in the light of day than it had last night. He saddled up and mounted, grinding his hard-on against the leather seat. Scowling, he gave the day’s orders. The men were more interested in the status of the cook than in work.

“Hope you didn’t scare her off, boss,” Henley said.

“What’d she call them things wrapped around cheese and ham?” Jake asked, then added, “I could eat a plate of ’em every morning and nothin’ else if you don’t run her off.”

“You hired her, right?” It was Hank this time, chiming in with his own concern.

“For God’s sake, it’s only food.” He nudged his horse into a trot, swearing under his breath, but it wasn’t her breakfast on his mind.

In the dark, she’d been silent under him, only her soft gasps and sweet musk signaling her readiness as her liquid heat eased his way through her velvet folds. He wore her scratches underneath his shirt and every time the fabric pulled tight, his cock remembered the feel of her nails digging into his back as he rode her.

But this morning she’d been Mrs. Prim ’n’ Proper again, staring at him from her smoky purple eyes and delivering her suggested amendments to their agreement. He wanted to go back and bury himself between her thighs. Instead he concentrated on business—fencing.

It was late morning when he took a break. Jake sidled his horse close as Cyrus mopped sweat from his face. It was the housekeeper the foreman wanted to talk about, not the steers he was supposed to be rounding up.

“In case anyone asks, you put your duds in the bunkhouse when she took up residence in the house. Right?”

“She’s a respectable woman. Make sure that’s understood.” Early on, Cyrus had made it standard procedure to protect a woman’s reputation when she moved to the ranch. His ranch hands knew when to look the other way. If some of the women hadn’t been so discreet, well, that was their own fool problem.

* * * * *

As Cyrus approached the ranch house at dusk, the smell of fresh-baked bread greeted him and even as his steps quickened—as did the steps of every one of his crew—he recognized the fleeting nature of the experience. Mrs. Lacey was temporary help, a fact everyone needed to remember. But goddamn, great food was awe-inspiring. Eager to experience his new cook’s latest offering, he hustled to get to supper.

“Wipe your feet,” he told the men, sending them to the front entrance as he headed for the back door. His lips twitched into a grin remembering the way Eleanor had faced him, mop in hand, protecting her territory earlier in the day.

After supper, the dining hall emptied and she cleared the table for him to work on his ranch ledger. He did more thinking about her than his notations, working with half his brain while he kept an ear cocked toward the kitchen. The meal had been fine, the men were enthralled with the cook, and if he wanted to get rid of her, he’d have a rebellion on his hands.

Every time he thought of her contentious stance on the bed the night before, arms crossed, hands fisted and ready for battle at the same time her nipples were waving at him, laughter rumbled in his chest.

“Eleanor, bring the coffee and come in here.” Sounds had died down in the kitchen and Cyrus gave up work, ready for another round with Eleanor.

She came through the door carrying a plate of cookies, balancing two mugs in the crook of her arm with the pot in the other hand.

“Sit down. We have business to discuss.” The cookies and coffee startled him. It had been some time since anyone had fixed a snack for him. His throat tightened, making his voice gruffer than he intended.

She paused by him, carefully setting the coffeepot down, followed by the plate of cookies. Then she placed a mug next to him, filled it and headed for the other end of the table.

“Stop,” he ordered her.

She turned, her eyebrows signaling a question.