The Savage and the Saint by L. C. Morgan & Kitty Bad & Rachel Lawrence

Author:L. C. Morgan & Kitty Bad & Rachel Lawrence
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Romance, Western, Westerns, Literature & Fiction
Publisher: L. C. Morgan
Published: 2014-06-06T06:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

The next morning found me in the same sweaty state, a new shame surfacing.

He had carried me back to the tent and lain with me once again—a man that wasn't my husband, a man to whom I was quickly becoming accustomed.

It wasn't right.

Neither was sitting on his lap.

Nor was enjoying it as much as I did.

I could feel his heat against my back, how he stirred just before rousing and stretching right behind me, the weight of his stare heavy on my shoulders. I debated playing possum, not wanting to tempt a debacle such as the one the other morning. However, my curiosity got the better of me and I craned my neck towards him, my eyes locking with his.

He grunted what I assumed was an actual word that I just didn't understand. I only looked at him, afraid to try and answer until his arm rested over my thigh and he tugged on the front of my night dress. "Go."

It took me a moment to realize what he was saying, that he was actually repeating one of the words I had used when trying to explain my need to relieve myself. A smile broke out across my face once I did. His fingers released my dress to trace the gentle curve of my lips. My smile slowly faded as he leaned forward and nudged my nose with his, the very tip of his tongue wetting his lips.

Turning my head away, I nodded in response, sitting up when he attempted to turn my chin.

"Yes. Go."

My denial of his affections perturbed him, and he stood with a huff. I stared dumbly at his offered hand before taking it, allowing him to help me up and then pull me along as he liked to do. It was the least I could offer since he was trying to be civil.

The sun was just rising over the top of a snowy white mountain. I longed to be there, certain it would feel better than the discomfort of this blasted heat. At least in the cold you were more inclined to cover up than you were to run around in damn near nothing. For as long as I lived I would never be comfortable with the amount of skin these people deemed proper enough to show.

There was more than one occasion where I'd come close to seeing his manhood. He was careless when it came to modesty, always squatting, running or simply allowing the cloth to flap in the wind.

I was finding it increasingly difficult not to look at him. The shape of his muscles and the color of his skin drew the eye, made my belly feel all sorts of funny, and caused my head to spin. It was unnerving the way the string holding up the cloth hung so low, parting at his narrow hips and displaying the well-worked muscles of his thighs. They jumped with every movement, hardening and then relaxing with every long stride.

I’d never taken such notice of John's muscles.

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