Ace's Wild (Hqn) Page 13

  “But you bring them back,” she whispered.

  He shook his head, and his fingers once again closed around her nipple, tightening, twisting, promising. “Not always.”

  The kettle on the stove rattled as the water boiled. He stepped back, leaving her there expectant and bereft. It took her a good three seconds to gather her wits and stand up straight. Her left nipple throbbed, so did her pussy. Her mind raced.

  Ace walked over to the door and grabbed the gun. Coming back, he shoved it in her hands.

  “Don’t let me catch you without this by your side again.”

  It was an order. She nodded and not just because it was common sense. For a long while he stared at her, not saying a word, just wrestling with something inside. Something that had emotions chasing across his face—desire, determination, regret and then desire again. With a sigh, he tucked her hair behind her ear.

  “And don’t let me catch you with your defenses down again.”

  “Why?” The challenge just slipped out.

  “Because you won’t like the consequences.”

  She wasn’t so sure. For an endless minute, tension arced between them. Ace was the one to break it, grabbing his hat and heading out the back door. As it closed silently behind him, her whole body quivered on a heavy sigh. That tension she didn’t understand and couldn’t control rippled through her. Closing her eyes, she forced herself to relax her white-knuckle grip on the gun.

  She didn’t need to see to picture him leaving her, walking with that long, confident stride of his, leaving her behind as if this were only his decision to make.

  When I take a woman I take her body and soul, until she’s mine to do with as I will.

  Licking her lips, she remembered that moment when he’d taken her to the point of tolerance and then beyond. The shock, the pleasure, the bliss. Ace had been in control of her, of himself. Of them. And she’d never felt more alive.

  ...you won’t like the consequences.

  The kettle rattled again as the coffee boiled. Cupping her breast in her hand, she looked out the window, her own determination settling deep. They’d see about that.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ACE STROLLED INTO the saloon, his temper as frayed as the edges of his oldest pair of denims. The stench hit him first. It wasn’t something he normally noticed, but apparently tonight everything was out to annoy him. The saloon was pretty much empty except for a couple of passed-out derelicts. By four in the morning, people either found their bed or someone else’s to sleep in. Only a few diehards took advantage of Jenkins’s open-all-night-whenever-he-felt-like-it hours. Ace went straight to the bar.

  Jenkins greeted him with a jerk of his chin. “Bit late to be about, isn’t it, Ace?”

  “Bit late to not be sleeping, isn’t it?”

  “You’ve got me there. What will you have?”

  Ace flipped a coin onto the counter. “Just give me a whiskey.”

  Jenkins put a glass down and reached behind the bar. “Glass or bottle?”

  “Bottle.”

  “That bad a night?”

  He took the bottle. “Getting awful nosy in your old age, aren’t you, Jenkins?”

  Jenkins backed up a step. “Just making conversation, Ace.”

  “Did I ask for conversation?” He pulled the cork. The acrid scent of the liquor wafted up to him. “All I remember asking for is whiskey.”

  “So you did, and I’ll be leaving you to it.”

  “Thank you.”

  Taking his cloth, Jenkins went to the other end of the bar and started wiping it down.

  The retreat soothed a bit of Ace’s aggression. His fingers closed around the glass. It was warm and hard like Pet’s nipple. He stroked his fingers up across the smooth surface wanting the sensation to replace memory.

  Snorting, he poured whiskey into the glass. As if that was ever going to happen. Pet had the sweetest breasts, small and firm, topped with surprisingly big nipples. Their shape was burned into his flesh, her response into his memory.

  Fuck. He tossed back the glass. Instead of the memory fading, it grew, pounding at him, demanding he go back and get more. Shit. He did love to play with a woman’s breasts. Loved to tease them past the point of bearing to the edge of pain. And then he loved to push them over, catching them softly on the other side, loved to see the wonder and trust in their eyes. Like he’d seen in Pet’s.

  Damn, that woman was something. All fire and passion. When he’d pinched her nipple, he’d expected her to retreat but instead she’d actually leaned in, a subtle surrender she wasn’t even aware of, a potent temptation to the demons inside him. He’d almost given in to that temptation when she bent back across the counter, her breasts raised for his pleasure, her head arched back. Whether she knew it or not, she’d submitted to him right then, and everything in him wanted to take her up on the challenge to show her that he was man enough to tame that spirit in her, to hold her safe.

  He imagined his hand gliding over her cheek to her neck, gathering up her hair, wrapping the silken strands in his fist, holding tight as he arched her back. Hearing that little catch in her breath when he bent her to the edge of her endurance before he leaned down and nibbled at her lips, nipped at her neck and bit at her breasts, stimulating them until he heard that next gasp that said she was ready for more, so much more.

  His cock, which still hadn’t subsided fully from their earlier encounter, hardened again, pressing painfully against the seam of his pants. He shifted his position, easing the tension as he swore under his breath.

  Pouring another glass, he tossed the whiskey back, welcoming the distraction of the burn. He focused on it, on the fumes that burned his nostrils, wanting to burn the scent of her from his memory.

  Petunia was a good woman, all bravado on the outside but as delicate in nature as she was in build. Way too delicate for him. He tended to more robust women. Women that could handle what he had to offer. Petunia... He shook his head imagining her with her hands tied above her head, stripped bare, her body posed just so waiting for that first kiss of the flogger or maybe the brush of his hand. He shook his head. Petunia wasn’t made for that. She was made for the contained attentions of an educated man, a refined man, one that wouldn’t ask too much of her too often. Not a hell-bent desperado like himself, not a man with his proclivities. While she might be curious now, she’d never survive his bed, not with her spirit intact.

  And he liked that spirit. It was rare and brave and caring. Not many people still tilted at windmills. He poured another whiskey. Before he could set the bottle back down on the counter, a plump white hand slid into his line of vision. The fingers wrapped around his glass. Following the vision came the smell of cheap perfume and heavy powder, drenching him. He knew that scent.

  A husky voice whispered in his ear, “Hello, Ace.”

  He looked over his shoulder. “Hi, Rose.”

  Rose smiled her tired, pretty, slightly crooked smile. This late in the evening her makeup was a little bit smeared and had settled into the fine lines around her eyes. Her hair fell sloppily around her face. She tossed back the shot with the enthusiasm of a man, another outward sign of her hard life. Clearing her throat, she put the glass down.

  “You’re here awfully late.”

  “So it would appear.”

  He refilled the glass. When she reached for it again, he slammed his hand down on hers. Not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to excite. His fingers closed over hers, exerting a subtle pressure. He felt the shiver that snaked up her arm and felt the tension enter her muscles when he didn’t let go.

  “You need to ask before reaching for what’s mine, Rose. We talked about that before.”

  Her smile was knowing, teasing, an invitation. “So we did.”

  Inside him the lust rose, wavered and refocused. He couldn’t
have Pet, but he could have this.

  “We also discussed,” he told her looking into her reddened blue eyes, “what was going to happen next time you forgot.”

  Another shiver, but again not of fear. She stepped in bringing her large plump breasts against his shoulder. She was a sturdy woman. The corset she wore emphasized the generous curves above and below her waist.

  “So we did.”

  She had pale skin that marked so beautifully.

  “You got a customer?” he asked her.

  She shook her head. Bits of powder fell free. “I’m free.”

  Against his will, thoughts of Petunia’s soft blond hair that caught the sun and fluctuated between shades of almost white to amber intruded. Clean and sweet-smelling, he’d kill to feel it slide over his chest, his stomach, his cock. He tossed the shot down and turned the glass upside down over the neck of the bottle.

  He grabbed up both as he stood. “Not anymore you aren’t.”

  She turned, and he smacked her ass hard enough to leave a sting. Rose might be getting a little long in the tooth but she liked what he did, and he didn’t have to feel guilty or worry at the end he’d gone too far. She could take whatever he handed out.

  “Let’s get on upstairs,” he told her.

  She smiled at him over her shoulder and put a little extra swing to her hips. But she didn’t wait. She went ahead. He shook his head. Her own demons must be riding her hard tonight. She knew what that impudence would provoke. Grabbing her hand, he stopped her at the bottom of the stairs. With a tug he put her behind him. But he didn’t let go of her hand.

  “It’s been a long time,” he told her.

  She nodded. But didn’t speak.

  “At least you remembered something.” He didn’t like a lot of chatter while he worked.

  He led the way up the stairs, smiling at her relief at the shift of power. They’d played together enough to know that that shift had to happen for that evening to be enjoyed. People thought whores were victims, and maybe they were in some respects, but when it came to controlling the play behind the bedroom door, most times it was the woman that was in charge while the man was at the mercy of his desires. He discovered early on that Rose wasn’t a woman that relished control or at the very least, she was a woman that enjoyed a break from that control.

  Her heels clicked on the well-worn stairs behind him as she followed.

  “Anybody ever tell you you’re a bit of a bastard, Ace?” she asked.

  “A time or two.”

  Petunia, just a few days ago.

  “Did it ever bother you?” she asked.

  He looked back over his shoulder. “Not particularly. Why?”

  When he got to the top of the stairs, he turned, changing his grip on her hand to help her over that last rickety one. Jenkins had to replace that board soon or somebody was going to get hurt.

  Rose shook her head. “Because you seem too decent sometimes to be such a bastard all the time.”

  He smiled. “Well, I like to keep them guessing.” He stopped at door four. “Same room?”

  She nodded. He went in. She immediately went over to the cedar chest and took out fresh sheets. Another advantage to being a steady customer was Rose knew what he liked. The ease with which she prepared for her customers made her a favorite when the mood came over him. She was appreciative, uncomplicated and maybe yeah, a little bit in love with him but not enough that it was a problem.

  She dumped the old sheets out in the hall and finished smoothing the bed. He took off his hat and set it on the chair.

  “You done?”

  She nodded and straightened. With a crook of his finger, he motioned her over. She stood in front of him, the tension under her skin exciting the dominance in him. He loved that moment right before a woman surrendered everything. When she knew she might be letting herself in for more than she could handle but she did it anyway, because it was exciting, because she wanted to be fulfilled, because it was her nature.

  “Undress me.”

  She did with far too much competence.

  “Slower.”

  She immediately obeyed. Skillfully unbuttoning buttons and pushing aside fabric. She stopped when she got to his gun belt.

  Stroking her hair, he smiled. “Good girl.”

  He took it off and set it on the bed. He was particular about his guns. With another crook of his finger, he summoned her again. On the first step, he shook his head. She’d been good. She deserved a reward. He knew what excited her. With a flick of his finger he motioned to the floor. Her breath caught, and her bottom lip slipped between her teeth. She crawled the rest of the way, a flush rising on her skin. Humiliation didn’t excite him, but it wasn’t all about him, and Rose might be a whore, but she was also a friend. And she mattered.

  “Now my pants.”

  It should have been far more stimulating than it was to have Rosie on her knees before him working buttons free, but there was always something inherently dissatisfying about these encounters. Something missing, and the search for it sometimes drove him further than he wanted to go. But tonight it was even more dissatisfying than normal.

  He sat down and held out his leg giving her easy access to his boots. She straddled it the way she knew he liked, giving him a good view of her buttocks. They were broad and ample, well suited to cushioning a man’s thrusts or taking a spank. Shit, they’d always been very pleasing, but now they were just too much. Pet’s face flashed into his mind. Damn it. He didn’t need to be thinking about her now, especially now. He knew from experience, once a man let the forbidden lodge in his head, it could take over, weaken him, and Petunia Wayfield was definitely forbidden fruit.

  The first boot hit the floor with a soft thud. Rose lowered his leg slowly, letting it slip down easy, before straddling his other leg. He put his foot against her ass, feeling the soft white skin shift under the thin robe as she wiggled off his second boot. Picking up his boots she placed them neatly by the bed before opening the chest again and returning with a cloth-wrapped package. Flipping the canvas back, she asked, “What are you in the mood for tonight?”

  He couldn’t get the image of Pet out of his mind. Dangerous territory that. He closed his eyes. Other images seeped through the break in control. Memories chased their heels. He knew what was coming. Faces scowling down at him. Fists connecting with his flesh. Fighting and losing. Hearing his mother scream. His father’s shout. Needing to get to them. Failing. Always failing. Walking over the bodies, smelling the stench of blood and death, hoping against hope. Fighting the last memory that always wanted center stage, bringing the curtain down before he turned that corner, stepped up onto the porch, saw what he wouldn’t see...

  Opening his eyes he picked up the restraints and flogger—Rose’s favorites—and he smiled at the excitement in her eyes. Sometimes it was best to keep things simple. “To forget.”

  * * *

  “SO WHAT DO you want that necessitated me coming on down here before the break of dawn?” Hester asked, bursting into the kitchen with her usual energy.

  “It’s hardly the break of dawn.” Petunia had gone to bed at the break of dawn.

  “Close enough.”

  Petunia got up from the table and fetched another cup and placed it at the seat across from hers. Hester immediately pulled the cup over.

  “Going to be one of those conversations, eh?”

  It took every inch of fabric to keep Hester’s breasts covered as she leaned in to grab the coffeepot. Petunia felt a stab of envy. Hester could have done without half her bosom and still been considered buxom, whereas she...

  Petunia looked down at her own modest blessings and mentally rolled her eyes. Whereas she could use two cotton balls and all but double hers. In her youth she’d padded her corsets, but it’d never looked right, and she’d eventually
given up, settling for more worthwhile pursuits than faking a cleavage she was never going to have. She’d learned to embrace the power of her mind and stopped worrying about trying to find a way to look busy at dances when she was never asked to dance and started spending more and more time in books and ideas. When that had gotten boring, she’d started putting those ideas into action. With her father’s money and protection it had been an easy path to follow. But now, fifteen years later, she was back to feeling like the awkward wallflower at the dance. And it was all Ace’s fault, damn it.

  With a grimace, she admitted, “I’m afraid so.”

  With a crook of her finger Hester plunked down in the opposite seat. “Then pass me the cream and sugar.”

  There was something infinitely likable about Hester’s straightforward approach to problems. “It’s a delicate subject.”

  Hester tensed. A little of the cream slopped as she poured it into the coffee. The clay jug rattled as she set it back on the table.

  “You’re not thinking of firing me, are you? Because I’ve got to tell you, woman,” she went on before Petunia could respond. “Seems to me you need someone like me around here. If a ladylike little prissy little thing had been here last night when Brian crept in? Well, she’d have just screamed and dropped down on the floor in a dead faint, and where would you be now? Raped or dead or Lord knows what. And Lord knows what that man would have gone on to do to those kids in the state he was in. That Brian when he gets drinking is trouble. Sober he’s just lazy but drunk he’s mean as a bull with a thorn stuck under his tail.”

  She paused to take a breath. Petunia held up her hand.

  “I’m not firing you!”

  Hester sat back in her chair and just stared. “You’re not?”

  “Good grief, no. Not with the way you swing a statue. That’s a hard qualification to come by.”

  For a second Hester just blinked. And then another. Petunia got a sinking feeling in her stomach. “You’re not going to cry, are you?”

  She hadn’t meant to sound so horrified. But Hester was...Hester. Feisty. Indomitable. And if Hester started crying, Petunia would lose her resolve.