Teresa Medeiros - Nobody’s Darling

“Better?” he murmured, burying his face in her hair.

“Oh, much,” she gasped.

He took that as his cue to lengthen and deepen his rhythmic strokes, sending waves of delight shuddering through her. She’d been astonished by the pleasure he’d given her before, but there was something even more miraculous about being joined with the man she loved. She was soft where he was hard. Giving where he was driven to take. As his strokes quickened to furious thrusts that seemed to fill her to overflowing, she wrapped her arms and legs around him, clinging for dear life. When his body went rigid and he tore himself from her with one last mighty groan, the tears that came spilling from her eyes were tears of joy.

Esmerelda sat in the rocking chair, cradled on Billy’s lap. He’d wrapped the quilt around them both, enfolding them in a cozy cocoon. The soothing motion of the rocker created an exquisite friction between their naked, sweat-dampened bodies.

By the waning light of the moon, Billy looked troubled, like a man who’d suddenly discovered he had something to lose.

Esmerelda longed to make him smile again. She ran her fingertips along his jaw, hoping to soften its stern set. “You always call me ‘honey’ or ‘sweetheart’ or ‘angel',” she whispered, ”but you never call me ’darling.“”

He slanted her a wry look. “Maybe I was just waiting until I could call you Mrs. Darling.”

Warmed by his unspoken promise, she gave him a tender kiss and rubbed her breasts against his chest. The coarse coils of his chest hair made her nipples throb and tingle. She moaned a faint protest when he gently resituated her on his lap, turning her so that she faced away from him. He used his big hands to drape her legs over his own splayed thighs, leaving her utterly vulnerable to his touch.

Esmerelda melted into a puddle of delight when those clever fingers of his parted the dewy petals of her body, seeking the tender bud nestled within their folds. She turned her head, blindly seeking the sustenance of his mouth. He rewarded her with a taste of his tongue, then eased her hair aside and began to scatter damp kisses on her nape and throat.

As the tender flick of his fingertip sent molten pleasure cascading through her veins, she became keenly aware of the demanding weight of his arousal pressing against the cleft of her buttocks.

The very next time the chair rocked up, then down, he slid into her, just as neat as you please.

Unprepared for the shock of being so deliciously impaled, Esmerelda nearly swooned. Groaning his own delight, Billy rocked himself deeper into her with each rhythmic rise and fall of the chair.

Not sure just how much pleasure she could endure without dying, she whimpered an entreaty, urging him to go faster. But he kept up his leisurely pace, stroking her inside and out, until she was sobbing with rapture. Dark shudders of ecstasy wracked her body and soul, leaving her limp in his arms.

Only then did he take his own pleasure. When he was done, he lifted her in his arms like a child and carried her to the bed, where they fell into an exhausted slumber, their bodies nested together like two spoons in a cupboard drawer.

When Esmerelda awoke again, Billy was already inside of her. She slipped out of one delectable dream into another, a dream where Billy kept one arm wrapped tightly around her waist, all the while gliding in and out of her in long, honeyed strokes. Esmerelda arched against him, purring with pleasure. When he could no longer contain the driving rhythm of his thrusts, he urged her over to her stomach and rode her the rest of the way home.

Morning came too soon.

Sunlight filtered through the window beneath the attic eaves, bathing the bed in warmth. Esmerelda tried to resist its gentle persuasion, longing only to rock the day away in the sweet cradle of Billy’s arms. When she finally pried open her eyes, it was to discover that she was sprawled on top of him with her head pillowed on his chest and her thighs straddling his lean hips. From the devilish light in the eyes sparkling so near to hers and the persistent nudge of his body, she gathered that waking up and staying that way hadn’t been a problem for him.

“Mornin‘, Duchess,” he drawled, greeting her just as he had that long-ago morning at the hotel.

“Mornin‘, cowboy,” she replied. She could not resist a diffident sniff. “If you’re ready to hit the trail, just leave your silver dollar on the bureau on your way out.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Just one dollar? By my accounting, I owe you at least three, along with a fifty-dollar gold piece for…” He pressed his mouth to her ear, whispering something that made her both giggle and squirm. She could hardly believe herself that the haughty Miss Esmerelda Fine from Boston had dared something so deliciously bawdy.

It seemed that loving Billy had made a hoyden of her. A hoyden who delighted in the faint whisker burn on her chin, the moist tenderness between her legs. She ran her tongue over her kiss-swollen lips before pressing them to Billy’s. He cupped her rump in his hands, holding her astride the instinctive buck of his hips and making her moan with anticipation.

The inviting sound was drowned out by masculine shouting, feminine squealing, and the thunder of footsteps on the stairs.

Billy rolled her off of him, instantly alert. He listened for a second, his brow creased in a frown. Then, throwing the quilt over her, he bounded out of the bed.

“Stay here, sweetheart,” he commanded, jerking on his trousers. “One of the girls must have a rowdy customer.”

Before he could get them buttoned, the door flew open, leaving Billy standing behind it.

Squealing in alarm, Esmerelda snatched the quilt up to her chin. The man who stood in the doorway didn’t look the least bit rowdy. He certainly didn’t look capable of causing the sort of commotion they’d heard. With his double-breasted frock coat and pinstriped trousers, he looked as if he’d just come from a formal ball. He wore a gray felt top hat and clutched the brass grip of a cane in his liver-spotted hand.

It wasn’t his elegant attire, but the tenderness that softened his eyes when they lit on her that made Esmerelda’s throat tighten with a curious mixture of awe and apprehension.

He propped his cane against the wardrobe and drew off his hat, turning it over in his trembling hands. “I would have known you anywhere, Esmerelda. You are the very image of your mother.”

He didn’t have snowy white hair or a bristling mustache that would tickle her cheek when he hugged her. He was as bald as a billiard ball and his square, ruddy face was clean-shaven. But the pugnacious jut of his jaw was unmistakable.

“Grandfather?” she croaked.

He beamed at her. “Ah, my sweet child, it would make this cold and unforgiving ogre ever so happy if you would consent to call him ‘Grandpapa.”“

Paralyzed with shock, Esmerelda kept a death grip on the quilt as he came limping over, folded her into his arms, and gently stroked her tousled hair just like the grandfather of her dreams.

“There, there, my darling,” he murmured. “You’ve done the very best you could for yourself, but it’s time to come home now and let Grandpapa take care of you.”

As she met Billys stricken gaze over her grandfather’s shoulder, Esmerelda would have been hard-pressed to decide which one of them looked more horrified.

Her grandfather continued to murmur endearments and stroke her hair, seemingly oblivious to the stream of people who came pouring into the attic room. Sheriff McGuire staggered in first, followed by a woman Esmerelda didn’t recognize, the rotund Miss Mellie, a flock of her half-dressed girls, and a handful of their gawking patrons.

Flushed with mortification, Esmerelda considered dragging the quilt over her head. Billy remained frozen behind the door, looking as if he’d like to sunk out the nearest window himself.

Blood trickled from a shallow wound on Sheriff McGuire’s temple. The petite, gray-haired stranger stood on tiptoe to dab it away with a lace handkerchief.

“Who is that woman?” Esmerelda whispered.

“Oh, that would be my sister. Your aunt Anne,” her grandfather explained, favoring her with a tender smile. “She’s the very soul of gentility.”

“If you’ll stand still for a minute, you overgrown oaf,” the woman snapped. “I might be able to stop the bleeding.”

McGuire sneered down his nose at her. “I wouldn’t be bleeding if you hadn’t coldcocked me with the butt of my own pistol.”

“How else was I to get the keys to my cell?”

Esmerelda gasped. “You arrested my aunt?”

McGuire turned his sullen gaze on her. “You needn’t look so shocked, lass. I did it for your own good. She and this loco brother of hers had taken it into their heads to go searching for you. I didn’t arrest them. I simply provided them with accommodations during their stay in Calamity. Free of charge, I might add.”

The woman snorted. “Even if you did allow us separate cells, your hospitality left much to be desired.”

“If you don’t like it,” Drew snarled, pointing at the man cowering behind two scantily clad young women, “you can take it up with the mayor.”

Esmerelda’s aunt spun around, clapping a hand over her heart. “Why, Mr. Stumpelmeyer!”

The mayor, banker, postmaster, and justice of the peace of Calamity was wearing nothing but a pair of spectacles and a pair of drawers. He lifted his bony shoulders in a sheepish shrug. “I’ve been a widower for nigh on two months now, Miss Hastings. I have my needs.”

Anne appeared to ponder the matter. “Perhaps that’s why your proposal was so heartfelt.”

“He proposed to you?” Esmerelda squeaked, shocked anew.

Anne lifted her chin high. “He and thirty-seven other men in the last week alone. Quite an impressive tally for an old spinster, is it not?”

“That’s why she doesn’t care for me,” Drew said. “I’m the only man in town with the good sense not to marry her.”

Anne shot him a glare that could have cut glass.

Esmerelda felt a rush of alarm as her grandfather stiffened. “Who are all these… women?” he asked, sweeping a frosty look around the room. “I thought this was a boardinghouse for young ladies of good reputation.”

One of the girls trilled a sultry giggle. “I got a reputation, all right, honey, but it ain’t good.”

Her grandfather rose to face her, drawing his wounded dignity around him like a mantle. “I don’t understand, Esmerelda. Perhaps you’d best explain the meaning of your presence in this establishment.”

She gazed helplessly up at him, hating to lose his affection so soon after finding it.

When she heard a telltale creak, she knew her faith had not been misplaced. Billy wasn’t the sort of man who would abandon her to face her doom alone.

Her grandfather turned as the door slowly swung toward its frame to reveal the man standing behind it. The morning sun streaming through the window gilded his bare chest, his tousled hair, the narrow V of hair-dusted belly exposed by his unbuttoned trousers. Remembering how it felt to be rocked in the golden cradle of that magnificent body, Esmerelda felt a sweet stab of desire.

Despite the obvious difficulty he was having swallowing, Billy curved his lips into an amiable grin. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, sir.” He cut his smoky eyes toward Esmerelda. “Your granddaughter’s told me so much about you.”

Billy Darling had finally ended up where he always figured he belonged—behind bars. But he’d never dreamed his accommodations would be so luxurious. The lumpy, straw-stuffed tick that used to drape the bunk in the front cell of the Calamity jail had been replaced with a fluffy feather mattress. An Oriental rug covered the most ominous of the stains on the puncheon floor. The chipped plaster ceiling boasted a coat of fresh paint. Billy eyed the corner askance, reasonably sure that when he’d left Calamity less than two weeks ago, there had been no crocheted tea cozies in the cell, no ceramic teapot for them to hug, and no tea table for the teapot to rest on.

Billy rested his elbows on the crosspiece of the door, letting his forearms dangle through the bars. “Developed a fondness for decorating while I was gone, Drew?”

Drew sat behind his desk with Miss Kitty curled up on his lap. He opened his mouth, but before he could get a word out, Esmerelda’s aunt paused in her restless pacing. “I’m not surprised you noticed the changes Sheriff McGuire initiated for my comfort, Mr. Darling. I would have expected a ruffian like you to be intimately familiar with the inside of this jail.”

“Oh, I wasn’t a prisoner last time I was here, ma’am,” Billy said, deepening his drawl just to annoy her. “I was visiting your niece.”