either.
"You need to bathe now,” she repeated her earlier suggestion and pretended that her hand wasn't pleasuring him below.
"Tub's plenty big enough for a little bit more. Take your clothes off and get in with me.” This time he had shocked her beyond docile cooperation.
Her face primmed up and she dropped his cock, stepping back as she said, “I will not."
He'd been waiting for her first challenge, and it pleased him to cut away the iron trappings that compressed her flesh as he would cut away the false trappings of her society. He drew his blade and once again pulled her to him.
"What are you going to do, cut my hand again to punish me?” Her words were derisive, not the respectful tone of a squaw. It occurred to Charlie right then that Miss Naomi Parker wasn't exhibiting the usual white woman's fear of him.
In one motion, he cut through the fabric of her clothes—the dress, the chemise underneath, and the lacings of the corset that constricted her flesh. He stroked his finger down the pinch mark that marred her flesh, pleased to see pink flesh and rounded breasts spring free. “Don't wear one of those damned things again."
Apparently struck dumb, she said nothing when he shoved the cut material wide, pushing it off her shoulders, to the floor, where the corset landed with a loud thunk . She stood before him in nothing but cotton drawers.
"That was my only dress.” All the spunk seemed to drain out of her, leaving her looking tired and vulnerable.
"It had blood all over it.” But he would have cut if off of her had it been clean. The dress was a mockery of her surprising delicacy. Done talking, he took hold of her drawers and pulled them down.
The bleached cotton skimmed right off narrow hips but caught for a moment on a surprisingly rounded bottom. He followed the cotton, bending to unlace the half-boots she wore. “Step out of your shoes,” he ordered. On his way down, when his head was even with her feminine curls, he noticed their light color and nuzzled her there for encouragement.
"Stop it. I'm not ready for this,” she gasped, regaining some of her spirit. He grabbed one shoe and started work on the second. She clutched a wad of his hair and pulled.
"Quit that,” he smacked her bottom, feeling the silken skin under the rough calluses on his palm. When she twisted to kick him, he caught her foot, pulled off the second shoe, and then her bloomers.
"You surely do have long legs.” He stared at the alabaster flesh stretching from her toes to where her legs split into a delicious vee at the apex of her thighs.
Bent over like a man shoeing a horse, he began working his way back up her leg, nuzzling her dimpled knee, kissing the inside of her thigh, brushing his lips across her lower curls, inhaling her scent. All the time, his movements were accompanied by her squeaks of shocked distress.
He didn't have it in him to be mad about the hair pulling when he stood upright. She looked like a wild woman, ready to go toe-to-toe, bare-knuckle brawling with him.
"I am not ready for you to begin,” her face was flushed and her hair had fallen loose from the sedate bun she had worn earlier. What had once appeared brown in color when skinned back the way it had been was now revealed to be strands covered with a dark oily mixture that didn't match her lower curls at all.
"Too late, we already started,” he growled wondering why he'd thought her plain. Her delicate skin had a rosy hue, and her breasts were plump fruit ready to be enjoyed. Each nipple was surrounded by a brown aureole from which the nub thrust jauntily at him in response to his touch. His mouth watered as he looked at them.
"Get in the tub,” he told her gruffly.
"You cannot tell me what to do.” And then ludicrously, she crossed her arms and stared defiantly up at him, challenging his right to order her into the tub.
"I can and I just did. You told me you'd do anything to get your friends back. Well, this is what it's costing
"You need to bathe now,” she repeated her earlier suggestion and pretended that her hand wasn't pleasuring him below.
"Tub's plenty big enough for a little bit more. Take your clothes off and get in with me.” This time he had shocked her beyond docile cooperation.
Her face primmed up and she dropped his cock, stepping back as she said, “I will not."
He'd been waiting for her first challenge, and it pleased him to cut away the iron trappings that compressed her flesh as he would cut away the false trappings of her society. He drew his blade and once again pulled her to him.
"What are you going to do, cut my hand again to punish me?” Her words were derisive, not the respectful tone of a squaw. It occurred to Charlie right then that Miss Naomi Parker wasn't exhibiting the usual white woman's fear of him.
In one motion, he cut through the fabric of her clothes—the dress, the chemise underneath, and the lacings of the corset that constricted her flesh. He stroked his finger down the pinch mark that marred her flesh, pleased to see pink flesh and rounded breasts spring free. “Don't wear one of those damned things again."
Apparently struck dumb, she said nothing when he shoved the cut material wide, pushing it off her shoulders, to the floor, where the corset landed with a loud thunk . She stood before him in nothing but cotton drawers.
"That was my only dress.” All the spunk seemed to drain out of her, leaving her looking tired and vulnerable.
"It had blood all over it.” But he would have cut if off of her had it been clean. The dress was a mockery of her surprising delicacy. Done talking, he took hold of her drawers and pulled them down.
The bleached cotton skimmed right off narrow hips but caught for a moment on a surprisingly rounded bottom. He followed the cotton, bending to unlace the half-boots she wore. “Step out of your shoes,” he ordered. On his way down, when his head was even with her feminine curls, he noticed their light color and nuzzled her there for encouragement.
"Stop it. I'm not ready for this,” she gasped, regaining some of her spirit. He grabbed one shoe and started work on the second. She clutched a wad of his hair and pulled.
"Quit that,” he smacked her bottom, feeling the silken skin under the rough calluses on his palm. When she twisted to kick him, he caught her foot, pulled off the second shoe, and then her bloomers.
"You surely do have long legs.” He stared at the alabaster flesh stretching from her toes to where her legs split into a delicious vee at the apex of her thighs.
Bent over like a man shoeing a horse, he began working his way back up her leg, nuzzling her dimpled knee, kissing the inside of her thigh, brushing his lips across her lower curls, inhaling her scent. All the time, his movements were accompanied by her squeaks of shocked distress.
He didn't have it in him to be mad about the hair pulling when he stood upright. She looked like a wild woman, ready to go toe-to-toe, bare-knuckle brawling with him.
"I am not ready for you to begin,” her face was flushed and her hair had fallen loose from the sedate bun she had worn earlier. What had once appeared brown in color when skinned back the way it had been was now revealed to be strands covered with a dark oily mixture that didn't match her lower curls at all.
"Too late, we already started,” he growled wondering why he'd thought her plain. Her delicate skin had a rosy hue, and her breasts were plump fruit ready to be enjoyed. Each nipple was surrounded by a brown aureole from which the nub thrust jauntily at him in response to his touch. His mouth watered as he looked at them.
"Get in the tub,” he told her gruffly.
"You cannot tell me what to do.” And then ludicrously, she crossed her arms and stared defiantly up at him, challenging his right to order her into the tub.
"I can and I just did. You told me you'd do anything to get your friends back. Well, this is what it's costing
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