Page 67 of The Saloon Girl's Only Shot

They had a nice visit and Skip bought a second drink, saying with a frown, “You’re charging more than I like to spend, Owen.”

“You want to visit a real undertaker, you keep drinking the cheap stuff,” Owen said without apology.

“You ever find out who broke your window?” Skip asked.

“Nope. But I hung the horseshoe over the door for extra luck.”

“You didn’t!” Temperance went outside to check.

Sure enough, there it was above the door, heels up so it would gather all the best luck.

It must have done the trick, because two more passersby came in with her. As the evening wore on, a handful of men came in to gamble for a few hours. Temperance wound up with a silver dollar from the pot when the happy winner shared his newfound wealth.

When Owen locked the door, he’d sold twenty-two drinks, and Temperance had almost two dollars in tips.

“I’d call that a success.” He closed the drapes on the window while she blew out the kerosene lamps, except the one in the sconce by the door to their quarters. “Wouldn’t you?” he asked as he came toward her, beaming with pride.

“I would. Congratulations!” She felt pride of her own, happy to be part of what had put such a wide smile on his face.

He released a noise that was half exuberance, half abandoned discipline as he swooped to grab her around the waist. He hugged her and spun.

She squeaked out a noise of surprise and laughter, clinging her arms around his neck, too happy for him to be offended.

“I couldn’t help it,” he said as apology when he set her on her feet. He gave her one more bear hug, then released her but kept hold of her hands, squeezing them. “Thank you. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

She was deeply moved by that. She’d never heard anything like it from her father or Adelaide, no matter all the ways she had pitched in, trying to prove her value to them.

“I’m really glad for you. Well done.”

His brow flexed, and she thought he might be equally moved by her praise.

Her gaze became all tangled up with his, trying to read what else he might be thinking. Or feeling.

“I know we said we wouldn’t, but, ” he cradled the side of her face, “I really want to kiss you right now.”

“I want that too.”

A strangled noise left him as he drew her closer and gently crashed his mouth over hers. She brought her hand up and set it against his whiskered cheek, delighting in the texture even as his hot kiss stoked all the thoughts from her head. He was in no hurry, and that was perhaps the most dangerous part of this kiss. He made her feel heavy and sluggish—as though she were melting. She wanted to sink to the floor beneath him.

His hand slid from her face down to cup her neck while his mouth parted over hers, becoming more purposeful. Hungry and possessive and generous. Her heart felt as though it fluttered outside her body.

She moved his hand to her breast, and a growl rumbled in his chest. He shaped the swell through the layers of chintz and muslin while his tongue stole between her lips to tag her own. A thrust of heat went deep into the pit of her belly. All of her was so hot she twisted in delicious agony, wanting to touch all of him.

“I want to do it,” she admitted.

He stilled. “What?”

“Lovemaking,” she said shakily, clenching her eyes shut at being so blatant about it.

“So do I,” he groaned. His lips grazed her cheek, her jaw. “But I don’t want to get you pregnant.” He took her hands from around his neck and trapped them behind her while he backed her toward the door into the living area. “What if we do something else?”

Her mind blanked. “Like what?”

“Like I take off every stitch you’re wearing and taste every part of you.”

She gasped, coming up against the closed door, so his body squashed into hers, letting her feel the thickness of his arousal through the layers of their clothes.

It sounded like pure debauchery, but she was in such a grip of sensuality, she thought she might die if he didn’t do something to her. Anything.

---