Page 70 of The Saloon Girl's Only Shot

Slowly, slowly, she bent closer until the wet heat of her breath bathed him. Her fist tightened around his root, then her damp, velvet mouth closed over his tip. She rolled her tongue around his head, learning his shape. She very lightly sucked.

Orgasm rang like a bell deep in the well of his pelvis.

“Fuck!”

She released him and jerked her head up.

He managed to get his hand in the way, but then he was lost, spilling into his own palm and across his stomach and chest with uncontrolled bucks of his hips, aware of the ragged noises resounding from his throat, but lost to the pleasure and power of his release.

“Am I bad?” Temperance couldn’t help asking in a whisper when the candle was out, and they were spooned under the covers. She had put on her chemise, he wore his drawers, but she had never felt so naked. So sated, yet uncertain.

“No.” His lips touched the rim of her ear, and the arm around her pulled her tighter into the curve of his body.

“But we’re not married,” she whispered. “We’re not planning to. We’re not in love.”

He seemed to grow still behind her. “Is that what you want?”

“No.” Maybe? She wanted to feel safe and secure and wanted and—yes. Loved. That was the real reason she had allowed Dewey to have his way with her. She had wanted him to love her. She wanted someone to love her forever no matter what, not promise to look after her, then leave her fending for herself hundreds of miles from home.

“There’s nothing bad about wanting to feel good. We’re not hurting anyone.”

She nodded, but even though she felt very good right now, it took her a long time to fall asleep.

Things grew busier over the next few days. They got their morning chores done— washed the glasses, replenished the bottles, made stew, and brought in firewood, then opened in the late afternoon, when men were finishing up their own chores and errands. They closed when it emptied out, usually around midnight.

Light snow blew across one day, making for a cozy evening in the saloon, but this morning had dawned surprisingly mild and bright.

It was their fifth day of business. Temperance was glowing from their recent lovemaking. They’d taken to ‘snuggling’ in the middle of the day, when their work was done, but it was too early to open.

Owen would ask, “Want to warm up?”

She did. She always did. He was wildly inventive, teaching her things she hadn’t known people did.

Then they dressed, and, feeling mellow, entered the parlor where he turned the sign and unlocked the door. She brought their dinner to the table where they’d taken to eating it. Here, the late day sun came in the front window, and they could greet any early customers who happened by.

“This is good,” Owen said after a few bites. “Better than any gruel I’ve eaten at a saloo— What are you thinking about?” His tone lowered to the intimate one he used when they were in their bed, caressing each other in broad daylight.

“Nothing,” she lied, but she couldn’t suppress the smile that played against her lips.

“Did I turn the sign too early? Because if you need a little more attention, I’m very happy to oblige.”

She was seriously tempted, but the door opened, letting in a whoosh of fresh air and a man with a heavy step who looked like he ate children for breakfast. He was tall and wide-shouldered, and his clothes were spattered with flecks of mud from the trail. His beard was scruffy and did little to hide the livid scar that ran down his cheek. He didn’t remove his hat, only shut the door and barely met each of their gazes before he swiveled his head to take in the rest of the room.

“What the hell am I looking at?” His glower returned to Owen, then crashed into Temperance’s surprised blink. His antagonism nearly knocked her out of her chair.

“What the hell am I looking at?” Owen set his spoon back in his bowl. “I’m trying to attract a higher class of clientele, not unwashed riffraff.”

The stranger lifted a brow, offering the sort of take-that-back look that should have had Owen reaching for his pistol. Temperance was afraid to breathe. Even Clarence was staying on his blanket near the stove, only holding his head up as he tried to figure out if approaching this stranger was a good idea or a death wish.

“Temperance, the man you’ve been waiting for.” Owen tilted his head toward the newcomer.

“Mr. Gardner?” she realized with shock. “Oh. Hello. I’m Temperance Goodrich.” She rose and hurried forward to offer her hand. “You were corresponding with my father.”

“Uh huh.” He took her measure then swallowed her hand with his, giving it one heavy, abrupt pump.

Temperance had been waiting all this time to speak to him, but now that she had her chance, she was completely tongue-tied. She wasn’t sure what intimidated her more, his unreceptive manner, or the fact she knew how much Owen valued his friendship, which pressured her to make a good impression. She could already tell that Virgil Gardner was judging the hell out of her for sitting here in such domestic bliss with Owen. She was sure Emmett had told him they were living together, unmarried. She wasn’t sure if she was ashamed of that or inclined to suggest he carry his judgmental opinions to hell.

“Would you like a bowl of stew?” She waved at their half-eaten bowls.

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