Blind Tiger by Sandra Brown

“No.”

“Did you try?”

“No. It wasn’t like that, Laurel. She was a caring person. For all the cheer she gave her patients, she was sad. Still in love with her fiancé. We were a comfort to each other, that’s all. Two people trying to take some pleasure where there was damn little to be found. Those three days were just a time-out from the hell going on around us.”

“Like this is now?”

He quit concentrating on her eyebrow and met her gaze directly.

Placing his arm around her waist, he spread his hand wide over her bottom and pulled her against him. “Nothing like this. Nothing’s ever been like this.”

His deep kiss became a long, continual one that caused renewed arousal to spiral inside her sex. Gradually, the kiss changed character, taking on heat that melted any lingering inhibitions. Up till now the word “erotic” had hinted at dark and mysterious things of which she had no experience or knowledge. Now, she felt steeped in the essence of the word’s definition.

Thatcher ended the kiss only to whisper against her lips, “I have to have you again.”

Her desire for him had also risen to the level of need. “Yes.”

He murmured indistinctly as he moved to lie between her legs. “I’m going to kiss you.”

But he didn’t do as he was wont to and cradle her face in his hands. Instead he clasped her hips between them and blazed a trail of wet kisses down the center of her body.

His hands assumed mastery over her movements, but their guidance was gentle and unrushed. He repositioned her legs to accommodate his shoulders, cupped her behind the knees and raised them, stroked the backs of her thighs, then slid his hands under her bottom. It was a delicious shock to feel the prickliness of whiskers against her navel, in the valleys under her hipbones, and on the insides of her thighs.

She couldn’t hear everything he whispered directly against her, but she felt the words as they formed on his lips, felt the warm breath that wafted over her sensitive flesh as he spoke them.

She never would have imagined that his mouth could be both softly persuasive and aggressive at the same time, but it was. His tongue was simply wicked. It shattered her, and she surrendered to it utterly.

She was still in the throes of her orgasm when he braced himself above her. In a possessive push, he sheathed himself. He gave only a few more rapid thrusts before his body tensed and she felt his pulsing deep inside her. She closed around him as tightly as she could, and they held that way, until they both went listless.

Long moments later, he placed his hands at each side of her head and sank his fingers into her hair, tangling the strands around them as though he wanted to be ensnared.

He remained heavy and full inside her, filling her. His face was feverish against her neck. His breath, which had been gusting, eventually slowed. He inhaled deeply once and exhaled slowly.

Before he slept, he spoke a single word. “Laurel.” Only that.

It was enough.





Fifty-Six



Thatcher’s clothes were still damp, but he had no choice except to put them back on. He was moving quietly so not to waken Laurel, who was a damn tempting sight, hair streaming over her pillow, face relaxed in sleep. Her bare shoulder had escaped the covers. He thought of leaning down and kissing it but was afraid she would wake up. She needed her sleep.

Last night, after napping for a while, they’d gone downstairs to the bathroom and bathed together by the glow of a kerosene lamp. She had overcome some of her shyness and had asked delicate questions. His candid answers had made her blush. But not to be outdone by “French tarts,” she’d asked him to coach her on how to please him. It was he who’d wound up in thrall of her ardor. And talent.

They’d fallen asleep, spooning, but he’d awakened an hour later, hard with wanting her again. She purred in permissive response to his hopeful nudges, but when she tried to turn, he reached across her and spread his hand over her middle, holding her in place.

“Ever since that damn rooster attacked, and your bottom bumped up against me…”

Just thinking about that slow, drowsy sex made him want to be coupled with her again. But each of them was facing a challenging day. She would be grieving Davy O’Connor and consoling his brother. Sheriff Amos was expecting him.

He gave her one last, longing look, then slipped out of the bedroom unheard.

* * *



Fred Barker was already in his shop when Thatcher arrived to return his rifle. “Why don’t you keep it?” Barker said. “After what happened last night, I reckon you might need it.”

“You heard about the ambush?”

“Heard the ambush as it happened. Wife and me thought firecrackers were going off. This morning, learned different from the milkman. That O’Connor boy was a hell-raiser. I’d’ve locked my daughter up was he to’ve come anywhere near her. But being gunned down like that…”

Barker shook his head in sorrow. “Somethin’s gotta give around here, Thatcher. Hang on to that Springfield. It’s not like it’s the only rifle I have.”

“Thanks. I’ll take good care of it.” He asked Fred if he could spare Roger to do the stable chores. “Sheriff wanted me to be on hand today.”

Fred spat into the dirt. “He’s gonna need all the men he can get. Do you believe a lightning strike caused that fire?”