Her Montana Man (15 page)

“I’m not used to people…doing things for me.”

“That’s a shame.” He scratched his jaw with his thumb.

He’d always been cleanly shaven, so not being able to do it properly must be frustrating. She’d ignored

the thought the last time she’d had it, but this time she couldn’t. She pulled a chair from the corner. “Sit.”

“What for?”

“I’m going to shave you.”

He raised his eyebrows in uncertainty. “Have you ever done it?”

“Many times. I took care of my father for the better part of a year.”

His gaze went to the tub of steaming water. “Right now?”

“We have hot water.” She glanced at the open shelves. “Soap and a razor I’m assuming. What more do

we need?”

He sat. “Razor and all are stored up there.”

“Which basket?” she asked, glancing at the shelves.

“First one on the left. Top shelf,” he said, pointing. “There’s a cake of Williams.”

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“Supplies in two places?”

“I spent several years livin’ out of saddlebags. I’m enjoying my little luxuries now.”

“Nothing wrong with that.” She took down the basket, finding his shaving mug and dipping it in her

bathwater. “I like how everyone has their own place to leave things as they see fit.”

“I like how my employees are trustworthy enough to do that.”

“Why wouldn’t they be? Most of them you’ve pulled from one scrape or another.” The more she

learned of those who worked at the hotel, the more she discovered about Jonas and his proclivity to help

people in need. He was kind, yet direct and decisive.

“Some,” he said with a shrug.

She dipped a hand towel in the bathwater and wrung it out. She liked his strength and the way he

seemed in control of his environment. Each day her respect for him grew. “Tip your head back.”

He obeyed and she folded the towel, placing it on his face.

“That feels good,” he said, his voice muffled.

She scraped shavings from the cake of soap and stirred it into lather. He was a man with a moral code

and a sense of right and wrong to be admired. After removing the towel, she dabbed the shaving suds on

his beard.

He watched as she opened the razor and leaned over him. Placing her left hand on his head, she tilted it

to the side and drew the blade down his cheek in front of his ear in a smooth stroke, then repeated.

When she got to his jaw, he angled his head more, and the razor revealed a scar she hadn’t noticed

before. “What happened here?”

“What d’ you mean?”

“There’s a scar.”

“Don’t recall for sure. I’ve been in a few fights. Knuckles probably.”

The next stroke revealed another white line, this one a little longer and deeper.

Jonas watched her pause and study his jaw. “Remember that one. Thrown from a horse,” he told her.

The room was so warm and humid, it became difficult to take a deep breath. The scent of her hair filled

his senses, and the touch of her hands set him on fire. Her hair, the color of a shiny raven’s wing, hung

over her shoulder and across her breast.

He’d noticed her breasts right off. Through the shiny material of her wrapper, every curve was

accentuated, and each place drops of water had splashed, her skin stuck to the fabric.

Her eyes, lit with amber fire in the gaslight, met his. Something passed between them, something

wordless and
knowing
…something that told him she felt the heat, too, and it wasn’t just the warmth of

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the fire in the heater.

She threaded her fingers into his hair and tipped his head back to shave his neck. His scalp tingled where

she touched him.

“Ned never does it that way,” he said, suppressing a grin. Ned May was the barber a few doors down.

“I guess you could’ve gone to Ned’s,” she told him.

“Not open this late.”

Putting her thumb against his nose, she shaved his upper lip in quick smooth motions, one side, then the

other. Methodical as with everything else she did. She dotted his chin with more lather and made a

couple extra strokes.

“I like your way,” he told her, pleased with the tinge of pink that stained her cheeks at his praise.

She rinsed the towel and used it to wipe his face.

Jonas wrapped his fingers around her wrist gently, halting her movement. “Like the way you do every

last thing, matter of fact.”

Her gaze touched his eyes, his lips. Her pulse was visible in the hollow of her throat, and her skin glowed

with moisture. Gently, he took the warm wet towel from her and wiped her forehead, her neck, touched

it to her cheek.

“I can’t stop thinkin’ about you,” he admitted. “And that kiss. Have you thought about it?”

Her answer came without hesitation. “Yes.”

“Did you like it?”

“Too much,” she replied on a ragged breath.

“Enough to do it again?”

“Yes.”

“Kiss me now then,” he urged.

She placed her damp hand against his cheek and stroked her thumb over his freshly shaven skin. He

understood that her hesitation wasn’t a lack of willingness, but a ploy to draw out the moment to her

satisfaction. He liked that about her, too.

Bending at the waist, her wrapper drooped open, exposing her cleavage framed in delicate ivory lace.

His gaze wavered to her breasts. She noticed.

He met her eyes again, held her gaze as she lowered her head and brought her lips to his.

With the warm soft contact, her eyelids fluttered shut. The feel of her mouth on his demanded his full

attention, so if it hurt to reach for her with both hands, no pain registered. He returned her kiss of wonder

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and discovery, wanting more, but needing to savor each moment.

Heart pounding, Eliza withdrew to study his expression, to look into his eyes, to appreciate…

She read desire in his gaze, felt it in the heat of his hands where they held her, one on her shoulder, the

other on her back. Wanting to be closer, she turned her body so she could sit on his lap. Touching her

cheek to his, she wrapped her arms around his solid shoulders.

He rubbed her back through her satin wrapper, brought a hand to her shoulder and stroked her hair.

“You’re so soft and warm, Eliza Jane,” he said near her ear.

Pleasure tingled across her shoulders and arms at the words and the touch of his breath.

He cupped her jaw and tilted her face so he could look at her in the gaslight. “I had my eye on you when

you didn’t know I was lookin’,” he said. “Days you walked to the tea shop, I was watchin’ for you.”

His words did crazy things to her heart. Frightened her. Delighted her.

“You’re the prettiest woman I ever laid eyes on,” he said.

It was easy to be swept away by this man and the flattering manner in which he spoke. Even better was

the way he
listened
…as if he really cared about what she had to say…the way he held her in high

regard…how he showed appreciation. If she’d ever felt this special or desirable, she couldn’t remember.

The way he wanted her made her head spin…her heart sing…her body throb.

She liked the way
he
looked, too. Admired his solid jaw, the breadth of his shoulders. And she’d seen a

lot more of him than he’d seen of her. She smiled to herself. “Your mug wouldn’t exactly curdle milk,”

she told him.

He grinned.

And kissed her. Angling his head this time, so he could taste more of her, wrapping his arm snugly

around her. He queried her mouth with the tip of his tongue, and she responded to his invitation by

parting her lips and participating in the kiss wholeheartedly.

His kiss did crazy things to her heart, and she enjoyed every second of it. She’d never been kissed like

this, never
dreamed
of being kissed like this. At last he drew back so both of them could catch their

breath. He slid his fingers inside the front of her wrapper and caressed the curve of her breast.

His touch sent a delicious shiver across her heated skin.

Dipping forward, he pressed his lips to her throat, and then kissed her collarbone before untying the sash

at her waist.

The room was warm and humid. It felt good and marginally cooler when her robe gaped open. His gaze

lowered to her pastel-ribboned chemise. The look in his eyes matched the exhilaration of his reverent

touch. He cupped her breast through the damp cotton. She couldn’t breathe.

He drew his hand away, and her disappointment was acute. “Don’t reckon I’ve ever wanted anything as

much as I want you,” he said. “But I don’t want to be sorry. I tease you about bein’ a respectable lady,

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but truth is, Eliza Jane, I admire that, and I won’t give you reason to be ashamed.”

Eliza appreciated his hesitation. He wasn’t the kind of man who took advantage of women. But she

could never be sorry for wanting this one thing for herself. All she ever did was see to other people’s

needs and had put herself last for as long as she could remember. “You believe I’m smart, don’t you,

Jonas?”

“You know I do.”

“Then trust me to make this decision. And don’t keep me waiting. I’ve waited long enough.”

e urged her to her feet and crossed to slide the bolt on the door into place. Reaching with his left arm, he

swept every towel from the storage wall to the floor and kicked them into a jumble on the floor.

“Get my buttons,” he said, withdrawing his right arm from the sling and pulling the white fabric off over his

head with the other arm.

Eliza unbuttoned his shirt and let it fall onto the towels at their feet. The bandage he wore was much

smaller than previously, and white gauzy tape wrapped his muscular upper arm.

A jagged scar was evident on his chest, a smaller one on his shoulder.

“What happened here?” she asked, grazing the line with her fingertips.

“Arrow,” he replied.

She studied his face. “And this one?”

“Bullet.”

“You’d been shot before,” she said, surprised.

“Think I wouldn’t be such a baby about it, wouldn’t ya?”

She laughed, enjoying how he had the ability to make her do that.

He slid her wrapper from one shoulder and then the other, the slick fabric sliding to her feet with a muted

swish. “This what respectable ladies are wearin’ under their dresses now?” he asked, eyeing her drawers

and chemise.

She took pleasure in skimming her palms across the smooth supple skin of his shoulders and then the

contrasting texture of his hair-roughened chest. She wanted to press herself into him, become part of him.

She sensed that he held himself back for her sake. He was giving her time she didn’t want or need.

Without hesitation, so she wouldn’t lose her confidence, she loosened the ribbons on her chemise and

tugged it off over her head. Her hair caught in it and Jonas reached to untangle the garment, letting it

dangle forgotten from his fingers. His gaze caressed her.

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Eliza loosened the rest of her underclothing and stepped free of it. He dropped the chemise. As though

he sensed what she needed, he guided her to the floor, aligning their bodies, kissing her tenderly at first

and then with growing intensity.

Beginning a sensory exploration with his hands and lips, he set her on fire and had her craving more.

Eliza loved the way Jonas made her feel. Because of the way he valued her, she felt good about herself,

felt good about them. Confident. Desirable.

Thinking she might break apart with the sheer pleasure he gave her, she locked her fingers in his hair and

opened her mouth against his skin. Tasted him. Breathed him in.

She didn’t expect the rush of sensation or the spiraling mixture of delight and astonishment that

shimmered through her when he filled her body and told her how perfect she was in every way.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked.

There was no past and no future, only this exhilarating mind-numbing perfect moment. She refused to

allow the thought that she was deceiving him spoil one second. “No,” she assured him.

It couldn’t matter right now that he was her one desperate shot at satisfying her selfish need for

acceptance—that he was the one who stood to be hurt. Eliza hadn’t anticipated the now-focused

pleasure escalating and intensifying until she burst against him.

He kissed her eyelids, met the ragged sigh on her lips with a groan. His damp body stiffened against her,

motionless, save the throb where their bodies were joined and the pounding beat of his heart.

He withdrew from her, dropping his head into the curve of her neck.

“I won’t be givin’ you a baby,” he told her, his voice rough. Then with a grunt of pain, he released her to

lay on his side.

Cool air breezed over her skin. “Is your arm all right?” she asked.

He released a pent-up breath. “Won’t be tellin’ Doc what set it to flamin’ this time.”

She rose on her elbow to look at him. His hair was damp and his skin glowed with perspiration. The

sight of him made her chest ache. She gave herself the gift of running her palm over his slick flesh, leaned

close to press her nose to the skin of his chest. “Might as well make use of all that water,” she said.

Getting to her knees, she wrapped one of the towels they’d been lying on around her and tucked in the