Sam's Creed. Sarah McCarty

and know the warmth of his skin intimately. She yanked her hand back. “A man does not ask this of a woman!”

      “Seems to me to be a sensible question when a respectable woman propositions a disreputable man.”

      He was not disreputable. She knew disreputable. He was not it. The heat of his flesh dallied on her palm, teasing the nerve endings into wanting. She closed her fingers around the need. “It is a very rude question. And the fact that I am sitting as I am is the proof that I am not respectable.”

      “I notice you don’t argue my being disreputable.”

      The sun was too bright. She could not see his face, but she had a suspicion he was laughing at her. “You had best not be smiling.”

      She shaded her eyes. He was.

      “You’re real fond of giving orders, aren’t you?”

      He was very handsome when he smiled that way, one corner of his mouth a touch higher than the other, his blue eyes darkened with the emotion he usually kept contained. His hand squeezed her knee, reminding her how intimately placed his fingers were. She should have been shocked. Instead, she was taken with a strange breathlessness. “I have not thought about it.”

      That was a lie. She tended to be too focused on what she wanted and grew impatient with politeness. Sometimes it was just easier to direct the person. “And you have not answered my question.”

      His smile deepened at her pushing. “No. I haven’t.”

      His control annoyed her. And excited her. A strange combination. “The question is simple and only requires a yes or no answer.”

      Not a muscle on his face moved, but she had the impression he was delving deep into her mind, seeing beneath her skin to motives she didn’t want him to notice. Fear. Desperation. Desire. Finally he spoke.

      “I think we’ve already established that I’m the contrary type.”

      It was her turn to frown. Contrary was not good for what she had in mind. “This is not a recommendation for a lover.”

      Sam’s smile softened as his hand slid higher, edging beneath the thin lawn of her pantaloons, finding excruciatingly sensitive flesh. Deep inside, her very womb spasmed in an ache so sharp she gasped. Sam’s eyes narrowed.

      “Now, that’s where you’re wrong.” His fingers slid in the barest of touches, skimming up the inside of her thigh, raising goose bumps and anticipation for…more? Her breath caught and held. How far would he go?

      “If I were of a mind to accept your offer, my being contrary could be a real benefit to you.”

      She bit her lip as his fingers crossed the line between smooth flesh to chafed.

      “And this would be one of them.”

      Even the whisper-light touch of his hand burned. She cried out. The arm around her waist tightened. Sam’s mouth brushed her ear. “Anyone less contrary, duchess, would have you straddling his lap and his cock nice and snug in your body by now.”

      Shock held her still. No one had ever talked to her as he did, touched her as he did. Always she had been sheltered, protected, pampered. Never had she heard the word cock, but she knew from his wording what it referred to. And she was reasonably sure it was not a polite word for that body part. If there was such a thing.

      She wondered if this was the way men spoke to the woman they desired or if it was a sign of disrespect. She did not hear a sneer in Sam’s tone, but there was a richness to his drawl that had not been there before. His hand opened over the raw skin, sheltering it from the sting of the air, covering almost half her thigh with just the placement, reinforcing in her mind the difference in their sizes.

      “But being contrary,” he continued, “I don’t like my pleasure to be a solitary thing.”

      She had no idea what he meant by that. “This means you do not find me pretty enough for relations?”

      He removed his hand. Her skin whimpered a protest at the loss of his touch, while her nerves retained the imprint of his hand long after the stinging stopped. It was a strange sensation, but not unpleasant.

      Sam reached behind him. She was jostled around as he searched for something in the saddlebag. He brought out a tin. “It means I don’t find you in any condition to have relations.”

      Small and gray with no markings, the tin was more suspicious than impressive. “What is that?”

      He uncorked the lid. “Something to make you feel better.”

      He tugged her skirt up until it bunched just below her hips. She was very aware of his gaze on her legs, of the breeze on her calves. Never in her life had she exposed even the hollow of her throat. And now this man had her out in the open displaying herself. She should be outraged. And maybe it was outrage bubbling along the nerve endings just under her skin, frothing like water at the peak of a rapid, but it felt an awful lot like excitement. He dipped his fingers into the sweetsmelling salve.

      “Part your thighs.”

      She gasped and jerked. She couldn’t help it. The man was shocking.

      As he tilted his head, the last rays of the setting sun bounced off the conchos banding his hat, blinding her.

      “For somebody in a hurry to have relations on horseback, you’re awfully jumpy.”

      What was she supposed to say to that? She blinked against the brightness. “I am sorry.”

      If Bella squinted, she could probably see his expression. She had no intention of squinting, for the simple reason that she had a feeling he was going to be a lot more shocking, and she needed some distance to handle it.

      “No need to be sorry. I just need you to part your thighs so I can rub this cream on them.”

      Maybe she should have squinted after all. At least with a little tension in her face she might have avoided her jaw dropping and in all likelihood looking like a landed fish struggling for breath.

      “How can you say things like that?”

      She felt his shrug all along her side. “I believe in plain speaking.”

      Before she could suck in a fresh breath she discovered he also believed in plain touching. On the inside of her thighs. Where no one had ever touched her.

      The dip of his head blocked the sun, and she could once again see his face, the tightness over his cheekbones, the darkness of his eyes. He wanted her. This, at least, was good.

      The salve was cool on her skin as he applied it with methodical thoroughness. A soothing balm to the irritated nerve endings. It was too bad this magic could not be smoothed over her fractured composure. She told herself she had no need to be embarrassed—Sam was just treating her wounds. And even if he took liberties, she’d invited them. It didn’t help. She was embarrassed and unsure.

      When his hand reached the softest part of her inner thigh, she couldn’t help herself. She grabbed his wrist, halting his progress. “I can do the rest.”

      Instead of leaning back, he leaned in. His lips brushed her ear, sending hot tingles down her spine that leapt straight to her thighs, coaxing them to part. He hummed his approval at the slight movement. The ache between her legs spread right along with her thighs.

      “You sure?”

      Again she couldn’t see his expression, but she just knew he was looking at her with that half amused, half provoking smile on his mouth. And she wanted to slap him for having so much control when she had none.

      But she couldn’t. Women that propositioned a man while on horseback really had nowhere to go with their expectations of respect.

      “I am sure.” She held out her hand for the tin. For interminable seconds her hand lay between them, her request dangling with it, waiting on his decision. She suspected that he deliberately made her wait. Did he think she would give in? He had a lot