The Wicked West. Victoria Dahl

farther into her room.

      She didn’t move. She’d long since finished her solitary meal of rabbit stew, one of the few things she could cook on her own, as it didn’t take much skill or knowledge to let something bubble on the stove for three hours. Undoubtedly, the novelty of cooking would wear off soon, but at this moment she felt proud and full of…herself. Yes, full of herself and what she could do.

      She’d been nobody her whole life. A marionette, at best. A statue at worst. First, an obedient daughter, then a meek wife, and finally a helpless young widow. But now she was…well, she was nobody, still, but a much better version of it. She was nobody because she was working to decide just who she wanted to be. She had the power now. Power over herself, even if that meant the simple choice of who would come to her bed.

      Even to Lily, the feelings of her body were a strange thing. Her husband had been a kind, older man. A man she’d respected and liked, but not a man she’d been interested in kissing, much less sharing a bedchamber with.

      Mr. Anders had sensed her obvious hesitance on their wedding night, but he hadn’t seemed to mind. He’d only smiled gently and told her exactly what to do to please him. And it had been such a relief! To be told when to touch him and how. To be praised when she did it right, and scolded when she grew careless or distant. All her anxiety vanished in those private moments. If he’d said she was good, then she knew she must be good.

      Growing up, she’d never been able to make her father proud. He’d been a dour man, unmoved by the love of his children. But Mr. Anders had been proud of her, and told her so every night as she knelt at his feet.

      A few months after their marriage, Lily had been comfortable enough to confess how she’d ruined her brother’s life in one stupid moment of indiscretion. Her husband had been the picture of sympathy as he’d nodded and explained that she would feel much better after she’d been punished.

      Whatever alarm she’d felt at his announcement had vanished when he’d ordered her to lift her skirts and lie across his knees. By the time he’d ceased the spanking, her bottom had burned with pain, but her guilt had finally been inched back. She’d been punished, and that punishment had brought her a thin layer of peace. Each time after, another layer of peace had been laid.

      But she could no longer hide her strange wants beneath regrets. Now she desired punishment for pleasure’s sake. She wanted to know the feeling of big, calloused hands, where her husband’s had been pale and narrow. She wanted to know the unusual strength and passion that these Americans seemed to have.

      She wanted Sheriff Hale.

      The sunlight seemed to brighten for one last, desperate moment, then dusk fell like a shadow when the sun finally slipped behind the jagged peaks to the west. That instant twilight flooded her with anticipation. The sheriff would return home soon, and Lily would offer him her body again.

      She was sure she wasn’t wrong about him. At the first moment of their introduction, she’d recognized something in his body, as if his nerves were taut and humming with an energy only she could sense. He seemed to glow with need, and when she had instinctively lowered her eyes before such power, his jaw had tightened, his eyes had narrowed. He’d liked that.

      But when he’d noticed her watching past her lashes, Sheriff Hale had jerked his chin up and schooled his features.

      Lily was not the type of woman to make advances. Aggression was not her role in this game. Her only solution was to make it clear she would submit to his needs, if only he would take her.

      Just as she closed her eyes and let her head loll to the side, the distant sound of boots on wood floated past her open curtains. A door squeaked, then shut with a crack. Sheriff Hale was home.

      Lily stiffened in her chair but didn’t rise. It was early still. Not quite nine o’clock. But she was ready. She’d undressed and arranged the length of her silk robe around her on the chair. The lamps burned at their brightest. So did her lungs. Excitement and fear nearly choked her as she waited for him to appear in his bedroom window.

      She was wet already, thinking of him watching her. If only he could tell her what to do, exactly how to please him. Her hands shook at the thought.

      He must not have gone to the saloon tonight, because she didn’t hear his tread as he walked up the stairs. Her first hint that he’d arrived on the second floor was a soft scuff against the floorboards of his room. He didn’t light a lamp.

      Her heart leaped. Now. Now.

      She’d done it the night before, but tonight the idea of performing for him was more frightening. He’d given her no encouragement this afternoon, no hint that he appreciated her offer. And if she put on the same show tonight, he’d know. He’d know that she planned it. That she opened her curtains and arranged the lamps to set her body aglow just for his eyes.

      His window stayed dark and quiet.

      Now. Even the voice inside her head trembled as she tried to convince herself, but Lily reached for the pins that held her hair up.

      The thick twist of dark hair unfurled under her hands. Her husband had told her of the effect of long hair on men. It signified sex to them, darkened bedrooms and panting breath…the only time they ever saw a woman’s hair loose and wild. Lily ran her hands through the twist to uncurl it, then shook it back to let it fall down her back. Her nipples tightened.

      At this moment, he watched her, wondering if she was unaware, knowing she could be simply readying for bed. She might be innocent and vulnerable, and he was standing there watching, his cock hard and ready.

      Had he stroked it as he watched her the night before? Was he stroking it now?

      She let her hand trail down to her collarbone, let her fingers slip lower to the edge of her dressing robe. What would he want her to do now? Touch her breasts again, or something different?

      While she considered the possibility, Lily pushed the neckline wider, edging her hands to the plump rise of one breast. Mr. Anders had told her that her breasts were lovely, and she’d believed him. He’d never lied to her about anything.

      Lily tugged at the first tie of her robe and opened it to expose both of her naked breasts. The soft noise that floated from the sheriff’s window might have been her imagination…or it might have been a gasp.

      Biting back a hopeful smile, she dared to look at herself in the mirror. She couldn’t claim to know what most women looked like unclothed, but she had the same pert shape as the Venus statue she’d spied at a long-ago exhibition. But her breasts were so much more flagrant than those made of cold marble. They were creamy and warm, the centers a rose pink crested by the deeper pink of hard nipples. They cried out for attention, demanded it. Would Sheriff Hale respond?

      Lily’s eyes snapped with excitement. She had a rather plain face; she knew that. But right now, as she watched herself in the mirror, she was beautiful. Her lips flushed with color, her cheeks glowed, and her eyes spoke of the need in her soul.

      Staring at herself, Lily dragged her hand up the rise of her breast, over her chest and the arch of her neck. When she reached her bottom lip, she paused to trace it before slipping the tip of one finger into her mouth. This time the sound from the other house was unmistakably the hiss of in-drawn breath.

      Yes. He watched her. He wanted.

      She slipped the finger deeper, rubbing it against her tongue, imagining that it was the sheriff’s shaft she tasted. Closing her eyes, Lily sucked.

      Would he like that? Would he need it? He must. Mr. Anders had loved it. He’d petted her hair and moaned that she was a good girl. Lily groaned at the thought and sucked her finger deeper.

      She would reach her climax tonight. Sometimes with her husband she hadn’t. Sometimes she’d only been overtaken by a wonderful relaxation. But tonight she would be consumed.

      Her flesh tightened around her bones as she dragged her finger from her mouth and drew a damp trail down her skin, all the way to the tip of one breast. When her finger dried, she licked it again, slowly, then imagined