Interlude in Pearl Emily Ryan-Davis
Sequel to All the Trees in Pearl and All the Women in Pearl.
Twin Mountains Ranch foreman Mickey Lowe can’t sit through one more night of newlywed relations without losing his mind. Packing up his frustration and yearning, he delivers himself to Pearl spinster Emma Morgan with the intent to inspire some lusty cries of his own. When the cowboy comes knocking at Emma’s door late in the night, she believes she knows what he wants and she is ready for him in an instant…until she discovers what he’s really after.
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Interlude in Pearl ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Interlude in Pearl Copyright © 2010 Emily Ryan-Davis Edited by Mary Moran Cover art by Syneca Electronic book publication February 2010 The terms Romantica® and Quickies® are registered trademarks of Ellora’s Cave Publishing. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502. Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
INTERLUDE IN PEARL
Emily Ryan-Davis
Interlude in Pearl
Chapter One Pearl, Colorado Autumn 1869
The tall, broad man standing on her back porch didn’t remove his hat. He braced his hand, callused and rough, against the frame above her head and said her name. “Miss Emma.” Emma Morgan knew the words he hadn’t spoken. Beneath her flannel gown, her nipples tightened to hard peaks. His voice did that to her body every time, stroking her skin, slow and firm, as if it had every right to touch her. He’d never once offered for her hand in marriage. He had no rights in her bed. She welcomed him into it anyway. Most times. Tonight… She inhaled, exhaled a sigh. He smelled like coffee and wood smoke. He’d probably spent the better part of the night beside a campfire. Unfortunately for both of them, she’d have to send him back to the campsite instead of inviting him inside. Her throat closed around a lump of disappointment. She’d rather keep him through what remained of the night and take him through two or three climaxes. Instead of stepping aside to grant him entrance, she studied his tall frame. Mickey Lowe, foreman of Ethan Carver’s ranch, dressed for cowboy duty. He wore a thick sheepskin coat over his flannel plaid shirt and his denim pants were stiff, goodquality cotton despite the dirt that would never come out of them. Mouth dry, she studied the open collar of his shirt, the curl of dark hair that she would have mistaken for a trick of the shadows if she hadn’t known his body so well. His nipples wouldn’t be as hard as hers. They didn’t respond to the idea of her touch the way her body responded to the idea of his. She could coax them however, first with her mouth, later with the curves of her bottom as she sat atop his chest and teased him with the scent of her arousal. She so enjoyed the heavy-lidded sight of his eyes as she rubbed her spread 5
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pussy on his skin before rising over his hungry mouth, opening to his wonderfully strong tongue. “Lucy’s visiting me,” she said to the buttons that marched down the front of his shirt, replying to the words he hadn’t spoken and banishing her errant fantasies. The house she kept was small. She and her niece shared the bed when the young woman came to stay. If she took Mickey inside, Lucy would surely know. “How is she?” he asked politely. “Well.” Emma bit her lip, hesitating before she added, “She’s going to spend the winter here.” On the other side of the doorway, Mickey shifted his weight and reached for her. He touched her chin, tilted her face toward his. She couldn’t see his eyes but she knew the color. Hazel. Emma drew a deep breath, let it out, and answered his wordless request by stepping out onto the porch. Fall had settled upon Pearl and the night nipped at her toes and the tips of her ears. She’d dressed for bed but had not yet released her hair. The heavy weight, pinned in a coil at the back of her head, left her neck bare to the cold. At her back, the warmth from the fire in the kitchen beckoned her to return to the house. She ignored the fire. It didn’t offer the same comfort this man could provide. “The whole winter’s a long time,” he murmured, dragging the backs of his fingers along the soft underside of her chin, down her throat. “Christ, you’re soft. You’re the first bit of quiet I’ve found in weeks. What are you still doing awake? You should’ve been long asleep.” “I heard a noise.” Emma raised her chin, loving the warm intimacy of his touch. The proprietary way of it. The thrill that coursed all the way to her toes in response to his rough praise. Suddenly, the winter seemed too long. She’d not given thought to her own needs when her niece, her only brother’s daughter, had requested an extended stay. Her hospitality, given freely the day before, tightened restrictively around her chest now. 6
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Mickey unfastened the topmost button of her gown. The second button. Emma held herself still, ignoring the cold, listening for sounds that would tell her they were no longer alone. Behind her, the house remained quiet. Her stomach tightened and flattened as he freed the third, fourth and fifth buttons, drawing her heavy breast from the protection of the flannel. “C.C. and John, Ethan and Margaret…the fucking’s enough to make a man crazy,” he said as he rasped his thumb across her pebbling nipple. “Is it?” Emma pressed her thighs together. She’d already begun to throb and flood. “You should close the door, Mickey.” He squeezed her breast, pinched her nipple hard between his thumb and forefinger. Emma gasped, reaching for him. He caught her hand and settled it atop his shoulder before he leaned into her, his cold buttons grazing her smarting nipple, and caught the door to draw it closed. Her fingers curled, slid around to clutch the back of his neck. Not speaking, he lowered his head and bit her, a long, sharp pain that shot directly to her pussy. Emma’s head sagged. Mickey caught her around her waist before her knees gave out. He shifted their bodies, pinning her to the side of the house with his knee between her legs, and bit a second time. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she bore down on his thigh. The hard length of muscle between her legs was a poor substitute for the hard length of muscle against her stomach, but she’d have that soon enough. Mickey never left her wanting. He also never came to her so urgent. His teeth worried her breasts, hard enough on her nipples to elicit a gasp of real pain as he pulled at her and kneaded her hips. His shoulders shook in her hold. When she jerked at a particularly fierce bite, he hauled himself back and stood tall, his features hidden by the brim of his hat. “I’ve kept away too long to do this the nice way,” he said above her head, breathing harshly. “Forgive me.” “You have kept away too long.” She unwound her arms and stroked her palms down his chest, pausing at the slightly raised discs of his nipples, pressing there with 7
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the heels of her hands. He tensed, his chest flexing restlessly at her touch. He was straining hard to keep himself under control. A small smile tugged at the corners of her lips. “And you came at a poor time for doing this properly.” Relishing the heavy pulse between her thighs and the erratic twitch of his cock against her hip, Emma lifted her gaze to meet his. Mickey Lowe didn’t let himself lose control. The idea of him on the edge amused and thrilled her at once. Driven to provocation, she crossed her arms at the small of her back and watched the way his features tightened when her bare breasts thrust toward him. “Maybe you should call tomorrow,” she suggested. “After you have a better handle on yourself.” “Maybe I should turn you around and have a go at your ass to take the edge off this need,” he countered evenly. Emma’s eyes widened. “Mickey—” Lowering his head to graze her lips with a kiss, he cut her off. “Don’t play with me. We don’t have the luxury of a whole night and as much as I enjoy you tight and shivering in my hands, I don’t want to lose any part of your precious body to frostbite.” She swallowed, suddenly aware his tension stemmed from more than a simple shortage of sex. The realization muted her arousal. “Tell me what’s wrong?” “It’s nothing to talk about right now.” He cupped the sides of her head and brushed her lips a second time, lingering to lick at her mouth. Mickey didn’t usually make much of kissing. Emma stared at him as he nibbled her bottom lip, as he drew the tip of his tongue along the inside of her upper lip. Sudden apprehension held her frozen. Ignoring her uncertainty, he deepened the kiss. She’d had his tongue inside her mouth before, of course, but never with such an aim of tenderness behind it. He explored her mouth slowly, his thumbs drawing small circles behind her ears, his erection a stiff, still heat at her stomach. Before she could stop herself, Emma closed her
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eyes. The darkness increased her awareness of him, made her hungry for the rich flavors of tobacco and coffee on his tongue. While she lost herself in the strangeness of a long, slow kiss from him, he drew her away from the wall. One large hand fell from her face to grasp her hip. He steered them, moving steadily, and she squeezed her eyes shut in an effort to hold the sweetness of his lips as long as she could. He broke before she was ready, his breath hot and damp on her cheek as he turned his head aside. “I have things to say to you. A question I need to ask. But I want to be inside you so bad my damn legs are shaking. This is your choice. Talk first or fuck first?” Frightened by his things to say and question to ask, she reached for his belt. Mickey exhaled slowly. He stroked the back of her head, his fingers finding and removing pins while she worked at opening his pants. Her hands shook. Soon, his large, warm cock jutted into her hands. Emma rested her forehead on his chest. He continued to work at her pins and she tested the weight of his erection. Her fingers touched around the shaft but just barely. She knew from experience that the wide, flushed head stretched her lips. She could hold the thick bulb comfortably once he’d breached the rim of her mouth, however, and thinking about tasting his skin, clean from washing before he came to her, roused a craving. When her hair drooped from its twist, she started to kneel. Mickey caught her shoulders. He pricked her skin lightly with her hairpins. Uncertain, she lifted her eyes to meet his. “Why can’t I?” “I want my tongue inside you.” He kissed her cheek. “Trust me, Emma.” “I’m afraid right now,” she whispered. Mickey swept his hat from his head and dropped her pins inside the well before he set it aside. Without the shadow of the brim, she could clearly see his eyes. The dark hid their color even with the reflection of the moonlight but they were soft at the corners.
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“The things you have to say,” she began, fighting an overwhelming feeling of vulnerability. “Do they include goodbye?” Long moments of silence stretched between them. Emma felt awkward with his erection in her hand. She released him. His mouth flattened but he didn’t protest. Instead, he grasped her nightgown and bunched the fabric in his fists until he held the length of it around her hips. Chill air stung her thighs and buttocks. She squeezed her legs together. “Mickey?” “Only if you decide they should,” he finally replied. “Sit down for me.” She glanced over her shoulder to see that he’d backed her up to the end of the porch farthest from her bedroom window. A low rocking chair crouched behind her. If she sat, she would be able to reach his cock with her mouth. He held her nightgown while she sat. The shock of cold wood on her bare bottom wrenched a gasp from her throat. She gripped the arms of the rocker and tensed to rise, but Mickey covered her hands with his and sank to his knees. “You’ll warm the seat in a moment.” He squeezed her hands before prying them from the chair. “Lift your breasts for me.” Her body responded of its own accord. Emma looked down to find herself cupping her breasts, hefting their weight and pushing the white globes together. Her nipples stood long and erect. Despite her trepidation for Mickey’s purpose, want coursed through her limbs. “Beautiful,” he breathed. Leaning over her knees, he curled his tongue around the underside of her right nipple. Emma jolted. She raised her breast higher, offering it to his mouth, the violence of his earlier bites forgotten. Mickey kissed her fingers and drew away. “But not what I want.” He stroked her knees apart and lifted them, draping her legs over the arms of the chair. Emma stared, shocked, as he grasped her hips and drew her exposed sex forward. Gooseflesh tightened her naked skin. Forgetting his earlier request, she 10
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covered her breasts and folded her shoulders back. The chair rocked, startling her, but Mickey caught her before her weight unbalanced it. He opened his mouth at the inside of her knee, sucked lightly at her flesh. Thick fingers traced the crease where her thigh met her pelvis. The splayed position opened her and parted her lower lips, but he touched her anyway, the pad of his thumb stroking up and down the wet slit. Emma’s breath hitched. His fingertips dipped low, circled her tight, eager gate, slipped away without delving inside. The tension and anticipation brought a small cry to her lips. She covered her mouth hastily, unwilling to draw attention to their illicit meeting. Her neighbors were far away and long asleep, but her niece inside—Lucy was no child, but she was no experienced woman either. When Mickey lowered his head and curled his tongue around her clitoris, she bucked and whimpered. The heel of her palm dug into her cheek and she would be unsurprised to see bruises at either side of her mouth come morning. What she wouldn’t give for the freedom to unleash her cries, to lift herself for his mouth. To shudder in his arms as he carried her to release, and later, relax in his arms as he carried her to bed. The unexpected yearning filed down the edge of her desire. Emma turned her face away from the house and squeezed her eyes shut. She wouldn’t think about after, about watching as he slipped off into the night. Instead, she would think about now. The flat of his tongue pressed over her, worked down to rim her entrance. He squeezed her thighs, tickling the soft flesh with the sleeves of his coat—he still wore his coat, his pants, his boots while she hardly had a scrap to call clothing anymore. He licked inside and she stopped caring about his clothes. Emma touched his hair, curled her hand at the back of his neck and held him close. She tilted her hips as much as she dared, given her precarious position, and gasped, “Please!” In response, he opened his mouth wide against her and sucked, drawing on her flesh with strong, powerful pulls. Emma writhed. The rocker groaned beneath her 11
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squirming weight. In the end, she offered little resistance. Mickey stabbed his tongue into her once more before affixing his lips around her clitoris. Thick fingers slipped into her passage, twisted, curled to stimulate a spot he’d discovered inside her body. She snatched the bunched fabric of her nightgown to her mouth and bit down, muffling a shriek as his fingertips struck deep and his tongue worked the point of her clitoris. The touch of his tongue was too much. Emma dug her nails into the flexing muscle at the base of his neck. She tried to close her legs but his shoulders held them apart. One last lick tore a curse past her lips. “Enough!” She begged, trembling, recoiling from the relentless pleasure. Mickey raised his head and met her eyes. The hunger in his gaze startled her. It was…more than physical. Straightening, he palmed his erection and fitted the slick head against her fluttering entrance. “Watch me,” he commanded. Emma swallowed. Needing to touch him, she whispered, “Hold my hands.” He notched his crown inside her. She gasped, surprised by the size of his cock no matter how many times she welcomed him into her body. Once positioned, he caught her hands in his warm, rough grasp and flexed his hips. Deeper. Emma’s gaze fixed on their point of joining. His cock stood proud and powerful, even framed by his clothes. The shaft seemed to grow and stretch on forever, he claimed her so slowly. “I want a right to this,” he rasped. He kissed her lips when they parted in surprise. “I want a right to you. To your bed. To your hands in public.” He squeezed her fingers for emphasis. Emma stared at him, stunned by his confession. Unable to reply, for he forged into her a second time. Her breath caught. Mickey closed his eyes and leaned into her. His chest was warm against hers even through his shirt.
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Emma broke his hold on her hands and embraced him. She buried her face against his throat. Groaning, he clutched her hips and unleashed his need. She rocked to meet his thrusts but he soon overcame her. Mickey shuddered as he came, hot and pulsing and…hers. Dazed by the idea, weak from her own powerful climax, she clung until he eased himself free. Head bowed, he used the hem of her gown to gently clean the glistening evidence of their lovemaking. Emma touched his jaw. “Do you still want it? Now that you’ve spent?” “You are the only woman I’ve sought since the first time you welcomed me,” he said, speaking slowly. Emma’s chest tightened. “Mickey—” “I know the same isn’t true of you,” he interrupted. “I didn’t expect it would be. But I’d like to make it true from here on.” “What are you asking of me?” She touched his hair, the whisker-rough line of his jaw. “Marriage?” “I’m seeing a lot of marriage lately. I want it too.” “This is because of the Carvers, isn’t it?” Emma bit her lip. Mickey buttoned her gown across her breasts. Covering her seemed to unleash the cold his body had kept at bay. She started to shiver. Mickey stood, drawing her up with him. He cradled her against his chest. Emma pressed her cheek to his heartbeat. Above her head, he said, “This is because I don’t want to knock on your door anymore. I don’t want to wait ’til after dark. I want to love you properly and sit beside you at church. Emma—” She cut him off, allowing herself a smile. “When? When will you marry me?” “Right now,” he growled, his palm sliding over her bottom. Emma laughed. “We’ll work on the date.” 13
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Mickey cast a pained glance at the back door. His shoulders hunched against the cold. “Soon. The sooner the better.” Smiling, she wrapped her arms around his waist and silently agreed.
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About the Author Emily Ryan-Davis lives in Maryland with her loving husband and hateful guinea pig. On any given day, you can find her shopping (online or in stores), chatting/writing (the pair go hand in hand, can’t have one without the other), knitting (or buying yarn) or mocking her husband’s comic collection (while parenthetically wondering why comics haven’t upgraded to the ebook age; imagine all the extra space she’d have). Occasionally she picks up her mandolin, but mostly she just ignores it. You won’t find her paying attention to current events or the latest celebrity gossip because writing stories is her way of pretending it doesn’t matter that she doesn’t know how to use the television remote. Emily’s favorite authors are Megan Hart, Terry Pratchett, JR Ward and Orson Scott Card. She loves sexy, magical, funny and intense stories, but especially enjoys immersing herself in the breathless intensity of a “with feeling” love scene. She can’t pick a genre (decision-making issues!) so writes in whatever setting calls to her at any given time: contemporary paranormal, historical western, medieval Europe, Gothic France—if she can imagine a strong emotional attraction existing in a particular place or time, chances are she’ll write the story. The author welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email address on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.
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Also by Emily Ryan-Davis All the Trees in Pearl All the Women in Pearl
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