Lightning quick, Jake snatched it out of mid-air.
He caught the old, beat-up-looking pistol with his free hand. His other hand stayed right where it was, poised in a place it had no right to be; on the inviting upper curve of Amanda Lennox's breast. The sweet, tempting-as-all-hell heat of her seeped into him. He was aware of every choppy breath she drew. Her pulse slammed beneath his fingertip; quick and wild, the beat matched his own.
Jake knew he should break the contact and break it now. It would be the smart thing to do. The safe thing to do. Touching this particular woman in this particular way was against the rules. He knew that. So why, he wondered , was the feel of her against his hand so damn good? Why was touching Amanda Lennox, almost but not quite intimately, the most enjoyable—the most excruciating!—form of torture he'd ever known?
And why the hell couldn't he stop?
Jake knew why, and he forced himself to confess it. All of it. He didn't want to stop touching her because, deep down, he knew this was the only time he would ever allow himself to touch a woman—a white woman—this white woman—in such a fashion. He'd learned his lessons long ago; his previous mistakes would not be repeated. But that didn't mean he couldn't satisfy his curiosity, did it? Hell, no. Just so long as he recognized his limits, remembered the boundaries...
Oh, yes, and there was one other reason. Jake was a strong man, yes, but... hell, he was flesh and blood—even if his flesh was copper, his blood half savage. Only a saint would have the strength to shun temptation when it came in the form of Amanda Lennox's warm, ripe body. Jake Chandler was no saint. Thank God! He doubted saints were lucky enough to feel anything so earthy and good as the curve of this woman's breast gliding beneath his fingertip.
"M-mr. Chandler...?"
"Jake," he growled, his voice low and raspy. "When I'm touching you like this, call me Jake." He angled his head, and discovered that his mouth now had access to her earlobe. His tongue darted out, wetting the small white shell. Was it possible for earlobes to tremble? God, he hoped so. He'd hate to think those tiny quivers came from him!
His touch drifted lower. Just the one finger, just the tip.
To Amanda, that was more erotic than if he'd used his whole hand... because it made her ache for him to do exactly that. At some point, her own hands had risen; they rested against the hard, warm wall of his chest. Her fingers curled inward, bunching his shirt in tight, moist fists. His heartbeat slammed beneath her wrist. Like the man, the rhythm was dark and primitive... dangerously out of control.
His breath felt hot and misty against her skin. The strokes of his tongue on her earlobe and neck made her burn. So did his slowly searching fingertip. Her breath caught as he crested the center of her breast, then slid down the full undercurve. He circled her, groaned, then began a torturously slow ascent.
Amanda knew she should make Jake stop—now, while she still had the presence of mind left to do it. Miss Henry had made it clear what sort of woman allowed a man to play with her body. The term she'd used was not "lady." Of course, if the man was your husband, it was perfectly all right to let him play in any way he saw fit.
Miss Henry's mandates had made perfect sense to Amanda, at the time. They made no sense to her now. How could feelings this good, this warm, this nerve-shatteringly hot and delicious, be wrong? And why was it wrong for her to want Jake to continue touching her? For her to want to touch him?
Jake's fingertip slowly circled the center of her breast. Amanda felt her nipple tingle and stiffen beneath the confining layers of linen and calico. Her blood heated. Unbidden, her back arched away from the tree; she arched into the hot magic of Jake Chandler's touch.
In that instant, she stopped thinking, and started feeling. Everything. Her fingers loosened from the folds of his shirt. The material felt moist and wrinkled from the tight heat of her grip when she splayed her hands on his chest. He moved—she didn't know why—and she felt his muscles flex into steel bands beneath her fingertips.
The tip of his tongue traced the line of her jaw, boldly sipping his way toward her chin. She craned her neck and arched toward him. Her tongue ran over her lips as she remembered last night's kiss—the heat of it and the satisfaction. She could still taste his strong, compelling flavor. Pulling in an unsteady breath, Amanda realized she wanted to taste Jake again. Now. Badly.
Jake licked the sensitive underside of her chin. If warmth had a taste, this was it. Whiskey and honey. Salty-sweet and tempting. Warmth, he decided, was the taste of forbidden fruit—or, in this case, forbidden white skin. It was a taste to be savored, like fine French brandy. A flavor to be enjoyed to its fullest before it was snatched away. Jake did enjoy the taste of her. Very much. More, he was sure, than he should have, more than would be considered safe for either of them.
A thousand times he told himself to stop. A thousand times his body countered the impulse with stronger, undeniable urge
s. He had reasons to keep his distance from this woman. Good, solid reasons. Yet logic crumbled when he heard her throaty whimper. The sharp edges of reality blurred when he felt her skin glide beneath his tongue... felt her fists reclutch his shirt... felt her warm, sweet breath wash over his scalp and neck.
His breathing turned ragged. His self-control was shredded. Had he ever needed a woman as badly as he needed this one; right here, right now? No. And any need that strong scared the hell out of Jake.
His finger paused on the upper swell of her breast. This time it was a conscious hesitation, a very strained one. For the first time in his life, Jake didn't trust himself. He didn't dare move, didn't dare breathe.
The urge to find out how well this woman would nestle into his hand was strong. The urge to find out how well his hips would nestle between her perfect white legs was stronger. Too damn strong! The thought—sweet and tempting beyond reason—threatened to break him. In the end, it was the urge not to be broken by any white woman that won out. Regaining his self-control was a victory, though a rather unsatisfying one.
Jake lifted his head. He gritted his teeth when he felt his cheek brush hers. Even that innocent contact wasn't so innocent. Nor did it do his floundering composure any good. Touching Amanda Lennox, even accidentally, was a test of his endurance. His control was proving to be not nearly as good he'd once thought it was. Hell, with this woman, he didn't have any!
He pulled back slightly and glanced down at her. The back of her head rested against the tree trunk. Her lashes were down; the thick, dark fringe flickered against her porcelain smooth cheek. Her color was high, her breathing shallow, rapid. Jake knew it shouldn't please him to see he had that great an affect on her, but it did. It pleased him immensely.
"Jake?" Amanda whispered hoarsely. Her hands dragged down his chest. Her fingertips caressed his taut stomach before she let her arms drop, hanging limply at her sides. She wanted to touch more of him. All of him. For that reason alone, it would be best not to touch any of him at all.
Jake sighed and, like her, forced his hands away—with two major differences. He touched her shoulders, but no other part of her sweet, sweet body. And, where she'd trembled, Jake was positive he did no such thing. He was proving himself weakened by this woman, but he would never allow himself to become that weak. Not with Amanda Lennox, not with any white woman.
Amanda found it easier to think without Jake's hand and mouth caressing her. Not much easier—the memory of his hand and mouth was still sharp, still strong—but a little. Now, if she could make herself stop wishing he would kiss her today the way he had last night...!
Her lashes snapped up. In the brightening daylight she found herself held prisoner by his stare.
"You tempt me, princess," he drawled, and his husky voice skated warmly down her spine. "Really you do. But..."
"But...?"