Free When the Rancher Came to Town by Emma Cane

bottles of liquor and, lower still, a small refrigerator.
    â€œSheriff, name your poison,” she said, still exaggerating a Western drawl. She was having too much fun. “There’s ice in the fridge if you need it.” Okay, that wasn’t exactly a historic detail.
    Soon they were sitting side by side on a curved-­back love seat, clinking glasses together, ice cubes tinkling, their outer thighs touching. The scotch slid down smoothly and hit her belly with a shot of heat—­but it wasn’t hotter than the smoking gaze he was trailing down her body.
    And then he reached up and plucked the lace handkerchief out of her neckline, revealing the deep valley between her breasts. She let him look, feeling branded wherever his gaze touched.
    â€œI thought that was removable,” he said hoarsely.
    â€œThe dress was a little too revealing for the tour. But . . . I like how putting it on made me like a different person.”
    He slid closer, their hips touching now, making her take another fortifying sip of scotch.
    â€œDifferent in a good way?” he asked, then slowly leaned in and pressed a kiss just beneath her ear.
    She inhaled swiftly, shakily, but she didn’t stop him—­didn’t want to stop him. She was languid and aware and so desperate for his touch.
    When his teeth tugged gently at her earlobe, she shuddered with pleasure and closed her eyes. It had been so long since she’d let down her guard with a man—­years of self-­denial, of mistrust. But Mason was a man who knew her secrets, and rather than judge her, all he’d tried to do was help. She was done retreating from life. She was young and full of passion, and she wanted to remember what that felt like.
    He didn’t touch her with his hands, just his mouth, sliding his moist lips down her throat, taking the occasional gentle nip that made her moan. He traced his tongue along her neckline, delving beneath to hidden, sensitive skin. Sliding her hands up to his broad, hard shoulders, she arched backward over the arm of the love seat and held him to her, feeling the warmth of his kisses between her breasts, desperate to have nothing at all separating them.
    He rose over her, his chest pressing her down, his hand sliding up beneath her skirt, along the outside of her leg. She hadn’t bothered with the historical accuracy of bloomers, so his touch trailed along her bare flesh, raising goose bumps in its wake. Then he hit the small string of her thong, and they both moaned.
    He lifted his head and stared down at her, dark eyes narrowed, face intent with passion, while his hand cupped her hip. “Amanda, if you don’t want this . . . if I’m moving too fast . . . tell me now.”
    But all her worries about the future had faded. There was only Mason, his sweet concern, his flattering desire, and her own desperation. She put her hands on his face, felt the faint whiskers against her palms, and pulled him to her for a deep kiss. Their mouths played, licking, exploring, teasing, until finally he boldly went deeper, meeting her tongue with his, stroking until she squirmed with need.
    Her breath was coming fast now, her breasts rising and falling within the constricting dress that had been shaped to mold her best assets. He’d certainly noticed, for he went there again, pressing kisses along the smooth curves, even as he dropped to his knees on the floor, parting her legs so that he could settle his torso between.
    And suddenly she could take a deep breath. The bodice gaped forward, when she hadn’t even felt his hands at her back. But she didn’t question it, just enjoyed the heat of arousal between her thighs when he stared at her naked breasts. He lifted one gently and put his mouth to it, flicking his tongue, taking long strokes that made her cry out her rising desperation.
    His hand was moving up her inner thigh with purpose, and she found herself arching up