Free Jane Bonander by Warrior Heart

tell me?”
    “No,” he answered, his eyes bleary, “but it’ll do for now.”
    “Well, I hope that in the morning you’ll have a damned fine hangover, Mr. Wolfe.”
    She marched to her room, wondering at her tottering feelings. She hated herself now; she would despise her weakness in the morning. But she was also disappointed. She’d thought he was different. She’d hoped he was. Even so, she’d thrown herself at him with no more reticence than a hungry whore. Perhaps she was no better than he.

Chapter 5
5
    M ountain goats clambered up the sides of Jackson’s head, their spiky antlers jabbing at his skull. He ran his tongue over his teeth and shuddered at the taste left there, which was comparable to that of Himalayan goat shit. Not only did he wish it were tomorrow, he deplored the thought of having to face today.
    Throwing a protective arm over his eyes to ward off the morning sun, he groaned and cursed, hating himself for drinking again. When would he learn? Had he really thought this time would be any different than the others?
    He knew why he’d done it: it had been damned near impossible to sit and talk with his own daughter and pretend to be a stranger, even though, in essence, he was. That was what had driven him to the brandy. He’d wanted to announce to the world that he was the father of this beautiful, bright child. He’d wanted to scream, “She’s mine, you miserable peasants. Show me something you’ve created that’s anywhere near as perfect as this! I dare you!” Of course he couldn’t do a damned foolish thing like that, but it was getting harder and harder to keep his mouth shut.
    When Liberty O’Malley offered him brandy, he’d thought, Why the hell not? Then one glass had become two, and after that, he couldn’t remember most of the conversation he’d had with her.
    He winced. No doubt it was awful. Drinking made him stupid. Insensitive. Crude. If he’d stayed true to form, he would have a lot of making up to do just to get back into her good graces. How in the hell could he purport to be a good father if he came off as a sloppy drunk? Most women found drinking itself offensive, and he had no doubt Liberty O’Malley was like most women in that respect.
    He didn’t recall much about their conversation, but he recollected how she looked in that dressing gown. One of the last things he remembered was gazing at her ample bosom while she was on her hands and knees, attempting to clean up the booze he’d spilled.
    Now, in spite of his pain, his body responded. There was nothing wrong with him below the neck, he thought with a wry grimace, and mornings usually rendered him horny, anyway. Reliving the moment when he’d gazed at her dusky breasts made him harder, causing the quilt to tent over his groin.
    Like most men he knew, he was a breast man. He admitted it. He never quite believed men who professed to prefer legs or asses. Everyone had those. But breasts … ahhh, breasts. So many different shapes and sizes. And colors.
    To him, a handful was never quite enough. He was ready for a woman with a full, lush figure, ample thighs and breasts with nice perky nipples. He loved it when a woman teased him with just enough clothing to accentuate her curves.
    Not that his landlady had consciously sought him out wearing that flimsy thing she had on last night. But the moment she’d walked in, he was lost. The fabric had clung to her breasts, and he could almost tell exactly what shape they were. And though ample, they didn’t sag. They were taut and opulent, and had sent carnal sensations racing through him. And the nipples. Ah, yes, the nipples.
    He let out a whoosh of air. Even though in his experience dark-haired women often had dark brown nipples, he would bet hers were pale, nearly the color of her skin.
    Abruptly, he swore and groaned. That wasn’t all he remembered, dammit. He’d kissed her. Even now he recalled how her lips had glistened with the moistness of that kiss. And