Free Lone Star Loving by Martha Hix

for her would be motivated by love and acceptance, not greed, and they would learn about man-woman things at the same time.
    Olga–and Mutti and Maisie–would be proud.
    Marriage? What was wrong with her? Her prospects were dim. Even if she got free of Hawk, she still had to answer to the law, and smuggling was a hanging offense.
    Don’t think about it. She wasn’t swinging from a rope, not yet.
    â€œDon’t you want me?” Hawk repeated and traced his finger down her jaw to her throat.
    Her attention riveted to his touch and her body’s response, she didn’t think answering was possible. She swallowed hard and breathed deeply. “I know nothing about you. Except for a name. And for all I know, you could be making it up.”
    â€œI’m not.”
    â€œWhat other names do you have? Is Hawk your first or last name?”
    â€œI’m an Indian, remember? We aren’t named as you whites.”
    â€œWhere are you from? All the Indians hereabouts–except for a few renegades, of course–live on reservations.”
    â€œMy people consider me a renegade.”
    â€œWho are your people?” She thought of all the tribes still talked about in Fredericksburg. “Are you part Comanche? Kickapoo? Apache?” She studied him. “You are most certainly part white. There are certain elements of your features that don’t look as Indian as the renegades I’ve seen.”
    â€œI am all Indian.”
    Her tongue rested for a moment, but her curiosity did not subside. “Tell me about yourself.”
    â€œCharity, I’ve taken you for ransom. You’ll not be getting a life story that you could turn over to the law.”
    She wiggled away from him. “Then don’t expect to have carnal knowledge of me.”
    He chuckled. “Is that the ticket to ‘carnal knowledge’ of you? Just a few vital elements to my wicked life? I could tell you many things about me. But how would you know if they’re true?”
    Picking up on his method of ending conversations, she ordered, “Oh, go to sleep.”
    His hand trailed along the column of her throat, his thumbnail moving upward to outline the curve of her lower lip. The intensity of his gaze took Charity aback . . . yet she felt her passions building anew.
    â€œLove me to sleep, Hellcat Angel.”

Chapter Eight
    Like a child tempted with a bonbon, Charity yearned to surrender to Hawk’s plea of loving him to sleep. With his fingers cupping and kneading her breast, with his leg nudging between hers, she felt wholly weak of will. What would Olga do at a time like this? “I’d never consent to anything of the sort.”
    â€œDon’t say things you don’t mean.”
    â€œI–I mean it,” she squeaked, barely noticing as the campfire popped and died.
    One hand moved to scoot her skirts up, and Hawk’s fingers stroked the crook of her knee. “What did it take for Ian Blyer to get between your legs?”
    Who? It took a moment to recall just exactly who Ian Blyer was, for she could hardly breathe, much less think, with Hawk caressing her the way he was. “Uh, oh, my g-goodness. He never asked for anything more than a kiss. He’s too much of a gentleman.”
    â€œGentleman-fool, if you ask me,” Hawk whispered low in his throat. “A man would have to be a fool not to want all you can give.”
    His praise, base though it was, excited her, and she smiled. No man had ever acted as if she was driving him wild before.
    Hawk’s fingers pressed into her thigh. “Would you have given more . . . if Blyer had asked?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œSomehow I think you speak the truth.” He was silent for a moment before he asked, “Has anyone ever had you?”
    â€œNo.”
    Hawk muttered some sort of something, probably an Indian oath. He tossed to his back and ran a palm down his face. “I suppose I ought to be