ST. PADDY’S DAY IS HERE, AND I’M GIVING AWAY A DIGITAL COPY OF THE HALF-BREED’S WOMAN TODAY TO ONE LUCKY COMMENTER! JUST LEAVE A COMMENT WITH YOUR CONTACT INFO IN IT TO BE ENTERED IN THE DRAWING!
Do you consider yourself lucky on St. Patrick’s Day? Are you superstitious at all? I remember in those long-ago schooldays wearing green to keep from getting pinched. You know, I still wear green on March 17…guess I’m pretty superstitious…what about you? Today may be your lucky day–I’m going to draw a name from the big ol’ Stetson this evening for a winner of a digital copy of my new full length novel, THE HALF-BREED’S WOMAN. It might be YOU! May the luck of the Irish be with you! Here’s what it’s all about:
Callie gave him a slow, measuring smile. “Come on, Marshal. Sit down, and let me pull your boots off.”
“I can do it.”
“Huh-uh. That’d be just plain stupid with your ribs hurt like they are, now wouldn’t it, Mr. McCall? Allow me, your kept woman, to do that for you.”
“Sarah—” he began, but Callie gently pushed him down to the side of the bed and carefully pulled his boots off, setting them beside the night table.
He stood up, and Callie returned, brushing his hands aside as she took over the task of unbuttoning his shirt.
“Sarah, I can do this.” His voice became edgy.
Callie smiled up at him innocently. “Oh, I’m sure you are able, Marshal, but isn’t this what a whore does for her man?”
With a predatory growl, he yanked her to him, putting his mouth to hers as it fell open in surprise. In an instant, he was crushing her body against his, molding the curves of her sweet, warm skin against the hardness of his own body. His mouth slanted hotly across hers, his tongue plundering her, tasting the honey of her kiss.
His fingers splayed across her back and speared into her damp hair, as it cascaded around her, falling to her waist. She made a soft noise in her throat, then gasped at the fierce joining, as her breath left her. Her hands came up across his back, under his arms, careful of the wounded right side.
Callie tentatively touched her tongue to his, her fingers threading through his hair.
“God,” he muttered hoarsely against her lips, pulling her closer, molding her body to his own hard, straining arousal. She yielded under the onslaught of his mouth upon hers, and he felt her desire, poorly concealed, under his fingertips as he touched her.
“This, Sarah,” he whispered roughly, lifting his mouth from hers for the briefest of moments. “This is what a whore does for her man.” Or what a woman does, for the man she loves.