In the Marshal's Arms by Emma Jay Page B

square-shouldered, the muscles in his arms and stomach flexing as he moved. He unbuckled his pants and her womanhood throbbed. It had been too long since she’d had sex. Edward had been killed and Luke hadn’t returned for months. The brothers had taken her from the theater, where she’d had regular lovers between her nights on stage. The past few months were the longest she’d gone without a man, and Mr. Burgess was a fine specimen.
    What would he think if she walked outside now? If she ran her hand down over his stomach and into his pants, curled her fingers around his cock?
    Ridiculous woman. She knew nothing about this man. She should have just had him move on, but she’d invited him on instinct. She did need help around the place. She needed to focus on that.
    But those good intentions went to hell when he stripped off his britches. His cock lay heavy against the length of his thigh, and she could almost feel the weight of it in her mouth, the texture of it along her tongue. Sucking cock was one of her specialties. She enjoyed the act, the power it gave her. In her mind’s eye, she could see Mr. Burgess’s head fall back in pleasure when she knelt before him.
    Mr. Burgess turned toward the shower, presenting her with his delicious backside, and fiddled with the rope. He tugged cautiously, then jumped back comically when the water splashed him. He edged toward the water, pulling the rope as he did so. Once he was fully in the shower, he released the rope and picked up the soap she’d left for him. She watched as he lathered his chest, then ran soapy fingers over his scalp, scrubbed his shoulders and thighs and groin. She wished he would allow her to scrub his back, just to feel his hard warm body. Her fingers curled against the window frame as he pulled the rope again and water sluiced over his body, slicking his hair back from his face, revealing strong bones there.
    He stepped back onto the porch, picked up the drying sheet she’d left for him, and lifted his head.
    She backed away from the window, hoping he hadn’t seen her staring.
     
    ***
     
    Rhys rapped at the door of the cabin, feeling like a new man. A great contraption, that shower, better than sitting in a hip bath in his own filth. And after a day on the roof, he felt cool.
    Mrs. Colby opened the door, a soft blush coloring her cheeks. She’d changed her dress, he thought. This one seemed to be darker, brought out her eyes. He looked past her to see two plates set on the table. The room itself was tiny, dominated by her bed. In addition to the two chairs at the table, another chair sat close to the stone fireplace on the opposite end from the kitchen, which was around the corner of the L-shaped house, and was just as small.
    “It’s been awhile since I cooked for someone other than myself,” she murmured, opening the door wider. “I hope you’re hungry.”
    “Famished.” He stepped inside but felt uneasy about closing the door behind him. He was good at listening to his own instincts, and while he didn’t think she was a danger to him physically, he was aware that an odd kind of energy heated the air.
    “I’m a good cook, and I grow most everything myself.” She removed the top from a large pot and steam rose, scented with pork. “I do need to go into town for some supplies. It’s been awhile, but I think you’ll enjoy it.”
    She served up green beans with chunks of pork, a chunk of meat that fell apart, it was so tender, and sliced up the lightest, airiest bread he’d ever seen. He slathered his piece with a hunk of butter as she watched, pride making her face glow.
    “I’d thought your husband would have married you for your beauty,” he said when he came up for air. “Now I see he married you for your cooking.”
    She gave a delighted laugh.
    He motioned toward her still-empty plate. “You’re not eating?”
    “I wanted to make sure you had enough first. I was sure you’d have a large appetite.”
    Shamed at the way he’d