1887. Maggie Jenks, is a natural healer. She lays-hands on the sick, tends the wounded, and brings the almost dead back to life. Then she moves on. That’s what usually happens anyway. When Maggie arrives in Willow Springs, New Mexico Territory, she’s greeted with enough ill-health to keep her feet planted for a long visit, and enough magic in the air to make her want to stay.
After a strange malady sweeps down from the railroad tunnel in Raton Pass, leaving bloodless carcasses littering the ground and town citizens lingering in half-death, it will take Maggie, her shifter mate, Hunter, and an amulet infused with harvested magic, to save the living from the walking undead.
“Not well.” He slid his other hand up my back to pull my head down to his. “Do you need words?”
He was a big man. Though I lay plastered on top of his body, he could easily overpower me and take what he obviously wanted. A beast might. I stared into his eyes, trying to judge who controlled Hunter at the moment.
“Beautiful,” he said gruffly. His forehead furrowed as he evidently struggled to find more words to give me.
A knot of tears rose from the vicinity of my heart, clogging my throat and wetting my eyes. He might not know many words, but the one he’d chosen to give me made me melt for him.
“You are beautiful too,” I whispered and leaned into him, framing his face with my hands as I brushed my mouth across his.
I thought of a hundred more words to describe him but his tongue brushed the seam of my lips, and after I opened to him, I had little breath to spare or desire for talk.
His hands slid under my top, drawing the material upward. When he paused to cup my breasts, teasing the already hardened nipples with his thumbs, I moaned, the sound welling up from deep inside of me. I whimpered in protest when Hunter interrupted our kiss, pulling the wet chemise over my head.
But then it was better. We were skin-to-skin, nipple to nipple, mouths fused. I breathed in Hunter, and sat up, wanting more. My legs were spread wide when I set a knee on either side and I straddled him.
His hands petted my hips for a moment, his touch gentle, almost reverent. I didn’t want gentle or reverent. It had been some time since I’d experienced the pleasure of coupling and I lifted higher, eagerly rubbing the head of his shaft in the wet heat between my legs.
I fitted him to my slick channel and then paused. He growled, but it was a very manly sound. I had a grin on my lips when I began lowering myself, planning to enjoy his hard length one lovely inch at a time.
Hunter’s big frame bowed beneath me; he arched his back, pressing upward, and when he sheathed himself fully in one thrust, I came. And came. And came some more.
When my eyes uncrossed and I could again manage speech, I patted his shoulder and praised him.
“Nice.” Insipid though my description, it was the only word I could form as I slumped over him.
“Now mine,” he said gruffly. His gaze locked on me as he flipped us over, cradled my rump, shoved my wet chemise under by back, and began thrusting.
I held on, wrapped my legs around his waist, and enjoyed a different kind of ride. He pounded into me, stopping only once to raise his head and demand, “Your name. Say your name.”
“Maggie Jenks,” I whispered, hoping he hadn’t forgotten who I was already.
Gem Sivad is a self-proclaimed reclusive writer, comma phobic, and eavesdropper on the world. She claims to have hermit tendencies, but occasionally comes out of the writer’s den to meet readers at book signing events.
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