HOT UNDER THE COLLAR by Jane Leopold Quinn

HOT UNDER THE COLLAR by Jane Leopold Quinn

Preacher Prescott MacKay gave up gun slinging when he found God.

Isis Garrett, a mail order bride, doesn’t intend to become a bride. Instead, she opens a library in Paloverde, Texas.

Pres offers her a spot in his church and hangs around more than he should. She shows him no encouragement. In fact, she makes it clear she doesn't want anything to do with him.

Can Pres battle past her antipathy and prove to her he's one of the good guys? Will Isis let herself forget the past and see the cowboy preacher for the man she’s been waiting for all her life?

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Excerpt:


"What’s turned you against men?”

“I have nothing against…them.”

“I think you do.”

Shocked he had stumbled so close to her problem, she snapped, “Well, I never…” She tried to push herself up from the rock but couldn’t get her feet under her.

“Really?” he drawled, slipping his arm around her waist again to keep her close.

She tried to loosen his grip. He wouldn’t let her. She tugged again. “This isn’t right.”

“It feels good to me.”

Closing her eyes, she was almost fooled by the warmth in his husky voice. “You can’t mean that! I’m too…too plump.” She tried to pry his hand off her middle.

“I said, you feel good to me. Just hold still.”

Oh, God, this is torture. The only way she could think of to shove him away was to put her hand on his chest. The minute she did, he covered it with his own. She went motionless. His heart beat in continuous thuds, his shirt just one layer between hot skin and her palm curved around his muscles. She almost swooned. Hard male muscles. It brought back memories she’d tried to hold inside. Was his chest covered in rust colored hair? Her breath came out in fast shivery pants, but he held her hand possessively against him. His sky blue eyes darkened, his pupils enlarging. Then his hand no longer held hers. It cupped her cheek, long fingers wrapping around her nape and thrusting into her hair.

“Who hurt you, sweet Isis?” he murmured, his lips hovering over hers, his gaze focused on her mouth.

“No one,” she whimpered in denial. She didn’t know who made the first move, but she was truly afraid she had. Smooth and warm under hers, his lips tasted delicious with the salt of the fried chicken, sticky with the juice of apples, yeasty from beer. She welcomed the flick of his tongue, gave in to his intensely fierce response. Feverish and frantic, their lips melded, her tongue played with his, his with hers. He used his ruthlessly, stroking and massaging the length of hers, suckling, groaning his pleasure. She clung to his shoulders in a death grip and succumbed to the deliciousness of his sensual invasion of her mouth.

Pres lifted her in his arms, pivoted, and they went down together onto the cushion of thick grass. Her soft body above him, then under him, her lips open, he got lost in the craving of her. He ate at her mouth, controlling her head in one hand and working on the buttons of her tunic with the other. Opening them, he splayed a hand over the full lift of her breasts, round and firm, just the way he liked. Womanly and fine, he couldn’t get enough of her. He trailed his lips down her neck, nipped and licked, his tongue laving her collarbone. He folded back the edges of her gown to encounter a chemise with pretty little embroidered flowers. The undergarment didn’t deter him. Neither did its single button. Slipping open the delicate cotton, he bared a breast. A truncated moan caught in her throat as her back arched. His eyes feasted on the white, round, satiny smooth skin centered with a perfect, rosy brown nipple. A perfect, rosy brown, tightly furled nipple. Certain evidence she was equally aroused.

His tongue flicked out, anticipating the sensation of the hard bud on his lips. His teeth ached to tug it. The minute he put his mouth on her, her hands came up, fingers fisting through his hair, clutching the strands in clear permission. Suckling hard, he swiped his tongue back and forth across the tip of her breast, then blew a gentle cool breath over her just to see it stiffen even more.

“Oh, God!” She gave a high-pitched shriek and almost tore his hair out.

He heard it through his lust-filled, frenzied mind. It pounded in his brain. God’s watching. But like a starving child, he continued to draw on her, uncovering the other breast, stroking and caressing the soft pillows of flesh. Her body thrashed beneath him, rhythmically pumping, arching upward.

“Pres,” she whined. “Yes.”

He had to stop, meant to stop. He jerked up, the truth hitting him hard. Wrong. This is wrong. “Oh, God,” she moaned, her eyes tightly closed in ecstasy.

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