The Bride Wore Spurs
Hawke sighed heavily, but froze in place. "What's the problem now, Lacey?"
"'Tisn't a problem as much as I'm wonderin'. What are you doing?"
He cocked his head and smiled at her. "Removing your drawers and boots to make you more comfortable, is all. May I go on?"
"Er, ah—no. I would like to take care of, of my clothing myself. As for the boots..." She pushed her heels deeper into the straw, making sure he couldn't see the spurs. "I would like to keep them on, if you don't mind."
Hawke stared at her incredulously. He'd heard of cowboys and gunmen who insisted on dying with their boots on, but this was a first. He shrugged. "If that's what you want, Irish, that's what you'll have."
"Aye, and I thank you kindly." She sat there waiting a moment, but when he didn't move, Lacey waved her fingers at him. "If you would be so kind as to look away, I'll be getting to it."
She thought she saw the corners of Hawke's mouth wobbling again as he turned his back, but she didn't care. This was embarrassing enough as it was without him looking at every little private detail of her life. And besides, if he watched, she'd never get her drawers over her boots without him spotting the spurs. Lacey quickly removed her underpinnings, buried them in the straw at her feet, then lay back down.
"You can turn around now. I am ready."
"Are you?" he asked, moving alongside her until his lips were a warm breath away from hers. "Are you sure this time, Lacey?"
She gazed into his eyes, not quite as dark with passion as they'd been, but mesmerizing just the same, then glanced down to his mouth. His lips were parted, moist and ready to claim hers again. Suddenly, Lacey wasn't just ready, but eager.
"Aye," she whispered throatily. "I'm ready for you, my husband."