She looked around the tiny room, taking in her surroundings. It was clearly a bedroom, but the sparseness of the decor surprised her. No television. No stereo. Not even an alarm clock. Just a double bed with a simple iron frame and a couple of small, very rustic looking tables.
 
The man towering over her, shifted slightly, revealing the source of light behind him was not from an electric bulb, but by a flame wavering inside a clear globe, one a second globe filled with oil gave life to.

She bit back a gasp. If this wasn't a dream, and she wasn't at the rodeo, it could only mean she really had somehow tumbled from the twentieth century into the old west.

She tried to sit up, for the first time realizing that her wrists were bound to the iron headboard behind her.
"Untie me," she demanded, feeling a sense of panic sweep through her.

   "Can't."

She struggled to get free, but the ropes that secured her to the bed held fast. More panic set in. She'd wished for a cowboy with a code of honor, but she'd ended up here. Tied to a bed by a man wearing a gun. An outlaw no doubt. Could things get any worse?
   
    He reached out to still her thrashing. "You're gonna hurt yourself."
   
    The feel of his large hand splayed across the bare skin of her stomach made her pulse race. She dared a glance up at the determined face of her captor. Jake Dawson was no 'pretty boy', GQ model type. He was, however, devastatingly handsome in a purely dark, sensual, rugged way.

His callused hand smoothed over her stomach and she fought the urge to arch into his touch. Her body wanted more. It had been so long since a man touched her. Even longer since she wanted one to.
 
    "That's better," he said, his voice low and soothing, calming her with slow steady strokes. Strokes she wished were lower. Anything to ease the ache this man stirred in her.

 Thick, wavy black hair hung down over his brow above intense, dark brown eyes as he leaned over her. Her thoughts shifted to the five o'clock shadow that darkened his strong jaw. What would it feel like to have that course stubble rubbing against her flesh, the flesh between her thighs?

He moved to check the ropes that bound her wrists to the headboard. He was so close she could smell him, musk and leather and all man. Her gaze was drawn to the faded scar that ran from the outer edge of his jaw to disappear beneath his shaggy mane. She wanted to trace it with her fingertips. Unfortunately, her bound hands prevented her from giving in to the temptation.

Water dripping onto the hollow between her breasts yanked her from her thoughts. Brianna glanced down at the hand hovering scant inches above her flesh. When had his hand left her to retrieve the rag from the bowl?

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, giving the rag another squeeze.

Tiny droplets teased her skin, making her shiver. It wasn't from the cold water running down her flesh. It was from the erotic thoughts the sensation evoked. His tongue tracing the watery path down to her aching pussy, lapping at the moisture gathered there until she came - hard.

"I...I don't know," she said, squeezing her thighs together.

"No?" He tossed the cloth aside and slipped his hand beneath her shirt instead.

Her breath caught.

"Deke Johnson sent you, didn't he?" he asked as his thumb flicked over a taut nipple.

She closed her eyes with a groan. He was driving her crazy with his slow, sensual torment.

"I'm waiting," he warned.

And I'm wanting. She arched into his touch. "No," she muttered impatiently. "He didn't."

"You're lying, darlin'." Grasping the hem of her shirt, he dragged it upward with a savage sneer and then froze.

She glanced down at the leopard print, demi-cup bra peeking out from beneath her gathered shirt and realization dawned on her. It wasn't her less than bountiful breasts that had stopped him cold. It was the sight of her twenty-first century lingerie.