An Outlaw in Wonderland by Lori Austin Page A

didn’t mean she didn’t dream of his kiss, his touch, and more. Who knew
     what might happen. Just look at what had happened today.
    Mikey dying on a makeshift table in a Confederate prison. Fedya forced to hurt his
     friend, most likely in as much agony as Ethan because of it. Ethan would be inconsolable
     if his brother died.
    She should console him. Tomorrow was a mystery. But it appeared they, at least, had
     tonight.
    After scrubbing the blood from her skin, she found a clean bowl and filled it with
     fresh water; she even managed to find a cloth that wasn’t soiled. Then she quietly
     opened the door to the storeroom and slipped inside. A lantern swayed, casting golden
     sprays of light across the floor.
    A cot sat behind several empty barrels. Before the barrel he’d fashioned into a washstand,
     Ethan scrubbed his chest. Annabeth had never seen a man’s chest while he was conscious.
     Considering the way her body warmed and her hands itched to touch, her lips to taste,
     that was probably a very good thing.
    He turned, saw her, and froze. “Is he—?”
    “He’s alive. Still breathing.” She lifted a hand. “Slower. Better. But . . .”
    “What?”
    “There are lashes on his chest and back.” The sight of them had made her want to bloody
     someone in exactly the same way.
    “I doubted Mikey would agree to let Fedya shoot at him without encouragement.” Awkward
     silence ensued. “Beth, I should—”
    “Wash.” She lifted the bowl.
    She tried to keep her gaze on his face, but she was distracted by the beautiful, naked
     expanse just below. So much smooth, olive skin.
    He reached for his stained shirt, grimaced, and dropped the garment back on the floor.
     He peered around for another.
    “You traded it for some thread,” she reminded him. The last of which they’d just used
     on his brother.
    Annabeth crossed the room, set the bowl of clear water next to the bowl of red. After
     wetting the equally clean cloth, she turned. The back of her hand slid across his
     stomach.
    He snatched her wrist—to pull her away or to pull her close, she didn’t know. Neither
     one of them seemed able to breathe.
    “Let me,” she whispered.
    Releasing her, he stepped back. She followed, pressing the cool, white cloth to his
     belly. The muscles beneath fluttered and danced. She stroked the material back and
     forth, back and forth. She wanted to make the same movements in the same place with
     her tongue. She traced her thumb there instead, and he tensed.
    “Shh,” she whispered.
    He bit his lip as she washed his stomach, then his shoulders and arms, but he let
     her. What else might he let her do?
    The hair on his chest appeared soft. Slowly, she reached out, tangling one finger
     in a curl, rubbing it between her fingertips. “It is”—she lifted her gaze—“soft.”
    He kissed her. Hard. She thought she might fall. She pressed both hands to his chest,
     wound her fingers into the softness, scratched her nails across his skin, and held
     on.
    Her mouth opened; her tongue brushed his lips and slid, seeking, within. He tasted
     of heat and despair; she wanted to heal him as he had healed so many others, and this
     was the only way that she knew.
    “Need . . . you,” he whispered against her lips. “Need you, Beth. Hold me.”
    She wrapped her arms around his neck; he wrapped his around her waist as she pressed
     her body the length of his. The hardness at his center felt delicious, and she rubbed
     herself against it. He hissed in a surprised and somewhat pained breath.
    She smiled, dazzled—his kiss, his touch, his face—so beautiful. “I’m dizzy.” She laughed.
     She
sounded
crazy.
    Concern flooded his eyes. “Sit.”
    He urged her to his cot, the only place in the room to sit. The rickety contraption
     teetered, creaked, held. That should have been enough to bring her to her senses,
     if her senses hadn’t been full of him.
    The taste of his skin—salt and spice. The scent of herbs,