Initially, her membership in the Seattle Suffrage Society had been an adventure, a way to meet like-minded women and be a witness to change. But somewhere between Clem convincing her she was worthy of representing the Society and hearing Mrs. Wilson’s speech, she had grown from a fledging supporter into a full-blooded suffragist.
In the quiet space where decisions were made, she vowed never to quit. IfThe Postwould not publish her articles, she would find a new outlet. If Mr. Horace McEntire decided there was no room for her at his paper, she would make room somewhere else.
She was done with half-measures.
* * *
That night,Winnie lay in bed, unable to sleep. Her notebook was full, every idea in her head safely recorded in its leaves, but her body refused to settle. She flopped onto her side and winced at the resulting squeak of bedsprings. Her core tightened at the reminder of the last time the bed had made such a racket, and there was no denying the real reason she couldn’t sleep.
She craved Mack’s touch.
The man had made her body sing in a way it never had before, and now it refused to be quiet. Her hand slid beneath her muslin nightgown. She touched her folds, already slick with desire, and imagined it was Mack’s fingers stroking her, his hot shaft plunging into her. But even as she spun higher and higher toward release, there was a touch of sadness, of discontent.
It wasn’t just Mack’s prowess in the sheets she craved. He had a way of cuddling her afterwards, holding her so tightly against him they were practically one being. It had only happened twice, yet it was the most treasured she’d ever felt. She shook her head at the sheer absurdity and increased her strokes, determined to bring herself to fulfillment.
The bedroom door across the hallway opened, and she froze. A shadow fell across the crack at the bottom of her door, and she held her breath, her pulse skittering wildly at the perilous hope that Mack had come to her. But after a moment’s pause, there was an audible sigh, and the shadow moved away. The bedroom door shut softly behind him, and Winnie wanted to cry with frustration.
She resumed her touches, desperate for release, but she couldn’t concentrate. Something niggled at her brain, something that might be important. A second later, it hit. Mack’s door had closed, but it had not latched.
Anyone could go inside.
And Jenny’s bedroom was downstairs on the other side of the house.
Throwing caution to the wind, she tossed the quilt aside and eased from the bed. With infinitely slow movements, she unlatched her door and crept on tiptoes to Mack’s door. A few light rustles of the sheets told her he was just as unable to sleep as she was. What if he was touching himself while he thought of her? She choked back a moan at the surge of arousal.
Gathering her courage, she twisted the door handle and slipped into the dark bedroom. Moonlight revealed a man-shaped lump in the bed, and she leaned over it and opened her mouth to speak.
“Naughty, naughty,” Mack whispered.
Her heartbeat raced at the tender admonishment. She knelt on the woven rug beside the bed and brushed the hair from his brow. Unable to stop touching him, she patted his cheek, tugged gently on his earlobe.
“Want to be naughty with me?”
A huff of breath escaped Mack. “Always.”
He swung his legs to the floor, the sheets tangled around his waist. Winnie stayed him by pressing her hands to his thighs. Thighs that were very much warm and naked. He hadn’t fibbed when he said he didn’t use pajamas.
“I hope you were wearing a robe just now in the hallway.”
He bent over and kissed her forehead. “I was not.”
“So naughty.”
“For you, yes.”
She leaned back and drew her nightgown over her head. As she watched, he grew to full arousal, and her mouth watered at his thickness jutting proudly toward her, a drop of moisture on the smooth tip. She licked her lips, and his hands clenched in the bedsheets.
“Touch my cock.”
Cock. Her late husband had never used that word, and it sent a shiver straight to her throbbing core. She touched a curious finger to hiscock, exploring his length and observing which areas were more sensitive. When she gripped him fully in hand, he thrust into her palm. From his facial expressions, she learned how much pressure to exert, how fast to go. She was an eager student, willing to do whatever it took to drive him wild.
Her other hand cupped his warm, tight sack, kneading him gently as she continued to grip his cock. His breath came in harsh gasps, and he tried to remove her hand. But she was in charge here, not him. She threw off his grip with a stern look.
“Be good and I’ll tongue your…cock.”
“Oh, God,” he hissed between his teeth. “Yes. I’ll be good.”
The desperation in his voice filled her with heady power, and she eagerly replaced her hand with her mouth, nibbling and licking her way from the tip to the base and back again. His thighs clenched and trembled, but he made no move to control her.
