"I don't want anything from you," Libby snapped. "Damnation! I hate these stupid shoes, and I hate you, too! Nothing's gone right for me since I laid eyes on you. Everything has gone wrong, and it's all because of you-- everything!"

Though he was pretty well argued out, Donovan recognized her challenge as the distraction he sought. "I beg to differ with you ... 'Lippy.' If you could have kept your big mouth shut long enough for a man to get a word in edgewise, none of this would have happened in the first place. I tried to tell you more than once that I was not Andrew Savage, but you wouldn't give me a chance."

"You had plenty of chances to tell the truth--and all of this is your fault,
including the fact that I rushed out and bought these miserable boots!"

The buttons unhooked at last, Libby strained, tugging on the shoe. When it finally popped off of her foot, she reared back and threw it at Donovan,
hurling one last accusation along with it. "This is all your fault, 'Willy'!"

Not a moment too soon, he ducked, leaving the boot to crash against the glass behind him. "Hey--hey! There's no cause to get violent. You damn near broke my window. And stop calling me, 'Willy'!"

"I wanted to break your big fat head, you double-dealing snake in the grass, and I'll call you 'Willy' any time I take a notion to!" She leaped to her feet and stormed across the room, steam-piston style, one boot on, one boot off. Raising her fist when she reached him, she shook it in his face. "As for violence, you lousy flim-flammer, when I think about the things you said to me in Laramie and the way you had me groveling at your feet, doing something violent is the kindest thing I can think of!"

"Now Libb---"

"Don't 'now Libby' me. Not while I can still hear you saying, 'You want a
camera, little lady?'" She mimicked his voice, slaughtering it by adding a countrfied accent. "Shore 'nuff, ma'am--you kin have anything you want. Juss ask, and it's all yours.' Why I ought to punch you right in the mouth for leading me on that way."

He'd been halfway amused until Libby mentioned his mouth. Now suddenly, all Donovan could think of was hers--not punching it, but burying it beneath his own lips. Without thinking or even questioning himself, he impulsively dragged her into his arms.

"And what," he asked, his throat tight, "Would you suggest I do to your
mouth in return?"

He didn't wait for an answer, or expect one. He just came down on her, a little too hard at first, and took what he wanted so badly.

As Donovan suspected she would, Libby fought him in the beginning, smashing her fists to his shoulders and twisting in his embrace. Although she struggled mightily, it wasn't long before her inviting mouth became soft and pliant, and moments after that, as eager as his own. Something exploded between them then, a power or force so strong and unfamiliar that Donovan couldn't identify the sensation. But he did recognize that what they shared here was no mere kiss. This was an assault on the senses, an awakening of dark and utterly insane hungers, a need urging him down a path he was quite sure he should never follow.

Shaken, in spirit, body, in every way imaginable, Donovan drew away from Libby's mouth, and caught his breath. He relaxed his grip then, unable to turn her loose the way he should have, but giving her freedom. Rather than try to escape him as he hoped she would, Libby clung to his jacket, her dark eyes and wondrous expression mirroring his own unexpected and tumultuous feelings. They stared into each other a long moment, briefly glimpsing private places and raw desires, and then as if frightened by what she saw in him, Libby finally broke out of his embrace.

"Jesus," slipped out of her mouth before she fully realized the thought...