The truth was that Longarm had no grounds for complaint here. Not at all.
This female carnivore was giving better than she got, and Longarm’s reaction was a hard-on so intense it was a wonder it didn’t draw blood from where it was poking her in the belly.
After a bit she backed off from his mouth long enough to grin and say, “Wow,” as she reached down between them and felt of his cock. “You’re hung like a fucking horse, honey.”
And this was the delicate and fastidious little ol’ thing that couldn’t stand to be around a whiff of cigar smoke or wait ten seconds to be fed?
Some lady. Sure. You bet.
She was, however, one hellacious fine mouthful of a woman now that he could get a look at her. All of her.
She had a face that would have looked right at home carved in ivory and set onto a cameo, she was that pretty, with full lips and carefully groomed blond curls and prominent cheekbones emphasizing the slender hollows of her cheeks and neck.
Her body was built for speed more than comfort, its lines long and lean. Her belly was flat, and he could see each rib beside the small, pale saucers of her tits. Her nipples were tiny, pink, and pointy. She had a very small patch of blond hair at her crotch, and a pubic mound that was rounded and plump and pouty.
Her waist was small enough that it looked like he could span it with his hands, and her ass was so slim it should have looked boyish … except there was not one damned thing about this woman that could be considered in any way, shape, or form to be boyish or remotely masculine. Nothing. She was all female. Predatory female. And if he didn’t take her on his own terms and mighty soon, Longarm felt reasonably sure, she would have her way with him and then, once done, spit him out.
What the hell, he thought. Better not take any chances with such a possibility.
He grabbed her, picked her up, and carried her the few steps to his bedroll.
She didn’t offer objection. Not then and not when he knelt and laid her down onto the blankets.
The woman spread her slim thighs open wide in sheer invitation. Then she amplified that invitation by grabbing hold of his cock, still hard as marble if somewhat warmer, and pulling him down atop her.
Longarm didn’t mind. He let her guide the way as his spear found a wet reception, and he plunged deep inside her.
The woman cried out, and for a moment he thought he’d hurt her. He was, after all, built somewhat bigger than most—or so he’d been told—and might have been difficult for her to accept.
It wasn’t that at all, though. Her cry was pure pleasure. She wrapped her legs tight around him, her heels digging into his butt and urging him deeper and deeper still into the heat of her body.
She clung to him with both legs and both arms, and bit his shoulder for good measure. He doubted he could have shaken her off if he’d wanted to. Which he damn sure did not. This woman was as wild a ride as any bronco. And felt considerably better than one while he was in the saddle.
She squealed and gasped and thrashed her hips with mad abandon, and within seconds he could feel the tight, hot contractions encircle the base of his cock as she reached her first climax.
“Yes, yes, yes, damn you, yes,” she encouraged, her breath hot in his ear and her pussy even hotter on his pecker. “Hard now. Fast. That’s right.”
He beat hell out of her with the flat of his belly, but she didn’t complain about the abuse. Her response was to increase the tempo of their joining, raking his back with her clawed fingers and slamming him with her pelvis, thrusting upward with all her strength to meet his every downward stroke so that their coupling was fast and furious. “That’s right, damn you. Do it; do it; do it.”
He did it. She did it. And he was downright positive he felt her climax at least twice more, maybe three times, before his own ejaculation arrived, squirting hot fluids that he thought, hoped, would never quit. Damn, it was fine.
And when he was done, when he thought they were done, the woman laughed and slid out from under him and without so much as pausing to take a deep breath threw herself facedown on top of him, her mouth gulping and slurping, hot on his dripping cock, as she licked away the lingering drops of his semen and then took his cock into her mouth.
“Don’t just lie there, damn you. Don’t you know what soixante-neur is?”
“Something to eat?” he asked.
She laughed. “Actually, it is. Sort of. No, stupid, it’s French. It means sixty-nine. And-“
“I know what sixty-nine is,” he told her.
“Oh?”
“Sure, it’s what comes between sixty-eight an’ seventy.” He tugged a lock of pubic hair, which she had conveniently placed in front of his nose, then poked her in the asshole. “This bein’ sixty-eight, y’ see, and this other spot here bein’ seventy.”
“Shut up, you bastard, and eat me while I see if we can’t get another rise out of Harry the Horse here.”
“Harry?” he asked. “I don’t recall that it’s ever been called Harry before.”
“Harry the Horse, dear. That makes all the difference.”
“I see.”
“Good. Now be quiet and make that tongue useful for something more interesting than a lot of noise, will you?”
Which he did. And she certainly did her part and then some. She had the rare ability to swallow a cock right on through her mouth and on into her throat, completely immersing him inside her there.
And while she was busy doing that at one end, at the other she was shuddering and fluttering, her slim body wracked with convulsive spasms as she reached repeated climaxes under the influence of Longarm’s tongue on the tiny button that was the center of her pleasure.
All in all this was not, he thought, the very worst night he’d ever experienced.
Later, an hour or more later, when he lay panting in the cool night air, his balls aching from overwork and his limbs weak with fatigue, after the woman had left him and gone back to the Miller cabin, it occurred to Longarm that he did not yet know her name.
Not that he really gave a damn. What he did care about, what he did hope for, was whether she would be going all the way to Deadwood on this run. Because if she was, there would be several more nights they would have to get through.
He could think of worse things a man might have to face.
Chapter 7
The breakfast Mrs. Miller put together was both leisurely and large. A good thing too because Longarm had a lot of refueling to do after the exertions of the night before. By the time he was done with his tenth hotcake—or thereabouts, not that anyone was counting—Quentin Cooper and Eddie Miller were back from examining the state of the flooded creek.
“All right, everybody. We pull out quick as we’re hitched and ready,” the driver announced. “If you haven’t already et, then you’re too damn late. Let’s go.”
The creek, running far over its banks the night before, was narrow and placid in the morning light. Except for some mud left behind on the trunks of nearby trees, one would never think this little bit of a thing could be a bother to anybody. Which only went to prove one more time, Longarm thought, that looks can deceive.
They rolled north just half a day’s run ahead of the trailing northbound that would have left Julesburg twenty-four hours behind them, changed teams at Darien’s Gap, and left the fat man and three other passengers at Chadron that evening.
Longarm felt relieved. He’d been worried about the fellow lest his food hamper come empty and the poor soul not know how to handle the deprivation.
The woman—who Longarm hadn’t had reason to so much as speak to the whole day long—remained with the coach.
To Longarm’s surprise she not only stayed aboard, but when they filed onto the Studebaker after the supper stop, she clambered awkwardly onto the roof to sit up there in the cool evening air.
“Gonna be breezy up here, ma’am,” the jehu warned. The woman nodded rather than bother her regal self by speaking to a peasant.