He could feel her chin pushing hard into his belly, and could feel the tip of her nose burrowing gently against his balls. All in all the sensation was hellacious fine.
Gasping and panting for air, Lucy began to screw him with her throat, her lips a hot ring of flesh that was tight, tight around his cock and both her hands still busy teasing and stroking and tantalizing his balls.
She pulled away just far enough and just long enough to tell him, “It’s all right, dear. You don’t have to hold back. Go ahead and come in my mouth whenever you’re ready. We’ll get to the rest of it later.”
That was sure as hell all the permission he needed. He’d been having trouble keeping himself from spewing his hot juice into her mouth since very shortly after she’d started in on him. Now he stroked and caressed the back of her head and neck while she pushed herself fully onto him once more.
She took his hand and put it over her tit, squeezing his fingers as a reminder of what she wanted, and he bore down on her soft, pale flesh again, this time forgetting himself in the rush of pleasure she was giving him so that he damn near tore her breast clean off her chest.
He felt that swelling, demanding, insistent rush as the fluids boiled over beyond his ability to control, and his fist clamped with vise-like force on Lucy’s breast while his juices gushed and jetted down her throat.
Lucy quivered and cried out in a climax of her own, the sounds of her squeal muffled by Longarm’s pole, as the pleasure/pain in her tit sent her tumbling over the same precipice she’d just taken Longarm over.
Gasping then and sweating, she slowly withdrew, allowing his softening shaft to slip out of her throat and past her warm lips into the seemingly chill air of the very private little room.
“Damn,” Longarm muttered.
Lucy smiled. “That, dear, is the very best dessert of all.”
“Mighty glad to be of service, ma’am.”
Her smile became a laugh. “Just so you don’t think we’re done.”
“No?”
“Oh, my, no. There is still so much I want to do with you, Custis.”
He lightly stroked her cheek, and she turned her head so that she could kiss his palm and run the tip of her tongue over it.
In spite of all that had just happened there was a stirring of desire that gathered low in his belly at the feel of her doing that. Miss Lucy Watson, he thought, damn sure knew what she was doing. Lordy, he sure reckoned that she did. And there was no way he intended to leave this room before she’d done all she cared to do here.
“Y’know,” he said, “I hadn’t thought I’d wanted any dessert after that nice meal we had. Now I’m glad you talked me inta it.”
Lucy threw her head back and laughed long and loud.
Chapter 9
Longarm stopped in the street and thumbed a match afire. He held the flame to the tip of his cheroot and got a healthy coal burning, then gratefully sucked the smoke deep into his lungs. He felt … empty. Drained. Hollow as a whore’s heart. Lucy had pulled the juices out of him until there was nothing left. And then she’d taken more. Now he felt like there was a gaping void inside him from about his bellybutton down near to his knees. That kind of thinking was silly. He knew that. He felt it anyway.
Which is not to say he was complaining. Far from it. But it was a mildly disconcerting sensation to say the least, and now that he had it he wasn’t real sure that he cared for it. Still, if he had a chance to repeat the experience—and all that had led up to it—he reckoned he’d go right ahead and do it again. Lordy, but that woman did know how to screw.
His cheroot glowing nicely and the taste of the smoke dry and bright in his mouth, Longarm ambled on down toward Emmaline Bertolucci’s saloon. She’d said he should come back later to talk. Well, this was later and then some.
Unlike earlier in the afternoon, the place was plenty busy now. The corral held a dozen saddle horses or more, and there were seven or eight wagons parked outside. Behind the bar Gregory had an assistant. And damn well needed one. Obviously there was a good bit of foot traffic from the town as well as the customers who rode or drove in. The place was packed, the ceiling wreathed in blue-white smoke and the lamps adding their heat and smoke to the already fumy atmosphere caused by the heat and the stink of so many tightly packed bodies. Men were drinking, talking, pitching dice, and doing their damn-all best to cheat each other at cards. A few ugly tarts wearing dresses with skirts short enough and necklines low enough that no one would want to look at their pockmarked faces worked the room in search of low-rent loving. There was crowd enough that a man had to turn sideways or risk being elbowed in order to make his way through. Longarm breathed deep of the rank, smoky, smelly, perfumed stink. And smiled. He loved it.
“Rye whiskey?” Gregory asked when Longarm finally reached the bar.
Longarm shook his head. “Maybe later.”
“You’re really here on business?”
He nodded.
The barman sighed. And jerked his head to point his chin in the direction of the familiar doorway. “She’s waiting for you.”
Longarm paused before he moved in that direction. “Gregory?”
“Yeah?”
“I’ll try an’ not disappoint her. Or you.”
A shadow as if from a cloud passing high overhead flitted briefly across the depths of Gregory’s eyes. Then he nodded and turned back to his work. Longarm went behind the bar and through the door.
It was all Longarm could do to keep his expression from giving his feelings away. But he had to hide the truth. It would have been cruel to do otherwise.
Poor Emmy. Poor sad, stupid, used-up Emmy. She’d made an attempt to clean herself up since he’d been there earlier. She’d washed her face clean of all the caked crud and applied fresh makeup. She might as well not have bothered. The new application hadn’t been laid on with a trowel. Hell, they didn’t make trowels that big. The poor dumb broad must’ve used a shovel. There was powder and grease and bright color enough to paint a circus clown. The effect was bizarre and unsettling.
She’d changed to a fresh dress too, this one snowy white and bound tight at the waist, pushing her tits up and out so that they lay on top of the white satin bodice like a pair of hams on a shelf. Or, more like it, two lumps of suet on a rack.
The woman was grotesque. Longarm felt sorry for her. What she obviously wanted him to feel was desire. Poor, poor Emmy. There’d been a time …
“Hello, Emmy,” he said gently.
“Custis.” She smiled and simpered and fluttered her lashes enough to stir up a cyclone.
“You look mighty nice tonight, Emmy.”
“You’ve never looked better yourself, Custis.” She looked down suggestively toward a cushion beside her on the love seat where she’d chosen to present herself.
“I’d best not, Emmy. I came to talk, not … you know.”
“I do know, Custis. How well I do remember.” She sighed.
“So do I, Emmy. So do I.” That, at least, was no lie.
“We could start over, Custis. You know how good me and you are together. Nobody’s ever been like you, Custis. Nobody. Not even … not nobody.”
“I’m sore tempted,” he lied. “I remember every bit as good as you. But there’s somebody in my life now, Emmy, and good a woman as you are, I know you wouldn’t want me to be untrue. Not when I’ve made my pledge to her.”
“You’re married, Custis?”
“No, Emmy, not yet. I would’ve told you before if that was so. But we ain’t real far from it. Time I’ve had my talk with Harry an’ got back to Denver, I expect I’ll be gettin’ down onto a knee an’ havin a talk with her.”
Emmaline closed her eyes and for a moment Longarm thought she was about to weep. But when she looked up again she managed a smile, a warm and true and genuine smile that was so fond and kind and selfless that Longarm felt like a real son of a bitch for having lied to her. “I wish you luck, Custis. Luck and happiness. I hope you know that.”