The Southern Devil

by Diane Whiteside

  He growled in satisfaction and thrust again, more deeply, their bodies slapping wetly against each other and the beads sending fiery sparks up his spine. Hot and savage and fast, he ground against her, savoring every time her strong internal muscles gripped him. But need was pounding stronger and stronger in his bones.

  He rubbed her clit with every stroke, his eyes slitted against impending ecstasy. Suddenly orgasm surged through her and she clamped down on his cock, sobbing, demanding everything from him.

  Morgan roared his triumph and came, his seed pouring up from the base of his spine and jetting out of his cock. He was blind and deaf, lights blasting behind his eyes, oblivious to anything except the woman under him, as his body shook until his bones rattled.

  He couldn’t have moved afterward, even if someone had shouted that an ammunition wagon was on fire.

  Chapter Nine

  Eastern Kansas

  The bed heaved under Jessamyn. The railway car creaked, groaned, jerked, and finally rattled into motion. Crystal pendants tinkled against lamps and silver toiletries danced on parquetry shelves. A drawer thudded shut from somewhere forward and someone shouted something unintelligible outside, possibly foul.

  Jessamyn kept her eyes shut, refusing to look at—and thereby acknowledge—her surroundings.

  Morgan stretched slightly, adapting his long frame to the train’s forward motion. A breeze drifted down from above and grew stronger. She shivered involuntarily at the contrast to the previous hothouse atmosphere and tried to pull the sheet more closely around herself. But it was difficult to find, when she seemed to be wrapped in sated male.

  He swept an elegant quilted white coverlet up over her back and shoulders. Jessamyn purred and snuggled closer. “Thank you.” Hopefully now, she’d be allowed to sleep.

  “My pleasure.” His hand insinuated itself under the coverlet and began to follow the shape of her derrière, all too accessible to him since she lay on her side.

  She regarded him suspiciously from a single open eye. “Again and so soon? Why?”

  “Why not? I’m taking you to Colorado, aren’t I?”

  She flushed but continued to try to dissuade him. Who knew what his true game was? Did he want all of the gold or only her body? Either was an unsettling thought. “Aren’t you hungry?”

  “For what?” He raised a single eyebrow at her before kissing her cheek. She blinked when his mouth moved lower. He brushed the elegant cotton aside and explored her shoulder, kissing and gently nipping where her collarbone met her neck.

  The train bounced, sending Jessamyn flat on her back. Morgan pounced immediately, sliding his leg between hers. The coverlet slid to the floor but part of the sheet still twisted between them. He smiled at her, all glinting eyes and bared teeth, before circling his hips against her. She moaned involuntarily; he’d learned far too much of carnal practices to be easily ignored.

  “Anything I want, remember? Anything,” he whispered in her ear. “Do you still agree?”

  She forced her eyes open, trying to project a cool facade. “We’ve very little time. A little more than a day on this train until we reach Denver, then a few hours on another train—”

  His expression remained feral. “Until we reach the Sangre de Cristo Pass and start riding across Colorado. Even then, there are the nights…” He nipped her throat in exactly the spot he’d mapped the night before.

  Jessamyn arched as carnal fire speared her. His hand slid between her legs and nestled into her folds, ruffling them delicately like a priceless flower. They were exquisitely sensitive after last night’s hard usage, and his light touch sent a shockingly strong stab of lust through her veins. “Morgan,” she gasped. “We need to plan…”

  “Actually, we’d best make the most of what little time we have in a bed with sheets,” he contradicted her. He brushed a kiss against her brow, then her temples. His palm cupped her mound possessively under the sheets, warm and all too inviting.

  He dropped another kiss on the corner of her mouth just as she opened it to expostulate with him again. His tongue slid inside and played gently with hers. She tried to pull her head back but he wouldn’t let her. Instead he continued to kiss her sweetly, as if they had all the time in the world. Below the sheet, his hand remained motionless.

  Why were the Evans men so irresistible when they kissed? How many times had she been furious with Cyrus until the touch of his lips on hers scattered her wits? Was there something in the Evans blood that gave Morgan the power to do the same thing?

  Slowly Jessamyn relaxed and opened for Morgan. Her lips softened under his and her legs parted. He rumbled soft approval, stroking her tongue in rhythm with his gentle, almost imperceptible movements below.

  She sighed in pleasure and pressed closer, caressing his shoulders. It was the first time she’d touched him to explore him, rather than grabbing him for a quick finish. His hot, sleek, satiny skin, the ripple of strong muscles underneath, the strong cords of tendons leading up to his neck, the heavy twists of his biceps leading down to his arms, the deep furrow of his spine—she fondled them all while kissing him and sighing in delight.

  His hand played with her more firmly, stretching her folds, plumping and squeezing them, circling her entrance. Her body rippled and melted under his fingertips, until it seemed that his fingers and her cream were one and the same, both spearing her with lust.

  He rocked against her and took his mouth away from hers to kiss her neck. She approved heartily of the move and arched her neck. He nibbled the sensitive spot and she writhed under him, her eyes half-closed. “Ah, Morgan.”

  She stroked the tops of his thighs and up to his rump, all heavily muscled. A horseman’s body. She fondled and caressed, her greedy fingers remembering the skills taught by Cyrus.

  Morgan groaned something wordless and slid down her body. She blinked open heavy eyes to look at him. “Hmmm?”

  “Lift your leg for me, sweetness.”

  She obeyed, shooting him an inquisitive look. He dropped a line of kisses down the center of her body, between her breasts, over her navel and down her mound. She arched to meet him, heat flaring through her veins as if he was stoking a furnace with the simple caresses.

  He slipped a pillow under her hips, stretched her leg up, and kissed her mound. She lifted her head to watch hopefully and purred her satisfaction when his head dropped lower, his chestnut hair feathering over her legs. His hands and arms were so very strong but his fingers were completely gentle, even though his breathing was ragged.

  Then she gasped and bucked when he kissed and tongued her intimately. All Evans men must have been born with a passion for doing this, an inbred skill.

  Lord have mercy, she did so love being sucked just like, ah, that, when her man was pumping three fingers into her, preparing her to be ridden. Orgasm was coming so close. She could see it behind her eyes, feel it in her blood and the tightness of her skin, the tension in her loins. She tightened her legs around his head, sobbing. “Morgan…” Her voice broke in frustration.

  Suddenly he pulled away from her and came up on his knees, his eyes narrowed and desperate, his teeth clenched, his cock rampant and dripping in eagerness. He grabbed a condom from the stash on the nightstand and rolled it on rapidly, while she watched like a tigress in heat. Then he pounced on her, lifting her hips to meet his thrust.

  She arched, crying out with satisfaction at finally being filled. His cock surged into her, aided by her eager inner muscles. For a moment, they lay immobile, savoring the moment. Then he began to move and he rode her hard, as if he hadn’t touched her the night before. She clutched his shoulders and clawed his back, just as frenzied. She climaxed first, rich and strong, washing through her like a great river. She closed her eyes, tightening her inner hold on him. He groaned at that and climaxed, pulsing deep inside her.

  Afterward, he locked his arms around her and rolled over, his breath ragged against her hair.

  “Should we talk about Colorado or the map?” she muttered.
She really should investigate the bathroom.

  “Or breakfast? Or more kisses?” He wrapped a sweaty leg possessively around hers, his hair prickling her smoother leg.

  She didn’t have the energy to move away. “We should rise.”

  “Later.”

  The conductor shouted a farewell to Lawrence, Kansas, and the train lurched. Another bone-jarring heave finally put the U.P. train into motion.

  Good riddance to one more piece of Kansas, thought Maggie, and took another lick at her husband’s nipple. This train couldn’t reach Denver too soon for her taste.

  Charlie’s private car was hitched immediately after the train’s main body. He’d borrowed it from a New York banker wealthy enough to race trotters against Commodore Vanderbilt. The eastern tenderfoot now wished to gamble in a deeper game, Colorado gold mines, and thought Charlie would guide him to the best gold veins, if he buttered Charlie up enough.

  Maggie rolled her eyes at that folly and dragged her teeth lightly over Charlie’s nipple. He gasped. Good, the sooner he caught fire, the better for both of them.

  At least the idiot’s private car was impressive, even if his judgment of Westerners wasn’t. Why, it even had gold handles on the water closet!

  In contrast, the U.P. had accurately and quickly assessed the situation between Charlie and Morgan Evans. They’d hitched both special cars to the same train, but they’d placed one of their director’s observation cars between the two special cars. Unless one group of travelers made an extraordinary effort, it was unlikely they’d come in contact with each other—thus keeping the peace for the U.P.

  It was a damn shame. She could spend hours filling her eyes with Morgan Evans. She’d never done more than that, a deprivation that still irked her. But Charlie had made his wishes very clear when he ordered her along. But perhaps if she kept him very, very happy on the train, he might leave her behind in Denver…

  She stroked Charlie’s thigh and kissed her way down his belly. No matter what she thought of his temperament, he had a remarkably handsome belly: hard as her mother’s washboard with a narrow trail of golden hair running straight down its center. But then Charlie was a fine figure of a man, at least when he wasn’t alone in a bedroom with his wife.

  She curled her lip at the bitter memories but continued to kiss and nuzzle her husband. A slow approach, with many lingering pats and endearments, was the only hope for any action at all.

  His big strong hands kneaded her hair as he enjoyed her attentions, with gasps and groans marking every new touch and kiss.

  Her hard work started to produce rewards, at least for him. By the time she reached his cock, it was turning crimson and its tip was starting to curve upward. A little more work and there might be something there she could finally gain satisfaction from.

  She paused to scrape one of his short, curly hairs from between her teeth. The aftertaste distressed her, causing her to make a moue of disgust as she spat out the offending hair.

  “Goddammit, Maggie,” Charlie roared, pulling himself away from her. His cock withered like a snowman in July to a size appropriate to a grammar school boy. “Can’t you even try to look like you’re enjoying yourself?”

  Maggie reared up, affronted by this insult to her skills. Some excellent men, both wealthy and handsome, had begged her for another taste of her mouth on their privates. Her temper, which she’d never had a tight hold on, went racing out the window. “Why should I, when you’re so little to look at? That measly thing you call a cock is hardly bigger than my pinkie and hasn’t been for months. Why, Morgan Evans would never fail a woman—”

  His hand closed around her throat. “Have you always believed my cock was so small, dear wife?”

  She glared at him, ready to spit curses.

  His fingers tightened until she could feel every ring he wore.

  She saw her death promised in his eyes, despite his conversational tone. An icy knife sliced through her spine and her vision grayed around the edges. “Of course not!” she stammered. “Your cock is large and magnificently thick.”

  It wasn’t entirely a lie. After all, he’d used it very well on those first few occasions.

  Some of the tension eased slowly out of the little room. She tried to relax, while watching him warily.

  “If you say Evans’s name one more time within my hearing,” Charlie said very carefully, although his eyes were not sane in the least, “I will kill you immediately. Do you understand?”

  Maggie nodded very slowly. She’d have to find her old dirk, or maybe a Bowie knife, and keep it close by.

  He took his hand away and the insane light in his eyes dimmed a trifle. He levered himself out of the bed and began to wrench clothes on. “You’ll have your gold, for your fancy Denver mansion,” he growled. “There’ll be more than enough of Ortiz’s treasure for that.”

  She sat in the middle of the bed watching him, careful not to move quickly lest she disturb him. A wise woman didn’t startle wild animals.

  When he was half-dressed, he bent to kiss her, his starched collar all awry. She answered it politely, pretending a passion she didn’t feel.

  “I’ll bring you mountains of gold to keep you happy, Maggie. I promise,” he whispered against her cheek and was gone.

  The train lurched, slamming the door shut behind him and pouring cold air over her. Shivering, she pulled the sheet up around her shoulders. Two years ago, she’d been married to a good miner and had had a small baby. No money yet but the promise of it, and she’d thought herself on the top of the world. Then smallpox had taken the baby and a cave-in had killed her husband, all on the same day. Good God Almighty, how she’d wanted to hurl herself into their grave.

  After that, all she’d thought about was having enough gold to leave that small mining town behind and never see that grave again. Only Viola Ross, the future Mrs. William Donovan, had understood her determination to depart. Morgan Evans had seemed the perfect answer, with his excellent job and handsome looks. She’d done everything she could to catch him but it hadn’t worked. Finally, he’d told her to her face that he’d no interest in her, whether for marriage or anything else.

  Charlie had been in Rio Piedras, too, with his pretty face and his talk of his Colorado mine, but she hadn’t quite trusted the way he watched her. True, a woman liked to be courted but sometimes a man could pay too much attention. But in the end, he’d been the best choice and she’d said yes.

  He’d done well enough in the bedroom at the beginning, too. But once, his cock hadn’t risen and she’d compared it disdainfully to Morgan’s. The next time Charlie had taken longer to rise, and longer and still longer. And she’d complained more and more, until finally he was as soft as a mackerel. She was frustrated in the bedroom but pampered everywhere else, as if that would increase Charlie’s chances of success. Hah!

  It was a pity that she’d never had a taste of Morgan Evans, though. The scarlet women in Rio Piedras had gossiped about him something fierce. She’d always wondered if he was half as spectacular in the bedroom as they said.

  A minute later, she rang for her very expensive French maid. If her husband refused to be of any use, then she’d visit the observation car and see what the U.P. directors considered luxurious.

  Flat Kansas plains sped past the dining room’s windows as Jessamyn and Morgan finished their embarrassingly late breakfast. The train jolted again, rattling the chandeliers and sending the pictures slamming against the walls. A top speed of twenty-five miles an hour was amazing and well worth the frequent jolts and rattles. Abraham Chang cleared away their dishes, somehow balancing the fine china as if the train’s continual jolting were actually a silken glide. He’d even poured a full cup of tea without spilling a drop.

  Jessamyn was wearing a stylish new day dress, in dark green silk, which had magically appeared when she emerged from the small, exquisitely appointed bathroom. “A present from Mrs. Donovan,” Sarah Chang had announced, beaming. There’d been no one to object to, or to question ho
w such a perfectly fitting gift—including the new undergarments—was accomplished.

  Was Viola Donovan matchmaking? If so, there was little chance of success for her sentimental heart.

  Beside Jessamyn, Morgan scanned a leather portfolio full of telegrams and frequently scrawled answers, using the pad at his elbow, in between sips of black coffee. Riley, Donovan & Sons’ stolid telegrapher, collected the replies and occasionally answered questions.

  The scene was utterly domestic and remarkably similar to the last time she’d traveled west across Kansas. Then she’d journeyed as the wife of Captain Cyrus Evans, the officer responsible for ensuring the safe building of a portion of this railroad. Of her seven happy years of marriage to Cyrus, six had been spent on this prairie. Together, they’d worked to fight Indians, locusts, drought, embezzling Army contractors, and more.

  “A cable from the manager of your Silver Queen mine, sir.” Riley offered another piece of yellow paper.

  Jessamyn froze, teacup in her hand. A headache began to beat in her temples. The Silver Queen mine, based on a once worthless mining claim that Morgan had bought for unpaid freighting bills. A technique all too familiar to how Forsythe, Mother’s lover, had gained his gold mine.

  She set her cup down very carefully, despite the train’s lurches. But she would not behave like Mother and fall at his feet, overwhelmed by his wealth. She also had friends and supporters so she was not entirely helpless in comparison to him.

  Cyrus had always been extremely supportive of her interests. When she’d worked to perfect her horsemanship and sharpshooting, he’d cheered her on. He’d regularly wagered on her skills and won, garnering quite a reputation for the two of them among the small Army community. She’d kept many of those friends after Cyrus’s death, when she’d returned to Memphis, and they’d pledged their aid in this venture.

  Now she cleared her throat, determined to take at least a few steps on her own. “Morgan?”

  His head came up politely but his pen remained poised over the paper. “Yes, Jessamyn?”