1933563060-Devils-Pact-Cruise

by Devil's Pact (lit)

  She gasped, eyes flaring wide. All pain momentarily forgotten as she reveled in the erotic delirium of such a captivating sensation. Her cheeks heated, and she actually felt her inner muscles grip him, welcoming his flesh. She hated herself, her body, her lapse of control over the flagrant sexual urges tormenting her and for nearly begging him not to stop—again.

  With a wicked glint in his gaze, he shifted to his knees and slowly withdrew, as if giving her a chance to enjoy every thick, slick, heated inch. The arrogant bastard was doing it intentionally. She fought for breath, fought the pleasure building in her body and the temptation to wrap her legs around him.

  Through clenched teeth, she fought back the moan of pleasure deep in her throat. Her body quivered as she felt her muscles clutch his flesh to keep him buried deep inside. The intoxicating extent of the carnal sensations made her want to cry out for more, much, much more as her hips instinctively arched upward slightly, following his departure wantonly as he pushed to his feet.

  He straightened to his full, formidable height, hands on his wide hips and faced her. She scrambled to her feet, breathing a tad easier. Her eyes never left his. Stay strong. She held the gun leveled at his broad chest and readjusted her crinkled, dampened shift, which had bunched into her underarms.

  Her pulse raced. Between ragged breaths, she ordered him to raise his hands, which he obliged with a silly smirk on his face. She held the gun, so why did he appear amused by the transfer of power? There wasn’t an ounce of fear in the man. He wasn’t normal. Good God, who or what was he?

  “I don’t know who you are mister, but there won’t be a next time.” She hoped she sounded convincing, because her tingling body sure as heck didn’t concur. She smoothed the grass-stained shift with long sweeping strokes. A hot, sticky fluid trickled down her thighs, his seed. At that betraying reminder, she clamped her legs together.

  “Well little lady, I usually ask for my partner’s name before I fuck them…not after.”

  “I…you...” Turning beat red from her roots to her toes she shook the gun at him. Dear God, she wanted to shoot him dead so bad.

  “I only asked for a kiss. You’re the one who went reaching for my cock.”

  As if on cue, her eyes strayed to his glistening penis and testicles, coated with his release and her lubrication and dangling heavily out of his opened fly. It jerked in response to her gaze and came to life. The specimen of manhood rose to a full, glorious sight in a matter of seconds. It stood straight out of its dark hairy nest, pointed directly at her. Helplessly, she couldn’t drag her gaze away as he shifted his weight from one leg to the next, thrusting his hips forward slightly in the process, as though daring her to speak, look away, or spread her legs. Her body throbbed with carnal desire, hot and intense.

  “See, dimples, it likes you.”

  Before she knew what happened, he was in front of her, removing the gun from her grasp. Mortified, she looked up at him in disbelief. Confidently, he used that thing jutting out of his groin surrounded by lush dark curls to distract her. Harlot that she was, she fell for it. And because she was drawn to it, she lowered her mesmerized gaze once more.

  She licked her lips.

  Just like him, it was enormous. Never before had she seen a man built so large and she’d witnessed quite a few. She shuddered at the mental picture of him trying to put that thing inside her. Where would it all go? It would probably take both her small hands to span its girth, and its head was the size of her fist.

  Oh, my God.

  It was dark red, thickly veined in blue, very long and so very, very tempting. Dear God, Oh Lord, Mother Mary, she wanted to touch it. The burning ache, outlandishly occurring with increased regularity since she’d first kissed the wickedly alluring stranger, spread through her, renewed the wetness between her thighs.

  There was no other way to explain it. She was a wanton, shameless hussy.

  Mrs. Walker had been right all along.

  They were all right.

  She could tell by his smug grin he found some sort of perverse pleasure in watching her drool over his cock. So thick, dark, and engorged, it seemed ready to explode once again. Mockingly, the heavy beast angled downward at her as though waiting to burrow deep within her pussy.

  He returned his pistol to its rightful place. Then he stuffed his hard-on back in his buckskins and spoke in a slow drawl. “Show’s over.”

  Bastard, she raged in her mind as her eyes locked with his, followed by her new name for herself, Hussy. The blush on her face deepened.

  After redoing his laces, he adjusted his holster. “That is, unless you changed your mind…again?” he offered with a grin. “In that case, I insist on knowing your name.”

  She shot him a look to assure him she wouldn’t be changing her mind anytime soon.

  “You…you said you would ride out.”

  “Word of advice before I go: draw a gun, pull the trigger. Hesitate, and you’re dead. Lucky for you, I don’t go round killing women. Anyone else, and you would’ve been dead as soon as you reached for my gun.”

  Megan grasped the sudden realization and a lump caught in her throat. At any moment, he could have taken the gun from her knowing full well, she wasn’t going to use it on him. He spoke of killing with such ease, as though it was second nature to him.

  “Who are you?” The question left her mouth before she could stop it.

  “A lone rider passing through. Like I said miss, I mean you no harm.” His bass voice remained reserved. Although he appeared to be sincere, the profound soreness between her thighs proved otherwise. It hurt like hell.

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to know who I’ve had the pleasure of…” He cleared his throat, “…spending my time with.”

  For a moment, she considered his request. He was a drifter, and so far, had kept his word. No real tragedy had befallen her. She’d never see him again. What harm could there be in revealing her name? “Megan Spawn.”

  His brows deepened in a curious scowl.

  “Miss?” he asked with a cautionary note in his tone. His eyes studied her as if he were sizing her up.

  She crossed her arms over her chest, averted his obscure gaze and feigned interest in visually locating the whereabouts of a chirping cricket nearby. “That’s missus. Mrs. Reed Spawn.”

  He nearly fell over with robust laughter so uncontained that birds took flight, disengaging leaves from branches in their haste. Crisp, new leaves floated out of the darkening sky around them in a slow descent to mother earth.

  With growing contempt, she watched him as he continued to laugh. She wondered what was so hilarious. So what if she were a married woman? The title of missus also applied to widows, which she was soon to become, barely two weeks into her twenty-third year. He didn’t know her circumstance. And more importantly, it wasn’t any of his concern.

  He walked back to where he’d left his hat on the ground, chuckling as he went. In seething rage, she followed several feet behind.

  “I fail to see the humor,” she said rather snippily.

  He picked up his hat and brushed the leaves off, then he turned to face her. Plopping the hat back on his head, he offered his hand. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Devin Spawn, your son.”

  Everything went black.

  Dazedly, her heavy eyelids opened sometime later. She found herself leaning against his broad chest, perched on his massive thigh as he knelt with one knee in the grass. Her first thought was she must have fainted. Suddenly she became aware of blatant heat penetrating the thin layer of fabric, branding her hip. Afraid to look down, she realized she was virtually sitting on his penis. Feverish shivers of excitement and need, instead of fear and anger, sent her senses scrambling for clarity.

  “Perhaps I should have said your stepson, Mother.” Devin grinned, and she cringed, shooting him a ‘go to hell, and this time, stay there’ look that only broadened his smile.

  “Take your hands off me.” She came to her feet, slapped his hands away and to
ok several steps back.

  “Whatever you say…Mother.” He straightened. “Although I won’t complain if you care to put your hands on me again, minus the gun of course.”

  “Stop calling me that,” she snapped, feeling her cheeks heat with shame.

  * * * *

  Devin turned to retrieve her dress from the tree stump, remembering the last time he rode through the area over eight years ago. His father was married to another woman—of that, he was certain. This had to be wife number three. One thing for sure, his father knew how to pick ‘em.

  This one was young enough to be Reed’s daughter. Hell, at twenty-nine he was much older and he was Reed’s first born.

  “Reed married you fresh outta diapers?” He asked without looking at her as he picked up the dress.

  “Not that it’s any of your concern. I was eighteen when we married five years ago.” Her lips drew into a thin, tight pink line.

  Dress in his hand, he strolled toward her. With a few shakes, he let loose fallen leaves and whatever else may have crawled inside. His gaze traveled over her with new regard. At least she wasn’t a mere child. “Are you daft, woman, out here alone, unprotected?”

  “I have protection or at least, I thought I did. My gun is in the pocket of my dress.” With a flippant wave of her hand, she indicated the blue calico in his tight grip.

  He searched the garment pockets until he found the small pistol with a pearl handle, sized to fit the palm of a woman. He held it up with his thumb and index finger. “Protecting you from what, rabbits? That’s about all this peashooter is gonna kill.”

  “I’m not out to kill anyone,” she stated with proud condemnation. Her eyes suddenly narrowed when he stuck her pistol in his pocket.

  “Where guns are concerned, it’s shoot to kill. If the boys would’ve been with me I’d run out of lead dropping ‘em like flies just to keep ‘em offa you. With the way you were swimming in the river, even a preacher man would’ve turned a deaf ear to the holy gospel to partake in the sin ‘tween those legs.”

  “A…a gentleman would have turned away,” she chastised vehemently.

  “Don’t waste your breath trying to fool yourself. We both know there ain’t a damn thing gentlemanly about me. You were showing the goods and I was looking ‘em over.”

  “Well I hope you took a nice, long look, ‘cause that was the last.”

  “Looked, touched, felt…” He brought the finger he had inserted inside her to his nose and inhaled deeply. Then swirled his tongue along it seductively, licking every inch. Her eyes widened. His lust filled eyes challenged her to look away. Finally, he added, “Smelled and tasted. My father is a helluva lucky man. You have a damn fine pussy, Mother.”

  “Stop calling me that,” she bit out furiously. The heat on her cheeks spread to her throat.

  “You don’t mind my talkin’ ‘bout your pussy, so long as I don’t call you Mother.”

  “Yes, no, yes, no, stop calling me Mother and stop talking about my…” She clamped her mouth shut and crossed her arms beneath her breasts in an obvious fit of outrage. The shift dipped dangerously low, stretching the thin material over the hard, pink peaks.

  He quirked a brow, and his gaze rested brazenly on the bunched up mounds of flesh as he gave her a moment to finish, knowing that was one sentence going by way of the wind.

  “Reed should know better than let you out of the house at night practically naked,” he chastised yet kept his tone and expression unattached. This seemed to infuriate her even more from the way her eyes were burning daggers in him.

  “I was properly clothed when I left. If you would have given me my dress when I asked, I would be so now.”

  “You didn’t have a stitch on when I rode up. And with the way you were acting, didn’t give a flip if anyone was around.” He threw the dress at her, causing her damp hair to whip up at the abrupt burst of wind.

  Beet-red skin turned to vivid scarlet under his blatant scrutiny. He watched silently as she slipped her dress over her head and encountered difficulty getting her hands through the twisted sleeves when the bulky material caught around her shoulders.

  For a moment, he lost his mind, thought about offering assistance but promptly came to his senses. During her minor struggle, his gaze never strayed from the waist down. He sighed wearily, frustrated at the fact he still wanted her. She turned her back to him and gave him a nice view of her round ass through the thin shift. Somehow, she managed to work her arms through the correct holes and button the tiny green beads running down the front.

  He rolled his eyes but held his tongue, annoyed by her sudden pretense at modesty. It was a bit too late. He knew his mother as intimately as his father did. Couldn’t help but speculate how many others knew Mrs. Spawn, as well. He began to wonder if his father was even alive.

  “How is he?”

  She glanced fleetingly over her shoulder. He noted her expression suddenly changed, took on a sorrowful ambiance. After the last button was completed, she turned to face him and finally answered, “I’m grateful he lasted this long.”

  Mother dear thought her words would shock him, beget some sort of emotional response. He could tell she grievously disappointed. He didn’t care one way or the other. As long as Reed was alive, he was going to get what he came for.

  “I’ve heard so much about you. You’re—”

  “A vicious killer, a lowlife thief, Indian savage, no-account bastard, or the closest description yet, the Devil’s Spawn,” he finished for her.

  For a quiet moment, he studied her. She simply stared back at him, as if thunderstruck by the self-description of which he was neither ashamed nor proud.

  At last, she calmly stated, “I was going to say you’re finally here. He’s been waiting for you.”

  Cautiously, his eyes narrowed as she sat on the tree stump and slipped on her shoes, unsure of whether to believe her. Perhaps his father sent word, after all. If so, his gut instinct for the first time would have been wrong.

  A faint smile curled her lips and the dimples on her cheeks deepened. “Would you like to meet your sisters?”

  Slender hips swayed gently under the calico as she made her way to the wagon. He followed silently.

  Standing next to the buckboard, she gestured inside. He rested his hands along the railing and peered into the wagon. The tops of two small, blond heads peeked out from under several blankets. If they were girls, it was sure hard to tell from the wrapped bundles.

  “What’s wrong with them?”

  “They’re asleep.”

  To him, they looked dead, but he kept the morbid perversity to himself. It became clear to him why she didn’t run, fight, or scream. As long as they quietly slept, remained out of view, they were safe from harm.

  From the corner of his eye, he admired the courage and inner strength in one so young and undeniably delicate. The way of the untamed frontier was survival. Mrs. Spawn did what she had to in order to survive, held her tongue like a trained mute while he tried to have his wicked way with her.

  A pity he didn’t succeed completely.

  His stepmother was damned lucky though that he was the one who stumbled across her and not some other no-account murderer. Certainly she would have been raped and tortured. Dependent upon who ran across them, the girls might have been turned into Indian slaves or killed by desperados.

  His gaze drifted to the sleeping bundles, doubting Mrs. Spawn would agree with his assessment as to her good fortune.

  First and foremost, if he found his mother out in the woods spreading her legs for some other man beside his father, the man would be dead instantly. Present company excluded. Then, he would do something he had never done before—kill the bitch.

  No one cheats a Spawn.

  Her soft, melodious voice dragged him from his disturbing speculation. He turned his attention to her as she climbed onto the high seat in front of the wagon and took the reins in her hands.

  * * * *

  Megan caught sight of where
he was looking, nowhere near her face. With a huff, she smoothed her skirt and covered her exposed ankles drawing his eyes to hers as she stared at him disapprovingly.

  “I asked if you were passing through.” Inwardly, she prayed he said yes with no thought of stopping by the ranch. Why else would he be there? She held her breath.

  He cupped a hand to his mouth and made what sounded to her like a convincingly realistic birdcall.

  She glanced at the deep blue sky, searching the canopy of tree branches, expected some sort of bird to come flying out of nowhere and rest upon his shoulder.

  Much to her amazement, within seconds, an extremely large golden horse, black from the knees down, appeared and quietly made its way to his master’s side. He took the dangling reins in his hand.

  Devin stroked the horse’s nose with a gentleness Megan found so out of place for the veritable giant. From her guess, he stood nearly seven feet tall and was endowed with a well-muscled physique and strength to match. Her extended family member appeared to be capable of bringing instant death to both man and beast with his hands alone.

  Yet, strangely enough, he continued brush a hand tenderly along the horse’s nose and neck until the golden animal seemed to purr like a kitten. In one smooth motion that took her by surprise yet again, Devin hopped on the horse with the grace and agility of a well-practiced rodeo rider half his size.

  “Seeing how you’re in a hurry to be rid of me, Mother.” She cringed. “Let’s get this over with. Lead. I’ll follow.”

  The wagon lunged forward, and she couldn’t help but be reminded of who he was and what they’d done by his use of the word “mother” as if the tingling, stickiness, and soreness between her thighs weren’t reminder enough. She clamped her legs together as a shudder of lusty awareness passed through her body and more of her own juices added to his.

  * * * *

  Devin followed behind in silence until they neared the ranch. The little girls in the back, he assumed, were accustomed to the rough journey since they remained sound asleep. As they turned the bend leading to the front of the sprawling ranch, he noticed two saddled horses tied to the hitching post in the courtyard. His trained gaze intuitively searched the perimeter. To his immediate right was the barn and corral. Just beyond a bunkhouse and vegetable garden. In front was the well-lit, single-story plank house he had seen only once before. To his left was a grove of pecan trees and the outhouse.