1933563060-Devils-Pact-Cruise

by Devil's Pact (lit)

  “Anything edible. I’m hungry, not picky.”

  She chuckled. “Man with a hearty appetite deserves someum’ special. Got some mighty nice steaks in couple of hours ‘go.”

  “Good. Along with whatever else you have.”

  “What’ll it be? Green beans, mashed taters with gravy, beans, corn, carrots, biscuits, or cornbread?”

  “Everything.”

  Her dark blue eyes roamed over him boldly. With legs too long to fit under the table and shoulders broad as the tabletop was wide, he was used to being gawked at like some kind of circus act. If only he earned a nickel every time. Her appraisal lit up her eyes and put a mischievous grin on her face.

  “Reckon ya got’s a place to tote it all.”

  “You bring it. I’ll eat it.”

  Her smile broadened.

  “Coming right up, mister,” she said, hurrying off to the kitchen with vigor in her step.

  In his element, his gaze wandered the room. None of the drinkers posed a threat. From what he could tell, they were cowboys and drifters, most wearing a gun for show, from the looks of it. When Devin glanced to his right, the bartender was still studying his profile.

  Abruptly, the man realized he chose the wrong stranger to infringe upon his privacy by the facial indication Devin gave him. The bartender went back to wiping the used glasses with his soiled apron, setting them among the unused ones.

  Devin finished off his glass in two swallows.

  Before the empty glass hit the table, a sweet-smelling barmaid strolled up to Devin’s side with drink in hand. Her heavy bosom flounced with each exaggerated movement of her hips. She took a seat without an invite.

  He greeted her with a cold, hard gaze, a warning her presence was unappreciated. She slid the mug across the table. Despite the twinge of fear glinting in her green eyes, she remained. His first thought was she must really be hard up for money. That or she figured he was the only one in the room who looked like he knew how to hit that female spot just right.

  She leaned over the table, somehow managed to squeeze her arms together, pressing the plump swells of her breasts until they spilled over the tight confines of her bodice and the tops of her brown areolas appeared.

  It was definitely the latter, which didn’t surprise him none. Men that knew how to ease a woman’s needs had a certain air about them. He saw the excitement flare inside her at the prospect of well-charted territory.

  Scarlet red lips curled into a smile, and he felt the coldness in his expression slowly drift away. His cock barely stirred as her nipples strained against the satin dress she wore. She was too easy, too perfumed, too whorish, if that was even possible.

  “Looking for company?” She batted the dark lashes framing her heavily made-up eyes in a manner meant to seduce him, implying she would be up for anything. He played out this scene dozens, if not hundreds of times, in joints notches above this two-bit, flea-ridden hellhole.

  “Later,” he curtly answered, surprised her blatant offer didn’t tempt him as it should have.

  “I’m here now, big guy.” She practically cooed so provocatively, he wanted to ram his cock down her throat just to see how accommodating she could be.

  Instead, he replied evenly, “After I eat.” He put the emphasis on “after.” Bathed, a good meal in his belly, and a few drinks, the Cannon wouldn’t fail him. Not again. Not like it did last night with… Shit! He was thinking about her again.

  “Might be tied up later.” She batted her eyelashes, reached across the table, and slipped a deft finger under the cuff of his sleeve. He felt her sharply manicured nails rake over the fine hairs on his forearm.

  A single brow rose, and a smile tilted his lips. He wondered what she’d do if she really found herself tied up later. His slight smile disappeared when he remembered he left his rope on his saddle back at the livery. Damn.

  From years of practice, he could tie a woman to a bed with a single rope in a matter of seconds. It used to be a sport whenever his gang rode into a town where there weren’t enough women to go round. Lined up, his men would time him. They’d hoot and holler as Devin went from room to room. The women were of disreputable virtue, paid well for the special bonus, which added to the already overly excited ruffians. Even in the fanciest parlor houses, so-called gentlemen forgot their manners behind closed doors. Whores in run-down cribs fared no better. However, he never allowed his men to inflict violence, rape, or poke without paying. Everything else was free bidding.

  From the saddlebag draped across his thigh, he retrieved a gold coin, and placed it on the table.

  Her interest seemed to perk up as she reached for the coin. His palm was there before she could grab it. Disappointment shone in her eyes as she stared at him.

  “I said, later.”

  She casually shrugged her shoulders, red waves falling over her bosom. “Suit yourself, sweetheart. The name’s Hattie. I’ll be waiting for you upstairs.”

  Hattie rose from the table, and walked away in the manner in which she arrived.

  Devin watched the swing of her robust hips until they disappeared behind the closed doorway. No real beauty, but she’d do. Nice and plump, like he preferred. Her breasts were big enough to warm his cock while she sucked on the head. He’d ride those hips hard until she was saddle sore. Then, he’d flip her over and lose himself in the taboo entrance between those fleshy mounds.

  Out of view, the faint interest easily dissipated. He was able to return his full attention to the room.

  His decision to stay out of Tejas while his father was alive worked in his favor. No one knew him. With anonymity, he had free reign to come and go as he pleased.

  Except now that Reed was gone, there was no reason to stay or keep out of trouble. Yet the more he thought about it, the deeper a scowl creased his brow. There were two reasons, perhaps three. He lifted his glass to his mouth then downed the entire contents in one long swig.

  Damn if she wasn’t sneaking in on his thoughts again. The memory of his father’s lifeless body continued to taunt him. Big hazel eyes glazed over at the mere mention of Reed’s death. Her dainty body sprawled on the floor as he walked past. Did she love him? It was common for girls as young as fifteen and sixteen to marry. How old was she when they married? Was their marriage real? Were they man and wife in every way? Was that little curly-top girl their love child?

  Lost in thought, he didn’t even notice when the barkeep came over with a refill.

  Devin was certain the older girl belonged to his second wife. The woman had been carrying a babe about a few weeks old on his first and only visit years ago. Their oldest child, Reed’s second son, must have died some time ago. Probably the same time his second wife did. Who knows?

  It didn’t matter.

  Nothing mattered anymore.

  As soon as the funeral was over, he was running himself out of town with no intention of ever looking back.

  Dear Mother could take up with Pretty Boy for all Devin cared. Torment him. Let him believe he was going to get the fucking of his life, just to have her squeeze them slick, taut muscles, force him to spill before the head of his cock made it past the tiny slit.

  Bloody-hell! He groaned, envisioning her dainty, warm body splayed wantonly for Pretty Boy. The thought riled his blood. Devin shook his head. Certainly, he didn’t care if that dandy plunged into the tightest, hottest pussy to grip a man’s cock.

  Devin’s head rolled backward. He closed his eyes, lingering on the vision of Megan’s dainty form, posed seductively on a bed of grass. Her chemise bunched below her underarms while he worked a finger inside her moist heat. Wet and ready for him. He felt the lasting heat of her small hand inside his buckskins, stroking and tempting his aching cock until he was ready to explode. He could still feel her slender legs cradling him as he inched his way into the tightest cunt ever. Not even virgins he deflowered as a well-endowed teenager were that tight.

  His hips lifted slightly from his seat, whilst he imagined thrusting inside he
r, impaling all twelve inches in one hard thrust. He needed to hear her scream in pleasure, have her hips rising to meet his, feel her climax milking him until he filled her body with his seed.

  A distinct aroma forced his eyes open as the cook put three plates in front of him. One plate was filled a thick, juicy steak, one overflowed with all the fixin’s, and the last was piled with cornbread and biscuits.

  He inhaled sharply and read the appraisal in the old woman’s gaze.

  “Musta been some dream. There’s willin’ women over yonder can make it reality.” She flashed her gap-toothed grin, pointing toward the famed center door.

  He was amazed the old woman still held a knack for spotting lust in a man’s eye.

  “Right now, sugar, you’re all the woman I need,” he offered truthfully, not knowing if he was hungrier or hornier. Either way, he was in the right place to satisfy both needs.

  After handing over the utensils wrapped in a napkin, she brashly replied, “Iffin I was forty years sprier an’ my bosom were up here.” She cupped her breasts and lifted the sagging flesh high on her chest. “I might believe ya and give ya a wild, woolly ride.”

  Devin shook his head and laughed. “I’m afraid if you were a mite younger and your breasts were sitting up high, you’d be more woman than this ol’ boy could crawl into.” He leaned over and swatted her ass playfully.

  “Sunny, I doubt there’s a woman alive you couldn’t handle. You enjoy. I’ll be back to check on ya.”

  “Ma’am, if you made it, I’ll enjoy it.”

  Laughing, she made her way back to the kitchen.

  Devin wasted no time cleaning off all three plates and emptying three more glasses of whiskey. He expected the food to be a notch above trail grub. It was surprisingly good.

  * * * *

  Once he settled his account with the barkeep, he learned the old woman’s name was Ida Boyd. Mrs. Boyd looked about ready to fall over when he walked into the kitchen and handed her a tip bigger than she made in a year.

  With no desire to hear the extent of her graciousness, he excused himself and made a hasty retreat toward the unmarked door.

  The makeshift hallway that connected the two abutting buildings was long. It gave a fellow plenty of time to think. A robust, scantily clad brown-haired woman who showed her years of experience despite the heavy makeup caked on her face greeted him on the other end.

  The one thing he hated about whores was their makeup. It never failed to smear as they worked up a sweat. Even worse, it rubbed off on him. Why couldn’t a woman be self-assured enough walk around bare-faced? Some men preferred a natural appearance, as though she just stepped out of the river.

  “Hello, cowboy,” the mature woman said in a baritone voice that sounded strangely seductive for a woman. Then again, maybe it was that thinking he did in the long corridor that had him questioning why he was here in the first place. “May I be of service?”

  Brazenly, her eager gaze trailed up and down his length. He was well aware when it stopped at his groin. Even without an erection, he knew she was getting an eyeful by the way her eyes glimmered with lusty satisfaction.

  “You’re a big one,” she gasped, smiling wickedly.

  “Where’s Hattie?” If a big old woman started to sound sexy to him, then it had been entirely too long since he rammed his cock into the heated depths of womanly flesh. He needed to fuck something, anything before he went plum loco.

  “Whom shall I say is calling?”

  “A man starved for pussy.”

  At his unabashed response, the woman didn’t even blink. She named her price and he paid. With an overt sigh of regret, she gestured toward the staircase. “Hunger no more. Room twenty-one is down the hall to your left.”

  He started up the stairs as she offered, “Name’s Madame Jazelle. I own this here establishment. Let me know if I may assist with any unmet needs.”

  With a tip of his hat, he climbed the steps three at a time.

  * * * *

  Hattie was, indeed, waiting for him, sprawled on her back on a comfy bed. There wasn’t much else to the room besides a small table, chair, and trunk where each girl usually kept all the belongings she owned in the world, including clothes. From what he could tell even before she threw back the flimsy covering, she was naked under the satin bed sheet.

  Devin wasn’t one for wasting time or making small talk. A swift kick and the door behind him shut. He didn’t bother to take off his hat, gun belt, or anything else, for that matter.

  Hattie was pushed back into the mattress with her legs spread wide, three fingers in her dripping pussy. The rosy tips of her heavy breasts received much-needed attention as he took turns cupping each breast and sucking the stiff peaks.

  He sucked on one breast and pinched the hard knot on the other between his fingers. Her eyes closed. She arched against him, gasping with delight while his thumb mimicked the motion on her clit.

  Her hips gyrated on the bed as he admired the bountiful view in his grasp. Big breasts were always a temptation too good to pass. Hattie’s were full and firm with plump nipples. Then why had their taste not made his mouth salivate or hunger for more?

  The blasted situation irritated him. He wasn’t here to please her—at least, not until he was assured she was able to reciprocate, give as well as take, that was for damn sure.

  Unmoved by the ease his hands alone could cause a pleasurable response, afford a prostitute the luxury of forgetting her one and only objective: his gratification. Devin released her abruptly to her unabashed disappointment, moving to the edge of the bed. He directed her to his groin with a nod of his head and demanded curtly, “Take it out.”

  With a heavy sigh, she followed orders. He leaned back and spread his thighs to allow her plenty of room. She knelt between them. Without hesitation, her manicured hands went to the buckle on his holster. His hand closed over hers.

  “Not yet,” he rasped, the primitive urge resonating in his ears. The surge of his blood rushed downward. Clearly indicating his intent, he moved her hand to the fly of his britches. This had better be good. He needed it too damned much.

  He watched her bite her lip with growing frustration they both seemed to feel. Her fingers struggled to push the buttons through the holes of the uncompromising fabric, stretched beyond its limit. “Damn, you’re big,” she hissed, grimacing and forgoing the well-versed voice of seduction.

  When his rock-hard cock finally sprang free, the bulbous head bobbed forward with anticipation, nearly hitting her in the face. She stumbled backwards, flat on her plump ass. “Holy shit, cowboy, you’re too damned big.”

  Hattie gawked at the exceptionally long, thick shaft pointed directly at her. “There’s no way in hell that horse dick is coming near me. You ain’t ripping my pussy in two,” she shrieked, clamping her legs tightly.

  Normally, his reaction would have been one of humor and understanding. Today, he was on a dire mission, growing more painful and critically urgent by each passing second.

  Miss Hattie was a baseborn whore with a stretched-out pussy probably the size of the Colorado Rockies. Here she was, acting unceremoniously like a fresh, scared, untried virgin on her wedding night.

  So what if he was hung like a horse? A damned twelve inches long and nearly eight round. Tarnation! He was in a whorehouse, not out by the river with a sniveling tease. He came here to be fucked, and he wasn’t leaving until he was good and fucked.

  Though not known for urbane charm and benevolence, he proved how hot, horny, and ornery he really was. “Bitch, are we gonna fuck or not? If not, get the hell out of here and find me a loose cunt I can bury my dick in,” he exploded at the top of his lungs, not caring if the people in the next town heard him.

  Not a second was wasted. Hattie yanked the sheet off the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders. She scrambled out the door quickly.

  Down the hallway, curious onlookers came out of their rooms, all similarly wrapped in sheets or pulling on their pants and undergarments. He
heard her cursing, complaining, telling all who would listen that she wasn’t going to let him rip apart her moneymaker with that beast between his legs and let him leave her high and dry.

  Devin was undone by a newfound level of malcontent at an old situation replayed countless times since he became a fully developed teenager with an insatiable appetite, who practically fed entirely off whorehouses. He fell back on the linen-covered mattress with a loud plop, arms extended at his sides, hat falling to the side.

  * * * *

  Madame Jazelle was no fool. Once she learned of the delicate situation and who the unassuaged patron was, she stepped lively to address the problem by any means necessary.

  She rushed down the carpeted hallway to allay the ruckus, directing the other paying customers back to their rooms. Money didn’t exchange hands if services weren’t rendered. If men weren’t flat on their back or holding a mug in their hand, then no one earned a plug nickel.

  The position of sole proprietor of one of the best run brothels in the Tejas Territory was a feat accomplished by shrewd business sense and an even keener understanding of the male consciousness.

  A starved patron is how he’d referred to himself. The man was no ordinary customer. Everyone from outlaws, to docile husbands, to innocent bucks, with an occasional preacher or passing politician, patronized her establishment.

  The girl who stepped forward and volunteered to service him called him simply “The Cannon,” and Jazelle knew who he really was. The assured confidence in his walk, steely eyes, and authoritative presence had ‘ruthless’ written all over him. Clearly, he was someone who wasn’t afraid of shooting up what she worked so hard on and spent so many years building if his itch wasn’t aptly scratched.

  Even though she carried a pistol in the specially made garter strapped to her thigh, and the bartender downstairs kept a sawed-off shotgun under the bar, they would be no match for the likes of him. Their spineless Sheriff would be the first to run for cover once the lead flew.

  Within minutes, Madame Jazelle stood solicitously inside the doorway, apologizing profusely, offering her often-used lie used to rectify most situations. Hattie was new and he was not to be discouraged. Her customers always left satisfied. Guaranteed.