by Tabor Evans
Just after he’d ordered the roast beef with mashed potatoes and gravy with two hot buns and sides of fresh garden greens and buttered carrots, his heart stopped. His chest went tight, and his face swelled. It heated up like a pig carcass hanging in the full sunlight.
At least, he thought his ticker had seized up on him. Maybe it only felt like that. He was dead certain his lower jaw was sagging nearly clear down to his round table’s crisp white linen, twinkling silverware, and glistening crystal water glass.
Vaguely, as he stared into the hazel eyes of the queen he’d probably have met properly outside the hotel earlier if she hadn’t caught him staring at her tits, he considered summoning a sawbones but nixed the idea when he didn’t pass out but found himself looking at the top of the girl’s beautiful brown head as she perused her menu.
She was sitting across the room from him. And she’d been watching him. He knew she had. That’s what had almost killed him.
He’d been looking around the large room with its high, pressed-tin ceiling painted off-white, and then he’d found himself staring into those eyes that had been directed at him. Sort of furtively directed at him, over the girl’s menu.
Then she’d lowered those polished marbles quickly but somehow casually to her menu, and he was now studying the rich swirls of brown hair, his heart beating again. Not really beating but fluttering.
The comb she wore in her hair was cherry colored. It complimented her red, lace-edged dress perfectly, and it also brought out the deep reds in her skin, including the red of her wide, full mouth that had been so perfectly made by God to wrap itself around a man’s jutting cock, to suck him and deliver him to bliss.
She hadn’t been seated in the dining room when he’d walked in five minutes earlier. He was quite certain she hadn’t, because he’d looked around for her when the hostess had seated him at the corner table he’d requested, because he always requested corner tables, with his back to the wall. It was a safety precaution that he always took to prevent his ending up back-shot by one of the many men he’d offended over the years and finding himself facedown, dead, in a pile of potatoes and beef gravy.
The point being, he had a good view of the room, and he’d looked for her. But she hadn’t been here. Till now. She must have just been seated, maybe when he’d been perusing his menu, and now she was here. Which meant that there was a very good chance that it had been her who’d been spying on him earlier, when he’d been hunting for his room, and that she’d followed him down here now.
Could she be stalking him?
The idea was no less intoxicating for being utterly preposterous. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to ooze in his shorts like a love-struck schoolboy getting a peek through the half-moon in the privy door at his favorite girl with her frillies down around her ankles.
Longarm sank back in his chair, in the room’s front corner. Time to get a hold of yourself, old son. You must have got your head overly battered aboard the train the other day. This girl was obviously a couple of social as well as economic rungs above your lowly, badge toter’s station.
Why, she’d as soon tumble with a hydrophobic cur behind a trash pile as spread her legs for your big, leathery, unhealed person. Her daddy no doubt has part ownership in the hotel or the opera house, and she’s here to take the holdings for a little ride.
She did seem to be dining alone, however.
Longarm noticed that the waiter had swept all of the extra place settings from her table. If the big lawman had any balls at all, he’d walk over and inquire if he could join her.
And get a glass of ice water thrown in his face for his trouble…
He dug into his shirt pocket for a cheroot, bit the end off, and fired a match on his cartridge belt. As he touched the flame to the cheroot’s tip, he vaguely opined that the girl could be married and possibly meeting her husband later for after-dinner drinks. Any man married to such a queen as her was likely some mucky-muck with business doings in these expanding parts and was likely too busy to sup with his wife.
As he got the cigar going to his liking, Longarm squinted through his billowing blue smoke at the girl’s table, trying to get a look at one of her delicate-boned hands still holding the menu in front of her. There did seem to be something shiny there, but from this distance he couldn’t tell if it was a diamond ring or a wedding band.
Uh-oh. Shit. She’d just lifted her eyes to his, and she turned away before he could do same, giving her right nostril a very subtle but very real winkle of utter disdain. She even seemed to sigh in disgust.
Well, there was Longarm’s answer. Now he could stop fantasizing like a schoolboy with his dick in his hands, and go back to being a man of pride and self-respect.
He was a professional, for chrissakes. He’d eat his meal, follow it up with a hunk of peach cobbler and fresh-whipped cream, smoke another cigar, sip a last shot of rye, and then tumble on into the old mattress sack. Just like he should do. He needed to be well rested for the last leg of his journey on down the long hills to Denver. The next day, he’d no doubt hear more about the bushwhacked lawmen, and get himself headed for Arizona to see about bringing the killers to justice.
His food came, and it was every bit as scrumptious as he’d dreamed it would be. He was so hungry, and the food was so good, that he looked up only a few times while he ate, using the warm, buttery buns as gravy sponges.
As far as he could tell, the girl, who was eating now herself—some kind of fish, he thought—gave him not a single glance. She kept her eyes on her food or on the book she had open beside her and whose pages she turned slowly as she ate, taking very delicate bites and following each bite with a delicate pat of her lips with her white linen napkin.
Occasionally, she became so immersed in her book, gazing down at the page before her, that nearly an entire minute would pass before she’d take another bite.
The gal obviously hadn’t taken down a trainload of curly wolves the day before, and then ridden sixty miles over mountain and plain, Longarm thought with a restrained snort as he swabbed the last of the gravy and bits of roast beef from his plate with his last bun.
Finished with the main meal, he ordered the pie, coffee, and a shot of rye, then sat back in his chair, stifled a belch, and very purposefully restrained himself from ogling the girl anymore. He’d genuinely become ashamed of himself, downright embarrassed.
He was half done with his pie, which he savored with the coffee and the rye, which he’d poured into the hot, black coffee, when he suddenly looked up and found himself staring into those hazel orbs once again. From three feet away, this time. Her red dinner dress was lower cut than the one she’d worn earlier, and a small, gold cross was tucked into the top of her deep, lightly tanned, slightly freckled cleavage above the rich, full mounds of her breasts.
Her right hand was closed, and for a second he thought she was about to punch him with it. But then he heard a quiet clink and looked down to see a gold room key on the table before him, beneath her now-open hand. Stealthily, using two fingers, she slid the key across the table until it was partly concealed by his coffee cup and saucer.
“The number is on the key,” she said, her voice low and sexily raspy. “Give me a half hour. Be clean.”
She turned away, strode coolly out of the dining room and into the lobby, heading for the stairs. Longarm sat staring at the broad, open doorway, hang-jawed.
Vaguely, he once again considered summoning a sawbones, because he thought for sure his heart really was about to seize up on him this time. Or that he’d gone insane and had dreamed up the unlikely encounter.
Maybe the dustup in the train had caused him to go all soft and squishy in his thinker box.
A half hour, huh?
He looked down at the half-eaten chunk of cobbler and slid it away. He was no longer hungry. All he could think about now was the girl.
Butterflies flitted in all directions in his stomach. When the waiter passed, he told him to take the pie away, and he ordered a
nother double shot of rye and relit the cheroot he’d allowed to go out. When the double shot came and the waiter had cleared the table, he sat back, manufacturing a casual expression while he smoked and sipped the whiskey and listened to his heart drumming like a tom-tom.
The half hour passed as slowly as the last ice age.
He probably consulted the big grandfather clock at the far end of the softly buzzing dining room once every two minutes, until he watched the large hand click for the thirtieth time. No point in being early. She might expect him to go running up the stairs and down the hall, tripping all over himself, playing the fool, but that wasn’t how you played a girl like her.
You took it slow. Acted casual. You acted like you were doing her as big a favor as she was doing you.
She obviously enjoyed playing it coy up to a certain point—the point of finally dropping a key on a gentlemen’s public table, that was. But you had to break her of that false timidity. You had to tease the girl until she was fairly yipping and moaning like a feral bitch in heat and climbing on your cock.
Longarm paid his bill, stubbed out his cigar, donned his hat, and made his way very slowly, very nonchalantly out the door and into the lobby. He smiled and nodded casually at passersby, pinching his hat brim to the ladies, half consciously aware all the while that the hotel was spinning slightly around him, as though he’d had far more to drink that he actually had, and that he couldn’t feel his feet.
He held the key tightly in his left fist, glancing down at it twice as he sauntered up the stairs. The numeral 19 fairly shouted up at him, making his ears ring. In the second-floor hall, he stopped at the door and poked the key into the lock, fully aware of the metaphorical significance of the maneuver.
He turned the key and went inside.
The large bed straight across from him was made. It was also empty. A red Tiffany lamp guttered on the dresser to the right of the bed, but the girl was nowhere to be seen.
Suddenly, a warning tolled in the lawman’s ears, and he slid his hand across his belly to the polished walnut grips of his Colt.
Ambush?
He’d just started to slide the revolver from its holster when a soft, sensual voice said behind him and to his right, “Fuck me now and fuck me hard, you randy dog.”
Chapter 6
Leaving the iron in the leather, Longarm whipped his head around. His tongue grew as heavy as a beer schooner. His heart started hammering inside his head.
The girl sat on a fainting couch against the wall behind the door, a candle on a side table quivering over her dramatically, revealing that she wore nothing but a sheer black shift.
Her hair was down, spread messily across her bare shoulders, framing her face and smoky eyes. She still wore the gold cross; it dangled down to the top of her breasts, which the shift only partly covered.
Actually, it didn’t really cover them, just laid a filmy shadow across them, showing them in all their heavy, opulent splendor. They were as perfectly shaped as he’d imagined—firm and pointing slightly outward, with large, dark brown areolas, nipples jutting against the cloth. Longarm idly speculated that she was covered in no more silk than he could tuck under his tongue and still be able to down a meal without choking.
She had one knee up and was leaning her left arm across it. Her other leg was curled beneath it. The position lifted the shift high up on her waist, revealing the auburn tuft of hair between her thighs as well as an alluring glimpse of fleshy pink.
She tilted her head to one side, smiled with one half of her mouth, and let her eyes flick down to his crotch. “You’d better get out of those trousers before you tear right through them.”
Longarm looked down at the bulge in his pants. She was right. He could feel the pain now.
He quickly closed the door, cuffed his hat from his head, kicked out of his boots, and removed his gun and shell belt. He was out of the rest of his attire in less than a minute, letting it all fall where it may. As he tossed his longhandles away behind him, he saw her smoky gaze rake his rangy, broad-shouldered, battle-scarred body slowly.
Her eyes widened when they got to his crotch, his dong jutting high above his belly button—full and thick, the mushroom head looking as though it were about to explode.
“Oh, my God,” she whispered, her breasts rising and falling heavily. Her voice seemed thick, even raspier than before. “You’re hung like a fucking Russian plow horse.”
Keeping her eyes on his thundering hard-on, she dropped both feet to the floor, rose, turned toward the couch, leaned forward, and swept the shift up around her waist, revealing her perfect ass and the auburn mound up under her butt cheeks. “Take me,” she said, her voice quivering desperately, looking over her shoulder at his throbbing cock. “Bring it over here and fuck me with it.”
Longarm didn’t need to be told twice.
He followed his dick right over to her, reached around her waist with one arm, drew her toward him firmly, and then took his cock in his free hand and guided it up under her ass and through the moist, hot waiting doors of her pussy.
She jerked forward like a startled mare, throwing her head back. “Gawd!”
Longarm stopped halfway in, letting her womb expand gradually around him, and then pushed forward on the balls of his feet, shoving his manhood deeper…deeper…deeper, until it would go no farther and she was leaning forward against the fainting couch, groaning from deep in her chest.
“Fuck me, damnit,” she said through gritted teeth, spreading her legs a little wider for him, grinding her feet into the thick, black-and-red carpet. “Fuck me hard, you randy dog! I saw how you were looking at me. You were imagining doing this back out on the street, weren’t you?”
Longarm was driving against her, pulling out, driving in, the otherworldly sensations ensconcing him like the world’s more powerful opiate.
“Weren’t you?” she demanded, glaring over her shoulder at him as he fucked her, causing her hair to slide back and forth across her shoulders.
“Yep.”
“Do you like fucking strange girls you meet on the street?”
“Stranger the better.”
“Oh, you’re such a randy dog!”
“Uh-huh,” he grunted, squeezing his eyes closed as he leaned forward, wrapped his arms around her, and grabbed her breasts in his hands. He kneaded them, rolled the nipples between his thumbs and index fingers.
They were as hard as small stones, jutting like sewing thimbles. The softness of the silk shift caressed the backs of his hands as he fondled her. Occasionally it would drop down in back to brush his belly, a pleasing sensation that complimented the more dramatic one going on inside the head of his cock, his belly, in his loins.
“Oh, God,” the girl said raspily, sucking sharp breaths, releasing them sharply, sucking another one just as sharp. The back of the fainting couch tapped against the papered wall behind it as they moved together, in perfect rhythm now, Longarm squeezing her perfect, jouncing breasts while he rammed his hips against her ass, raising slapping sounds.
Occasionally, he’d straighten, hold her hips in his hands, and really put the wood to her. The problem with this maneuver, however, was that it caused the back of the couch to bang more loudly against the wall.
“Keep going,” she said. “Fuck me, damn you, you nasty dog. I saw…I saw…how you looked at me. I knew—oh, fuck!—I knew what you wanted to do to me!”
Longarm only grunted through clenched jaws.
“You uncouth brigand!”
“Uh-huh.”
“Oh, fuck—your plow handle is going to bust me in two!”
“I’ll stop if you want,” he reluctantly offered while he continued to hammer away at her.
“Don’t you fucking dare, you bastard!”
He’d known women who’d go on like she was. Talking mean and dirty seemed to be part of their pleasure, sort of cutting loose from the bonds that otherwise constrained them and kept them “proper.” Personally, he liked to be quiet when he was hauli
ng a girl’s ashes, but to each his own. This girl had a body that could light a fire in God’s own soul, and she sure as hell knew how to wield it. That’s all he cared about.
In and out, in and out. Her hot juices engulfed him. He felt as though hot water were rising around his straining legs.
Suddenly, the warm folds of her pussy engulfed him, squeezing him gently, and she gave a guttural groan, tipping her head back, as though a bowie knife had been plunged into her belly button. She quivered almost violently, shoulders jerking, as she gained the crest of her passion. He rammed hard against her once more, held himself firmly against her ass, and cut loose, feeling his seed rocket into her.
He groaned loudly, throwing his head far back and tightening his jaws.
When she began to pant and waggle her ass against his hips, he continued to ram against her, bucking back and forth, no longer caring how much racket the sofa made as it banged against the wall. She screamed and cried and grunted, called him a dirty bastard and a few other things, and then screamed and cried and grunted again, until she seemed to sort of faint from exhaustion and passion, and dropped to the floor on her knees.
“Ohhh!” she said through a long, loud sigh, bowing her head and clawing at the couch the way a cat kneads a rug with it paws. “Oh, Jesus H. Christalmighty.”
She rested her face against her hands and then slowly rolled over to face him, sitting on the floor with her back to the sofa, the corners of her fine mouth quirking a satisfied smile. “You do that rather well.”
Longarm leaned toward her, feasting his eyes on her beauty, closed his mouth over hers. She wrapped her arms around his neck and returned his kiss hungrily. Pulling away, he said, “You’re no slouch yourself, Miss…”
“No.” She shook her head vehemently. “No names. You don’t know me; I don’t know you. You’re a stud, and I’m a craven harlot. Understand?”
Married, Longarm thought. Mr. Mucky-Muck can’t satisfy her. Understandable, given the obviously high grade of her demands. Why, she’d kill a man with any physical weakness whatever.