“I do. You are crazy. You’re absolutely—”
She would have continued, but Marc’s hands were on her buns, holding her tightly. When he leaned forward, kissed her, then thrust his tongue into her pussy, the formulation of words became completely impossible. And moments later, when his tongue slithered upward until he reached her clit, Colleen couldn’t keep the quavering sigh of pleasure from escaping.
It was not the first time that she had experienced Marc’s most intimate kisses. But the rope around her wrists, the hemp harsh and prickly against her skin, significantly heightened her desire. When Marc sucked her clit between his lips, then playfully spanked her bottom, Colleen felt an orgasm approaching with the ferocity and velocity of a runaway freight train.
Colleen tried to spread her legs farther apart to make it easier for Marc, but her lowered trousers made that impossible. His mouth was pressed tight to her as he sucked on her clit, and now he was using both hands to spank her.
In a startlingly short period of time, Colleen found herself teetering on the brink of an orgasm.
She craved the shuddering spasms and satiation that came with the climaxes that Marc could induce. The part of Colleen that she thought of as a “good girl” fought against the onrushing waves of ecstasy. Ten more seconds! Just ten more second and I’ll—
The thought was abruptly cut off when Marc grabbed her by the hips and spun her halfway around. Only the rope around her wrists kept Colleen upright. He taunted her with a spank to each ass cheek, then buried his face in the cleavage. A cry of shock and excitement was ripped from her throat.
When Marc reached around her hip to caress her clit with a fingertip, Colleen lost any semblance of self-control that she had hoped to maintain.
“Fuck!” she gasped, shocking herself because it was a word she had never before spoken aloud. “Oh, fuck! Fuck!”
Perhaps it was because she had never been pleasured in such a fashion before. Or maybe it was because it was Marc who was on his knees and lustily pleasuring her as he rubbed her clit with firm, determined strokes. Whatever the cause, the end result was the same. Colleen shivered through the most wrenching orgasm of her life. Her insides were on fire! With her emotions in chaos, she tried to simultaneously thrust her hips backward against Marc’s tantalizing tongue and forward at the caressing finger.
Once the last of the spasms went through her, the muscles in her legs were no longer had sufficient strength to hold her weight. She sagged, and the rope around her wrists tightened painfully.
“W–wait.” The single word came out softly and with effort. After several uncomfortable seconds, Colleen got her feet properly beneath her and straightened her legs, releasing the strain on her shoulders. “I c–can hardly breathe.”
Marc stood and stepped around so that he was in front of Colleen. He took her breasts in his hands, squeezing from the outsides. He bent his knees and sucked on each nipple.
“I want to hear you say it.” His eyes were intense, his nose a scant inch from hers. “Say ‘fuck me’ and I’ll give you want you need.”
With her face wedged between her upraised arms, Colleen shook her head. “I won’t.” Even she could hear the lack of conviction in her tone, so she added, “You can’t get everything and everyone you want.”
“I don’t want everyone. I only want you. And I want to hear you beg for it.”
Marc bent his knees, moved forward as he cupped her bottom in his hands, and pulled her in tight against his pelvis. He straightened his legs. Once again his hard cock was between her thighs, but this time the intensely rigid shaft was pressed firmly against the lips of her pussy. The heat of his erection caused fresh cream to ooze to Colleen’s cunt.
“Say it. You know you want to.”
Marc’s slender, strong fingers squeezed Colleen’s buns firmly, holding her securely as he worked his hips back and forth, sliding his solid flesh between her thighs.
Colleen tilted her head back on her shoulders, her mouth opening, her breath coming in uneven gulps as her nerve endings crackled with life. She looked up at the ceiling of her hayloft, at the rope leading from her hands up to the loft’s pulley system.
She felt every magnificent inch of Marc’s cock sliding between her naked thighs and against her cunt. She felt his hands as he squeezed her bottom, holding her firmly, pulling her inward each time he pushed between her thighs.
“So...beautiful!” Marc whispered, each word punctuated with the powerful thrust of his unyielding erection through the tight juncture of her naked thighs. “Tell me...you want me. Let me hear you say it.”
“Oh, God!”
“Beg!” Marc growled, grinding his pelvis against hers. “Beg me to make you come.”
“Never!”
The instantaneous denial lacked sincerity. Even Colleen was aware of the disparity between what she said and what she really meant. Earlier, when he had first bound her with the rope, she had known she wouldn’t resist Marc. She had seen and felt his erection as they tussled, and she knew he wanted her desperately. Every nerve in her body came alive for him. But she hadn’t thought her surrender would be like this, bound and trembling. At one moment she was laughing from his tickling, in the next instant she could hardly breathe from the taboo pleasure of his oral caresses.
Each advance and retreat of Marc’s lean hips caused his cock to rub against her intimately, heightening a passion that had not cooled considerably since her most recent climax.
In a breathy whisper, she began, “Please...”
His hips stopped their erotic churning. She felt his labored breathing as his chest pressed against her naked breasts, his hands tight on her ass to hold her steady, positioning her for their maximum, mutual pleasure.
The silence that followed held the potential for ecstasy.
The tip of Colleen’s tongue made a quick trip around the circumference of her mouth. She hungered for Marc, her body vividly remembering all the subtle ways he had of eking out pleasure.
Finally, she concluded, “Make me come.”
The whispered rumors she’d heard stated that Marc’s orgasmic discipline was the stuff of legend. He advanced and retreated, sliding his cock between Colleen’s clamped thighs and over her clit until she shivered through another orgasm. When her knees buckled, he held her even tighter, his hands on the rounded cheeks of her ass to lift her.
Gulping in air, she was confused beyond words at her own inability to deny Marc anything at all in the sexual realm. With even her scalp tingling with excitement as her climax concluded, she whispered, “You win. I give up.” She opened her eyes, looking up into Marc’s, and added, “Fuck me. Now.”
It took only the slightest adjustment on Marc’s part, a mere bending of the knees to get at the proper angle, for the deed to be accomplished. Colleen felt the plump head of Marc’s cock against the lips of her cunt, and she knew the invasion would be ecstasy itself.
Delicate feminine tissue that had never before needed to accommodate such a formidable cock protested. She gasped, but only once. Marc’s hips immediately stopped. She felt his entire body tighten as he studied her reaction.
“Don’t stop,” she said.
By the time his pelvis collided with hers, she was once again balancing precariously on the edge of ecstasy’s abyss.
Another three strokes and Colleen’s orgasmic screams were echoing off the walls of the hayloft, the sound shockingly dichotomous with the otherwise bucolic serenity of an early morning in a barn.
As though from a great distance, she heard him growl a short time afterward, and the solid length of him retreated completely from her pussy. With the shaft slippery from her own juices, he thrust between her thighs with a new, manic intensity, his face buried in her neck. The hot, pulsing release of his cum was warm and slick against her skin.
They stood together, each panting deeply. Marc, still trapped between Colleen’s thighs, was dwindling rapidly in stature. He kissed her forehead, then the bridge of her nose. She had given
up all semblance of resistance to this man who could seemingly, at will, strip her of all better judgment and inhibitions.
“I climaxed so many times,” Colleen whispered as her breathing slowly returned to normal, her lips brushing against his as she spoke. “I didn’t know that was possible.”
Marc took a half-step away from her, releasing the hold he had on her bottom, and removed himself from between her thighs. From the floor of the hayloft, he picked up his neckerchief.
“Let me clean you.”
“You don’t have to.” She shook her head. Now that their shared passion had finally reached a summit, it was wildly embarrassing to be naked and trussed. “Just untie me.”
“I made the mess,” Marc said, apparently unembarrassed by his own nudity as he got down on his knees in front of her. “Let me do it. I like serving you.”
She watched, hardly blinking, as he used his neckerchief to wipe away the semen from her thighs. His touch was deliciously gentle. Despite her fears that emotional involvement with Marc was a recipe for disaster, Colleen found every new discovery about the man utterly fascinating.
“Did all that come from me?” she heard him say under his breath as he wiped away cum from the inside of her left knee. “I even got some inside your trousers.” He chuckled softly. “I guess you really inspired me.”
Looking down between her breasts, she watched as he carefully wiped away all the cum he’d released. Then, slowly, he tilted his head back on his shoulders and looked up into her eyes.
“One more,” he said, his voice a sensual purr as he dropped the neckerchief and filled his hands with her ass. Colleen’s heart leaped in her chest. “Just one more, and then we’ll go see how Frank is doing.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can,” he corrected, lightly kissing her lips before his tongue made contact with her clit. “Let me prove it to you.”
Chapter Eleven
Sheriff Clay Dixon had seen his fair share of corpses over the years. Golden Valley wasn’t the worst of the boom towns to sprout up with the discovery of gold. That title probably went to Deadwood. But Golden Valley still had plenty of gunslingers within its city limits, men who would never dream of using their fists in a fight, preferring the finality of a six-shooter. Seeing four dead bodies within ten feet of each other was unsettling to the sheriff.
“Look here,” the sheriff said, pointing to Daggard’s side. “This wound is from a distance, so I’m guessing it’s a rifle wound. But look here.” He pointed to the chest wound. “See where the shirt’s been singed? That wound was caused by someone standing right in front of him.”
Deputy Bruce Hastings got down on one knee beside the sheriff. “So you’re saying these men were shot from far away and from up close?”
“Yes, but not at the same time. So how they’d bandaged themselves?” He pointed to a neckerchief caked with blood, wadded up near Marley’s stomach wound. “They got shot somewhere else by someone with a rifle. Then they rode here and got shot again. Only this time they were shot with a pistol. They were looking their executioner in the eyes when they died.”
The sheriff looked around. The road leading to Golden Valley was remote enough under any circumstances, but it seemed even more desolate with the corpses on the ground. “Their guns were holstered. They thought they were going to get help when they got here. Instead, they all got shot. And they got it fast enough that they couldn’t even defend themselves.”
“I know this one,” the deputy said, pointing toward the youngest of the victims. “Name’s Wesley. He was working with the Five Star Mining outfit, but they kicked him out for cheating at cards. Couple weeks ago he damned near got his neck stretched when they caught him pulling a pair of aces out of his sleeve at Maggie’s Saloon.”
The sheriff looked at the young man whose decisions in life had led to his early death. “Some people just shouldn’t gamble.”
* * * *
Marc saw the vultures long before he reached the scene of the ambush. Half a dozen of the ugly birds were circling overhead, and another twenty were on the ground, jumping and jostling one another. Marc knew that somewhere beneath that moving mass of feathered scavengers was whatever remained of the horse that had been shot out from beneath him the previous, and nearly fatal, evening.
A hundred yards from the actual site of the ambush, he reined in his horse and looked around. There wasn’t much cover to be found, but there were trees off to one side. It would be enough to provide cover. And its position made it possible to shoot at targets that would be silhouetted against a backdrop of prairie land.
All things considered, he’d been lucky to only have his horse shot out from beneath him. If the animal hadn’t reared back in shock, the bullet might well have connected with him instead of the horse.
It didn’t seem like the ambush had been mere coincidence. The four riders weren’t simply waiting for someone, anyone, to come riding long. Somehow, they had to have known that Frank was carrying with him the winnings of a very profitable night at the poker tables.
At least thirty men had watched Frank take Zachery Singer in poker. And if each of those thirty men told just one more man, or perhaps even two or three, then the list of Golden Valley men would be so inclusive as to be without value.
Still, there had to be clues, and Marc wasn’t going to rest until he had ferreted them all out.
Before going to his horse’s carcass, he went to where the gunmen had lain in ambush. A few shell casings informed him the men had used .44-caliber ammunition. Rifles, he was certain. Probably Winchester rifles but maybe Henrys. Such information could be useful, but not by itself. Both makes of rifles were in abundance in the territory.
The hoof prints left behind confirmed what his memory had told him. There had been four riders, and they’d remained on horseback when they started their shooting. Marc wondered if perhaps that had been his lucky break. One of the horses might have gotten spooked and flinched at a critical moment in the assassination attempt. Even if it hadn’t bolted, it might have flinched, and that would have been enough to turn a fatal headshot into a bullet’s wounding glance against a skull.
A cold shiver went through Marc as he thought about how close he had come to losing his best friend to an assassin’s bullet.
The men responsible would pay. Marc wouldn’t take an easy breath until he had seen to it that every man responsible for wounding Frank had been brought to justice. And he wasn’t just interested in the men who pulled triggers and sent bullets flying. He wanted everyone associated with the attack in any way.
His mare had been field dressed cleanly and efficiently. Very little remained of the carcass, and what did remain was being picked clean of meat by the vultures. Part of Marc wanted to be resentful of whoever had butchered his prized mare, but another part of him realized that no sane man turned his back on nutrition. Not when it was needed to feed his family.
The men who had field dressed his mare had ridden unshod horses. That made them Indians. There were several major tribes in the area, each with varying degrees of acceptance with the encroaching white man. There was the Highland Sioux, the Crow, the Blackfeet, the Sioux, the Dakota and Lakota, and a smattering of Utes on occasion. In the past, Marc had had some dealings with the tribes, but not a lot.
Marc wondered when he’d see his saddle next, and he felt a certain resentment that it had been stolen. Among the Indians, a good saddle was worth a fortune. It took three to six months of daily riding to break a saddle in properly. Marc clenched his teeth as his anger ratcheted up a little higher.
There’s nothing worse than a dry-gulcher. Nothing.
Now he’d have to start all over again with a new saddle. He didn’t like that, but whatever resentment he had about losing his saddle and fine mare was minor compared to the rage that boiled within him regarding Frank’s shooting.
With a sigh of resignation, he turned around the four-year-old chestnut gelding he’d brought with him from the ranch and headed
back to the homestead of a young Irish woman who had saved his life, saved the life of his best friend, and had, in ways he wasn’t entirely certain of, captivated rather significant sections of his heart.
* * * *
Zachery Singer took a sip of the whiskey he’d ordered and sighed bitterly. It was good whiskey because he never took half-measures with his own pleasures, but the situation he now had with Frank Bishop and Marc Andollini had seemingly stolen all the pleasing qualities from the whiskey. For that reason alone, the two men deserved to die.
He looked around the Executive Room of the Golden Valley Businessmen’s Consortium. The walls were paneled in polished walnut, the decor solid, comfortable, masculine, and expensive. Zachery’s father, arguably the most important banker in Montana and unquestionably one of the most influential businessmen in Golden Valley, had created and built the private club with his own money. And he made sure that only the territory’s wealthiest men were allowed to join. The ambience never failed to please Zachery and give him a sense of confidence, of dominance over the world outside these brightly polished, hallowed walls.
Until now, that is.
“Stop worrying,” Zachery said under his breath, slouching in the leather wing-backed chair. He cast a withering look at Ralph Andrews, then took another swallow of his whiskey. “Marc and Frank might still be alive, but they don’t know a damned thing other than they got shot at. And, as you and I both know, Daggard and his merry band of idiots aren’t going to be telling Sheriff Dixon or anyone else a single word about who clued him in on how much cash Frank had in his pockets after the banquet.”
“Andollini’s got a nasty temper,” Ralph replied sullenly. He picked up the crystal decanter from the table between them and added whiskey to his glass. “When Dick Turley cracked a joke about his kid sister, Marc called him out of the National Saloon. When Turley wouldn’t step outside and draw, Marc beat the hell out of him right there in the saloon, then challenged every man there to say something more about his sister.” He took a hefty gulp of his whiskey. “If he figures out we put Daggard up to bushwhacking him and Frank, he’ll come looking for revenge, and he won’t be satisfied until we’re both dead.”
Maxwell, Brandi - Colleen's Desire [The Lost Collection] (Siren Publishing Menage Everlasting) Page 10