Her arms pull me closer, my hips moving hard and fast against her as I search for my own release. When I come, I bury my face in her neck, crying out with a roar as my cum fills her body.
I haven’t been able to stomach pulling from her and spilling myself on her body, it must be the curse of the gods.
A dratted curse it is, too.
Lifting my head, my breathing coming out in heavy pants, I look down into her satisfied blue eyes. “I’ll call Martha,” I rasp.
“Breakfast,” she whispers.
I hum, sliding my lips across hers. “Breakfast,” I repeat with a smile.
This all feels so real at moments, that sometimes I forget none of this actually is real. The gods have sanctioned this. It has nothing to do with her or me, with the way that we feel, because what we feel is all fabricated by the gods themselves.
Sliding from her body, I try to fight the feeling at the loss of her warm cunt. Grabbing my trousers from the floor, I pull them up my legs as I make my way toward the door.
“Colt,” Birdie calls out.
Stopping, my hand on the doorknob, I turn to look back at her from over my shoulder. “Birdie?” I ask when she doesn’t continue.
She’s sitting up, her black hair a tousled mess, the sheet she’s holding up with one hand barely covers her small breasts. She’s a vision if ever I’ve seen one and I’m not sure that I have seen one that has ever been the likes of her.
I shake my head, reminding myself that it is all because of the gods. None of this is real, especially the way that I feel toward her.
“Thank you,” she rasps.
Dipping my chin, I turn away from her and head out of the bedroom and down to the kitchen to Martha. I can’t stay in there with her, I can’t fall deeper into her. I must remember that this is all in my mind, falsely created.
I must continue to remind myself, over and over, until I no longer forget.
BIRDIE
In a perfect world, we would have eaten breakfast in bed together, then maybe made love one more time, because it really is just that good. But this, just like my own, is not a perfect world. Instead, Colt never reappears. He leaves my room and the next person who enters is Martha.
Martha has strict instructions to feed me and ready me for a trip into town. Apparently, going into town is some huge trip. I don’t ask her many questions, and I almost faint when she brings in a brand-new yellow dress for me.
“What’s this?” I demand.
She smiles as she lays it down on the bed. “Abraham, the dressmaker, had it dropped by in the wee hours of the morning. I was already up, making some bread. He wanted to ensure that you had something new to wear, something that was made specifically for you.”
“It’s gorgeous,” I breathe as I reach out and finger the soft fabric.
It is an extremely soft cotton and I almost let out a sigh of relief, knowing how much cooler it will no doubt feel against my skin rather than the wool that I have been wearing, add to that the light weight and color of the fabric, I know that it will all aid in helping me feel less like a giant sweat ball.
“I’ll put your hair up, leaving just a small ponytail down the side,” she says as if she’s talking to herself.
I can’t even explain how excited I am that she knows the word ponytail. I know that we’re from different worlds, but as many things feel foreign, just as many feel warm and comforting as well.
It doesn’t take Martha long to whip up my hair in a gorgeous fashion. I wish that I had one of her back at home because I would look fierce, always. She helps me into my ridiculous undergarments and ties up my corset, to a no doubt unhealthy level before she spins me around.
“Oh, what I would give to have ever had a shape like yours, Birdie.”
Shrugging, I lift my gaze to meet hers. “Trust me, men like curves. They act like they want a supermodel, but they don’t.”
I speak from experience, not that I’m a supermodel, but I’m naturally too thin. Men look, but they either don’t ask me out or when I do date them, they cheat on me with women that I wish I could look like. Beautiful women with curves in all the right places.
“Then you’ve been courting the wrong men, because you are stunning, Miss Birdie.”
She doesn’t allow me to say anything in response. She wraps her hands around my waist and spins me around. She demands my arms go up and starts to dress me in the stunning soft yellow dress.
It doesn’t take her long to get it all in place and I dip my chin, frowning at how much of my chest is exposed. Spinning around, I open my mouth to ask Martha why this dress seems so much more revealing than the other ones that I’ve worn, but she doesn’t give me the chance. Without a word, she walks past me and out the door.
Turning around, I try not to stare after her in surprise, so instead I look at myself in the mirror, frowning. Where the collars came up to my throat on the other two dresses, this one barely covers my undergarment sheer shirt and my cleavage is visible, even as slight as it is.
It’s beautiful, there is no disputing that, but it is a lot more revealing than the others. I’m just a bit confused, I assumed that this world was much more conservative than mine.
The dress nips me tightly at the waist and the skirt is full as it drapes to the ground, but it isn’t as full as the others. It’s straighter and slimmer cut in the front, gathering into a small bustle just below my ass. It’s definitely not the wide skirt that I have been wearing.
I feel beautiful, almost like all of the pictures of Victorian women that I have ever seen, but Martha’s reaction and the stark differences between the two dresses have me feeling very self-conscious.
Squaring my shoulders, I decide to make my way downstairs, regardless of how odd and uncomfortable I feel at the moment. The fabric is gorgeous, the dress itself is beautiful, too, even if it is different from the others.
Gathering the skirt in my grasp, I start to walk down the stairs in my soft tan slightly high-heeled boots. Once I’m outside, in the blistering heat, I catch a glance of Colt standing by the barn, his big black stallion at his side.
A shiver rolls throughout my entire body at the sight of him. He’s wearing light tan wool trousers, a dark navy shirt tucked in with a belt and belt buckle, along with dark brown boots and a dark brown sexy as shit cowboy hat, with a cigarette dangling from his lips.
He flicks the cigarette to the ground, then slightly lifts his heel and grinds it against the butt to put it out before he lifts his head. His eyes meet mine and even from across the desert dirt yard, I can see his eyes flash as he looks at me.
“Birdie,” Martha calls out behind me.
I tear my gaze away from him, even though I don’t want to. Martha comes up to me carrying something white at her side.
“Your umbrella, the heat will be too much and Abraham didn’t bring a bonnet.”
As much as I want to tell her that the thought of an umbrella while riding a horse terrifies me, mainly because I’ve never ridden a horse before, and I don’t count when I was found because I don’t remember that horse ride, I don’t say a word. This sun is no damn joke and I don’t feel like being burned to a crisp again.
Taking the umbrella from her grasp, I thank her and turn toward Colt. He’s still standing in the same place, unmoving. It doesn’t take me long to make my way toward him, my umbrella at my side. Tilting my head back, I smile up at Colt, but I’m met with his deep frown.
“Let’s go,” he growls, reaching out, wrapping his hands around my waist and practically throwing me on top of his horse.
Chapter Seventeen
COLT
That damned dressmaker. I didn’t know. I’m not up on women’s fashion, but I do know enough to realize that when he asked me if she was going to be my wife or my mistress, I should have said she was a Lady, not my whore. I figured there would be some subtle differences, but not any this stark.
Unfortunately, she is dressed like a soiled dove right now and not a woman who needs to be s
een on my arm in public. But it doesn’t matter, as this is all she has that is laundered at the moment. Telling her that she looks like my whore will not do any good either, only harm.
Climbing up behind her, I wrap my arm around her waist. “Open the umbrella, hold it so it shades us both,” I demand.
I don’t introduce her to Lonesable, not yet at least. I’m still trying to gather my thoughts, to calm down from seeing the expanse of bare skin at her chest. Though I very much enjoy the view, I am not so sure the rest of town will wish to see it, nor will their reaction be what I deem appropriate.
It doesn’t take us long to reach town. Only a good hard hour-long ride. Lonesable isn’t speaking to me, though I don’t blame him, I wouldn’t be speaking to me either.
Once we’re in front of the general store, I lead him over to the trough and throw my leg over, dismounting from his back.
Wordlessly, I help Birdie off of him and gently place her down on her feet. “That was a fast ride, not really what I envisioned when you said you were bringing me to town, Colt,” she says, with a bit of irritation in her voice.
I don’t blame her, I can tell that she is less than an expert rider and she was probably scared and now she’s assuredly a bit sore too. I don’t mention any of those things though, I’m sure that I should, but she will have to get used to this harsh life if she is going to be living here, as deemed by the gods.
“Come,” I gruffly demand.
She jerks her head back, her eyes widening as she lifts her gaze to look up at me. “You’re angry,” she whispers.
Shaking my head, I’m not sure that I want to tell her that, yes, I am indeed angry. I’m not with her, just at Abraham who made that dratted dress the way that he did. I’ll need to converse with him as well since I’m here.
But first, I need provisions for the several hundred men that will be showing up at any given moment. They’ll no doubt be hungry and in need of supplies.
Making our way into the general store, I don’t touch Birdie the way that I want to. I keep her at a slight distance, though she is always within arm’s reach and within view. Men outnumber women in these parts ten to one. She will never be out of my sight, not for a single moment.
“Mr. James,” the general store owner shouts as soon as we make our way through the front door.
Lifting my hand, I give him a silent wave before we make our way toward the counter. I don’t miss the glance that he gives Birdie, or the way his gaze lingers on the expanse of her chest a moment too long. Clearing my throat, I bring his attention back to me.
“Can I help you?” he asks, his own voice a bit raspy.
Pressing my lips together, I inhale a deep breath to keep from saying something that would no doubt be uncouth. I need him, and his store right now, I cannot afford to cause an argument about something so insignificant as a woman’s chest.
“I have about two-hundred men showing up at my place imminently. I need food and supplies as soon as possible for them, you will help me?” I ask the question, but it isn’t a question.
He will help me, he has no choice and if he cannot with what he has in stock, he is tasked to find a way, without bothering me with tedious details.
“You know that I will,” he says reassuringly, though I can see the doubt in his gaze.
I don’t call him on it, I don’t demand details, instead, I dip my chin as I take out some money from my pants front pocket.
“This is an advance for whatever you need. We’ll square up on delivery?”
“Yes, sir,” he breathes.
Turning my head, I am surprised to see that Birdie has wandered off. She isn’t far from me, but she’s studying something intently. Closing the distance between us, I touch her waist gently, standing behind her.
Birdie turns her head, looking back at me from over her shoulder. “It’s a peppermint stick candy,” she whispers.
“It is.”
She fingers the candy for a moment, then turns to face me. “We have another stop? We can’t have come all this way for just a few moments in one shop, or have we?”
Her blue eyes look different. I’m not sure what is going through them, but I have no doubt that whatever it is, it’s significant and has to do with the candy. Lifting my hand, I reach behind her and take the candy, then hold it between us.
“Take it,” I say.
She starts to shake her head, but I only let out a snort. “It’s not expensive, take the candy.”
She nods once, lifting her hand and taking the peppermint stick from my fingers. She doesn’t offer an explanation of why it’s important to her, but I don’t ask either, at least not yet. Birdie follows behind me as we make our way out of the store and head down the wooden walkway toward our next destination.
Abraham’s dress shop.
I have a few choice words for him.
“Thank you, Colt,” she says, breaking our silent stroll. I don’t say anything and she continues. “When I was little, my grandfather made it a point to always buy me a peppermint stick candy. My other sisters don’t care for it, but peppermint has always been and will always be my favorite, probably more because of my grandfather and the memories than the actual taste. Seeing it, it just reminded me of him, of home. So, thank you.”
I say something that is probably not what she even wanted me to get out of her reminiscing moment, but I say it anyway. “You’re home now, Birdie. This is your home.”
“Is it?” she asks softly, as if she doesn’t believe what I’m saying to her.
Though, why should she? I spent last night telling her that she would never have all of me, and this morning I ignored her. I don’t stop walking, but I do give her what I can in the moment. It isn’t much, and if the tables were reversed, I would probably think that I’m a terrible man.
“It is. The gods have deemed it so. There is no going back, Birdie. What they have created, what they have set into motion, you cannot change.”
BIRDIE
I’m not surprised by the darkened dress shop when we enter. However, the sight of the filled jewelry and hair comb case has my immediate attention. I shake off the conversation of just moments ago, the one where Colt made it clear that I would not be going home, though how he thinks he’s some kind of expert in this stuff, I do not know.
If there’s a way for me to get home, I’m going to find it. If there’s a way for me to find my sisters, I’m going to do that too. What I’m not going to do is sit around here and be Colt’s… whatever I am.
It’s clear to me, that although the prophecy says we’re meant to be, that he has decided otherwise and that is too sad for words, so I refuse. If he can’t see me for who I am, if he only sees his dead wife, then I can’t stay here, not willingly.
“You’ve dressed her like a soiled dove,” I hear Colt say on a low hiss.
I close my eyes, trying not to let him know that I’ve heard his words. Abraham clears his throat. “Sir, I asked you if she was your mistress or if she would be someone different. You made it very clear that she is your mistress. This is how fashion dictates a mistress dress,” he calmly and very softly explains.
We’re the only people in the shop, but it’s obvious that neither of them wants me to overhear their conversation, too bad it doesn’t matter where I stand, I will still be able to hear every word that they say. It’s not like I can physically turn my hearing off and they’re not being quiet.
“How can I have her on my arm looking as indecent as she is?” Colt asks.
“So, the rest of her garments you’d like me to dress her as a proper lady, one that is to be at your side, as yours?” he asks.
There is a moment of silence. Colt doesn’t answer immediately and my heart sinks. I will never be anything other than the woman he fucks. That is painfully clear to me now. He’s this rough cowboy, exactly what I’ve always dreamed of having, especially when I moved out to Arizona. But he’s a dick, and I’m glad now that I’m not permanently attached to someone like him.
/> “All that glitters is not gold,” I whisper under my breath as I look at the gorgeous pieces in front of me.
“Make her decent, Abraham. The last thing I need is to have people talking, to have the Assembly breathing down my neck.”
Abraham must nod or give some kind of nonverbal response, because their conversation is over and Colt walks up to my side.
“You like something here?” Colt asks, his voice changing from irritated to charming.
Turning to look up at him, he smiles and I swear it just makes me want to cry. How can he look so absolutely perfect in every way and be the exact opposite? Shaking my head, I clear my throat before I speak. There is no way I’m going to allow my voice to crack or anything like that, to show weakness.
“No, it’s all really pretty. I was just looking.”
He grins, dipping his chin before brushing my lips with his own. The bell above the door jingles and he immediately lifts his head, his eyes widening as he looks over my head. I don’t turn around, it’s not like I would know who was walking through the door anyway.
“Why, if it isn’t Mr. James,” a woman’s voice purrs.
At the sound of her voice I actually do turn around. She takes a step back when she sees me, then her gaze flicks down to my chest and her lips turn up into a grin. It’s then that I look at the woman’s chest and inwardly cringe. Her cleavage far outweighs my own, and I can practically see her nipples, it’s almost indecent.
“Miss Silks,” Colt mutters.
“You didn’t tell me that you’d chosen a woman, from where? A neighboring bordello?”
My stomach clenches. The dress that I thought was gorgeous. The soft yellow fabric, the way it made me look in the mirror, it all disappears and I want nothing more than to strip it off and burn it.
Bride of the Frontier (The Prophecy of Sisters Book 3) Page 12