Jenna moaned, sucking on his lower lip. He had his hands in her hair, tipping her head back to blaze a trail of kisses across her jaw and down her neck. Teasing with his sandpaper skin, he nibbled at her shoulder blade. God, she wanted to feel that rough sensation tantalizing her breasts.
As if he could see into her mind, his head bent, and his hot mouth worked down to her chest, brushing agonizing bristles against her throbbing nipple before finally drawing it into his fiery mouth. He suckled her hard, flicking the tip with his tongue. Jenna cried out, thrusting against him before he moved to her other aching tit. All the while his hand toyed with the opposite nipple. He brushed the rigid peak with a thumb, weighing her B-cup in his palm like the two were puzzle pieces long separated and finally united for a perfect fit.
Unexpectedly, Jenna felt him shift his bulk; his massive arms swept her off her feet in a fluid motion. She wrapped her arms around his neck, feeling disconcertedly helpless. Her whole life was about control and power. This man was ripping the rug right out from under her, but the vulnerability she was experiencing with her cowboy was bizarrely stimulating. Erotic beyond imagining.
“I prefer to take my prisoners in the bedroom. I’m old-fashioned that way.”
That deep baritone rolled through his chest, setting off sparks across her naked breasts as they pressed against him. Before she knew it, she was tossed lightly on a massive bed and looking up at the most handsome man she had ever been with. His gaze was smoldering as he unzipped his Levis and let them fall. Next, he lost his form-hugging boxer-briefs to stand before her like a Greek statue made of magnificent flesh.
His cock stood straight, a divining rod pointed in her direction. It was thick and long, utterly appetizing, but her perusal was brief. He lowered his body, the quads in his legs rippling while his warm, rough hands slid up her calves. Up her thighs. His fingers found the band of elastic that made up her thong. With sensual ease, he peeled off her thong and stockings, discarding every last stitch of her overpriced clothing.
His masterful hands kneaded the soft skin between her thighs, teasing upward toward her tormented pussy while her belly pulsed with anticipation. His eyes were locked on hers all the while, calculating her reaction, making sure his touch had the desired effect. Finally, the tips of his fingers skimmed across her smooth lips.
Jenna’s breath was shallow, an expectant pant like a wounded animal waiting for the final blow. It came in the form of a slow, deliberate finger that slipped inside her moist slit. He teased at her hole, barely sliding inside her, lubricating his fingertip to glide back up to her clit.
He swirled her pleasure point expertly until she was gasping. His eyes were stormy, dark with desire as his head dipped toward her cunt. Two fingers slid inside her, and his tongue took up where they left off. It flicked her mercilessly while his calloused fingers fucked her in time. He took her hard nub inside his mouth, sucking her like a demon, while his prickly cheeks teased her lips. Jenna’s body stiffened under him. She cried out as she came, grabbing his thick mane of hair as the waves of a tremendous orgasm swept over her.
The cowboy moved up her body. His lips found hers, his tongue tasting like her most private space and driving her mad with desire. Jenna felt his steely tip nudge against her still-throbbing flesh, felt him push against her tight hole. He entered her in a thrust while the lingering crests still took her. Filled with his huge cock, she bit his shoulder as he ground against her clit. He pushed balls-deep inside her and nudged her orgasm on and on. He stroked in and out of her dripping pussy, picking up speed in time with her pitching hips.
“You’re so wet…so hot.” Lips against her ear, he murmured his pleasure in warm bursts of air, nipping at her lobe as he rocked between her legs.
He moved back, sitting up on his knees and grasping her ankles. Her calves rested against his muscular chest, and he pulled his cock out of her to run his bulging head up and down the slick crease. His sensitive tip rubbed against her until she couldn’t stand another moment of the exquisite torture.
“Put it in me, cowboy. I need you right now.”
He obliged by working his helmet in between her lips ever so slowly, fucking her with just his tip while his thumb worked her clitoris.
She wanted to scream. Or come. He read her signals and rammed deep inside her, fucking her hard and fast to the rhythm of his frenzied thumb. Jenna did both. She cried out in exquisite release, clamping down on his meat with a vise-like grip. His head tossed back, he sounded his own climax in an animal growl. His cock bucked inside her as he came in a hot rush. Falling back down, he covered her mouth with greedy kisses. The lingering taste of her juice on his lips was like a sweet drug and Jenna closed her eyes, losing herself in blissful serenity.
She woke up in the dark room, naked but for a sheet. Wrapping the cotton around her body, she struck out to find the man who had rocked her world a short while ago. How could she have just fallen asleep like that? Guess it had been a while since she’d gotten off so thoroughly and fantastically. A mind-blowing fuck could be exhausting.
A mouth-watering odor beckoned her toward the kitchen. Mr. Levi’s was just putting a fabulous spread on the table.
“Free-range roast duck with new potatoes and fresh garden greens. I would’ve taken you out, but you’re hardly dressed for it.” He grinned down at her, crinkling eyes and deep dimples melting her on the spot as he swept her into his arms and placed a light kiss on her lips. “Sure hope you don’t show up for all your business meetings in your birthday suit, Jenna.”
She froze as her stomach dropped about thirty floors. Her gaze met his, willing him to explain what she already knew.
“Trent Remington, at your service, miss. I got your phone message while you were asleep. I’m more than happy to postpone the business end of things until tomorrow, and we can just enjoy each other’s company this evenin’.”
His smile was heart-stopping. Jenna felt her body beginning to respond to his nearness. For once she didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t like he could be blamed for fooling her. She hadn’t even asked his name.
“Well, this trip is certainly looking up.” She gave him a coquettish grin as she reached up to plant another kiss on those killer lips. Warm arms circled her protectively as she molded her body against her cowboy. Getting dirty had never been so much fun.
Jenna couldn’t wait to do it again.
RANEY’S LAST RIDE
Chaparrita
Raney James had a big secret.
He was a gunslinger, a lover, a mystery. A badass in chaps and a white cowboy hat. Charming and fresh-faced, with deep green eyes that made people trust him straight away. Something that made you want to look twice—except Raney didn’t allow that. No, sir.
Raney was the fastest shot in the territory, a vicious yet fair gunman who’d always let his opponent know before killing him. Give a man fair warning, Raney would say. Then shoot him if he won’t listen.
He rode in from the west one day, an unknown, making his way to the dusty border towns where saloons, wranglers, and gun work were plentiful. Raney made his name as sheriff of a forlorn place that barely had a railroad station, a place where local outlaws had taken over and would shoot someone in the back just for looking at them funny.
One afternoon on the main street, in front of most of the good citizens of the town, Raney shot all four outlaw leaders before even one could draw a weapon. Their men left town without looking back.
No one was really close to Raney except his sidekick Whitfield, a tough erstwhile cowboy and gunman who’d taken up with Raney somewhere in Mexico.
Only Whitfield knew Raney’s big secret.
Raney James, fastest shot in the territory, was a woman.
Once upon a time, Raney was a rancher’s wife named Sarah. She married Paul on a perfect spring day in a white dress, a crown of pink roses in her long blonde hair. She remembered Paul’s brown eyes shining as the preacher said the solemn words. The green of the fields. How proud her parents
looked. Nineteen years old.
When Paul was courting her, they’d spent a few evenings lying on a quilt in his field, talking as the sun went down in a blaze of tangerine. And once it was down, the shining stars covered them as they kissed, Paul’s urgent caresses setting her on fire and his sinful words laying her bare.
The wedding night with her husband, though, was pure revelation, something she was unprepared for. On the four-poster bed he’d made for her, in the quiet after the long wedding day, he helped unwind the ribbons of her simple dress, and then sat and watched her hotly as she peeled off her clothes.
“I’m going to make you feel good, Sarah,” Paul said, running his big, rough hand up the tender inside of her leg from heel to thigh.
She felt herself melting, blushing and curious in her nakedness. His hand lingered.
“This is going to be wild,” he said. “I’m not going to take it easy on you. Is that all right with you, wife?”
“Yes, husband,” she said.
And so he pulled her to him by her hips, and tasted her breasts ravenously as his hands traveled up and down her arms and belly.
The moment his mouth met her nipple, an electric shock ran down to her pussy. She drew a sharp breath, not knowing how to handle the powerful feelings. She decided the best course was to surrender and let him do whatever he wanted with her body.
He coaxed every inch of her to life with his fingers, mouth, and tongue, and along the way taught her words for body parts, words that were new to her. Cock. Pussy. Cunt. Ass. “My woman will be a lady on the ranch and a spitfire in the boudoir,” he said. As liquid seeped down her leg, he moved on top of her and pushed his hard cock inside with a moan.
It was the most wonderful thing she’d ever felt in her life.
Later, he would teach her how to take his cock into her mouth, how to suckle and grip the hard shaft until he came in a furious gush. She wondered where men learned these things. She didn’t care. She wanted more.
On their wedding night, he rode her body for miles. Took her from above, below, behind, as roughly as she’d seen bulls mounting mares in the pasture. When they were done, he held her and murmured sweet nothings about how he loved her. And she was his. No other way to be, but his.
Love words weren’t the only things he taught her. He also taught her fighting words, guns, and horses. “No woman of mine is going to be defenseless,” he said, placing a Colt in her hands. Then she surprised him: she wasn’t scared of it. She could hit a target cleanly, with one shot. Her father had also thought that women should know how to shoot—and shoot well—because he went out on long cattle drives, and she and her mom and brothers were often alone. It was just practical to teach them all. She’d never needed to use her skills. Her husband honed her ability, practicing with her almost every day, until her natural expertise and speed were razor-sharp. When they went out hunting, she was always the one to bring down the prey.
Sarah took the wagon into town one day to pick up supplies at the general store. Paul was no longer worried about her traveling on her own. “You’re the best shot I’ve ever seen in my life,” he said. “It’s the bandits I’m worried about.” He smiled. “Hurry home, wife. I want to eat your roast, and then get you into bed,” he said, patting her—and then the horse Snowflake—on the rump.
In town, she took notice of other women. Fancy dresses. Lacy fans. They had to have men help them through doors and out of wagons, tumbling about in a helpless flounce of skirts. What would become of women without men? They’d either be whores or outcasts. Sarah felt the cool metal of the Colt strapped against her thigh and smiled. She would never be any of those things.
Coming home, she knew something was wrong as soon as she got within sight of the ranch. Things were too quiet: no sounds from the barn. Even the birds were silent. No cows were in the pasture. She nudged Snowflake’s flank to go faster. When they reached the house, she saw the front door wide open, and yelled, “Paul?”
No answer. He always met her when she returned from town. She leapt from the wagon and ran into the house. On the kitchen table was a note, held down with one silver candlestick.
Sorry for your loss, ma’am. Didn’t want to do it, but he fought us too hard over the horses and cattle.
Sincerely, Bill Jessup
The paper fluttered from her hands, and she ran to the back of the house to their bedroom. Paul lay face down on the floor, one gunshot wound to the back of the heart, leaking blood onto the floor next to their marital bed.
Sarah screamed, kept on screaming, and sank to the wooden floor with the crumpled note from the outlaw in her hands.
Bill Jessup, she thought. Bill Jessup. She committed every detail to memory. There will be no mercy when I find you, Bill Jessup.
The next morning, she buried her husband at sunup, in the field where he’d once courted her. Set fire to the house and the ranch to destroy all trace of who she had once been—for Sarah had died with Paul. Raney James lived on, taking only her horse and a saddlebag full of rations and bullets. She rode away in her dead husband’s clothing, her long blonde hair knotted tightly under his white cowboy hat.
Raney became tougher, determined not to become one of the outcast women she used to pity. Became tough so she would survive long enough to find and kill Bill Jessup. It was a lonely road. Sometimes in her hotel room above a saloon in some random town, she’d brush her long blonde hair in front of a mirror and cry for the love she’d had with Paul. The simplicity of her old life.
One town began to look like the next. Her days ran together.
Raney took lovers over the years. She found herself needing the release of a hard fuck after a long day of gunslinging. Her favorite had been a rough young man who somehow intuited her unladylike needs. During the day, he posed as her saddle boy. At night, they’d find a discreet place to tear into each other. One night, they had to go into the hills to get far enough away from the dusty little town in which they’d found themselves.
She jumped off her horse, and he immediately pressed his mouth against hers, the dirt from their faces smudging together, his tongue greedy. He ripped off her hat, letting her long blonde hair tumble out the way he liked it, and threw his sleeping bag down on a soft spot of grass and sand. The sky was a deep blue with streaks of dark orange where the sun had been. Coyotes howled. He unzipped his breeches, and before Raney could undo one button, he was fucking her mouth, his thick cock deep in her throat and his hands wrapped in her hair.
Man’s work gave her a man’s appetite, and she took his cock eagerly and gratefully, whimpering whenever he moved. She grasped his dick firmly, beating it along the shaft and swirling her mouth and tongue against his hardness until he groaned, and she felt his ass quivering under her fingers. She backed off.
“Hey,” he growled, pushing her head right back on. And it was so good, she sucked him another minute more, relishing the salty taste of him, his girth brushing her lips. Then she felt him building up again and stopped.
“I want to feel this cock in my pussy,” she said, smiling. A spitfire in the boudoir. The rough man obliged, moving to fuck her from behind, his balls smacking into her as she arched her back to take as much of him as possible, his hands eagerly holding her white, round hips. The hips that were usually hidden under her baggy man’s breeches.
She liked this man for the raw, unashamed way he took her, continued taking her, opening her, fucking her. He made her forget, in brutal moments of sensation.
His fingers were on her clit, stroking her tenderly, bringing her to the edge and then over it. She cried out, felt his cock grow even harder, and smacked her hand into the dirt and said “Don’t…stop.”
He pulled out and spilled his seed on her back, grasping her hips as he slowed.
They fell asleep curled together under the violet sky and a full moon. There was tenderness between them. Nothing Raney would call love, but a sweet and dark understanding.
Which made it difficult, later. After some months the rough
young man became territorial, wanting to push her around, acting like he owned her. When she said she didn’t love him, he was enraged.
“Stop pretending to be a man and marry me,” he said. “I’m man enough for both of us.” He wasn’t, though, and when he threatened to expose her to the world, drawing his loaded weapon on her, she shot him.
After that, she didn’t risk any more love affairs. It had been two long and frustrating years since she’d been with anyone. She had tracked Bill Jessup to Mexico, only to have him evade her once again. But there, in a dark cantina, she met Whitfield. A quiet, strong, sure-shooting man. A man whose only interest was in killing Bill Jessup.
They sat together at the bar, not talking to anyone else, as was their way. Around them, whores mingled with the saloon patrons, and yells erupted from the card tables when someone raked in the chips. A blue haze of cigar smoke hung in the air.
Whitfield watched the back door while Raney watched the front. To the casual observer, they were preoccupied, sipping their whiskeys. Maybe even a bit drunk. But to the bartender, who had likely seen his share of violence, they were watching.
“Looking for someone?” he asked Whitfield, topping off the whiskey.
Whitfield didn’t look at him. “Nope. Just looking,” he said.
The bartender nodded.
Whitfield leaned towards Raney and quietly said, “That man told me Bill Jessup was riding in today. I paid the son of a bitch fifty dollars for the information.”
Raney clapped him on the shoulder, to console him. Whitfield’s wife had gotten caught in the crossfire during a robbery Bill’s gang had perpetrated. Whitfield had helped her track the outlaw for a while now. He kept her secrets, and she trusted him completely.
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