by Renee Rose
When the dance concluded, the men cheered and whooped and the girls moved out on the floor. He stood and took a stool at the bar and ordered whiskey. Sam Stryker, the owner of the biggest mine in the area, took a seat next to him. It was he who had pioneered the use of hydraulic mining, pumping water through the canyon to sluice out the gold. He was dressed in his gentleman's finery, as usual, his round belly protruding under his waistcoat.
“Who's the new girl?”
“Cora Underhill.”
Stryker whistled. “John Underhill's daughter?”
Jake gave a single nod, finding the conversation distasteful.
“She turned out a beauty, didn't she?”
His fists clenched and unclenched, but he took a deep breath and exhaled. “Aye.”
“What was it that happened to her father?”
“He was murdered.”
“Oh yes, that, but I mean how did she end up with Smoochy?”
Jake's skin prickled with irritation. “That's between her and Smoochy, I guess,” he said coldly. He wasn't about to drag her family's business out for Stryker's inspection.
“So how'd you get her?”
Could the man not take a hint? Jake threw back his whiskey and looked away without answering. Stryker made a harrumph sound and stood from his stool, sauntering over to where Cora sat. After a few moments of discussion, he offered his hand and she accepted, standing and walking to the base of the stairs as Stryker paid Hank her fee. Jake watched the two of them climb the stairs together.
He ought to be happy. Cora looked comfortable working the floor and she'd already scored her first trick.
So why did he want to murder someone?
Chapter Four
“How was your trick?” Olive asked, plopping down to join her for breakfast. It was a hearty plate of rice and beans with fresh-squeezed orange juice. The Spanish had planted oranges in California and they grew well—producing the most delicious juice. Cora still remembered her first taste of it when they'd arrived from Chicago. There weren't any groves in Dorado Hills—it was barely a town then—but the traders brought oranges from San Francisco and she remembered peeling and biting into that first delicious fruit, the shock of sweetness making her whole body come alive in ecstasy. She'd told her mother it tasted like pure heaven.
She savored the taste of the juice in her mouth now, and then gave Olive a shrug. “He was a trick.”
Olive snorted. “Mine was horrible.”
“What do you mean? How so?”
She snorted again, but a look of amusement animated her face with the promise of a story. “He is a talker. We call him 'The Narrator'. He describes the whole act like he's reading a book. Like, 'You're taking off your stockings' and 'you're holding my cock' then 'I'm grabbing your ass' and 'I'm fucking you so hard'.” She laughed derisively. “Ridiculous!”
Cora giggled. “I saw you, though. You left the door open—was that on purpose? Anyway, you looked like you were enjoying it.”
Indeed, Cora had stopped, riveted outside the door. Olive had been riding on top, her head falling back, hair cascading down to her bottom. Cora had been struck by the look on Olive's face. Her friend had clearly been seeking her own pleasure with the customer. She'd had her eyes closed, her breasts arched high in the air and she was urging him on in a guttural, needy tone.
Never, in the five years Cora had been whoring, had she found pleasure. Nor had she sought it, as Olive clearly had.
Olive grinned. “Well, as long as I can shut my ears to his constant stream of chatter, I can still find la petite mort.”
“Find what?”
“The little death. My climax.”
“Ah.” Cora giggled. It was nice to have someone like Olive to talk to about these things. At Smoochy's, she'd learned to speak Spanish and some Chinese, but she'd never really had a camaraderie with the other girls. Sure, they looked out for each other's safety, helped when they could, but there was no laughing—no making fun of the customers. Well, there was no laughing, period.
Gigi joined them. “So how was The Narrator?” she asked with a wicked smile, her French accent thicker on a sleepy tongue. She had long, dark hair that was a little wild and frizzy, a pale face and small eyes that always danced with amusement.
Olive turned her head and Gigi planted an easy kiss on her lips, momentarily shocking Cora, who was trying to sort out whether that was French custom or there was something between the two.
It appeared to be the latter, as Gigi pulled her chair closer to Olive's and they tangled their legs together under the table.
“The last time I had him I simply narrated back. I said, 'Oh, you want my pussy? Now you will lick my pussy.' I made him do all the work and he was so excited he spewed before he could even get it inside me.”
Cora giggled. “You call it a pussy?”
“Oui. Le chat. That is what we call it in Paris.”
Le chat. Derrière. Trique. She was learning all kinds of new words. Yes, the atmosphere at Daddy Diggs’ was an enormous improvement to Smoochy's. Here the women seemed empowered. They laughed about the men. And if what Diggory had said last night was true, they weren't ever required to service a customer they didn't want.
Diggory walked into the room just then, his lanky grace reminding her of the easy, boneless look of a cat. He stopped in the door and beckoned to her. “It's time for your lesson.”
“Oh!” she jumped up so fast she knocked her fork to the floor. “I'll be right there.”
She'd forgotten about her lesson, but her heart danced at the thought of it. She brought her plate to the large tub for washing dishes and rinsed it off, watching the water flow out a hole in the bottom where it was directed outside through a series of hollowed out logs. Daddy Diggs kept a nice establishment, with all the latest conveniences. She was impressed.
She found him sitting at the piano, sheets of music spread in front of him.
“Do you know how to read music?”
She bit her lip. “I used to. Every Good Boy Does Fine, right?”
He chuckled. Good. And the spaces?”
“F-A-C-E.”
“Good girl. Now show me where they are on the keys.”
She placed her hands on the keys the way her mother had taught her and slowly ran a scale, naming the notes as she went.
“That's it, now with the other hand.”
She complied.
“Now together.”
She followed his instruction.
“Very good.”
He placed one of the sheets of music in front of her. “Can you play this?”
She studied the treble notes and plucked out the tune with her right hand, realizing quickly it was Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. She smiled and repeated the song, faster this time.
“How about this one?”
He pointed at the next song. She tried it out, singing lightly to Mary Had a Little Lamb.
“Okay, now this one you already know, right? Just do the treble first.”
She looked at the song and began to find the notes. It was her lullaby. He'd written in a simple part for the bass as well. She tried to add the bass but her brain couldn't hold focus on both hands at once, and the discordant sounds became so disjointed she slammed both hands down on the keys, making a loud, frustrated bleat.
In a flash, she was over Jake's hard thighs, facing the wooden planks of the saloon floor as he delivered several hard swats to her bottom. He pulled her back upright and plopped her back on her stool.
She sat looking straight forward, pressing her lips together to smother a laugh. Catching a smile on the corner of Daddy Diggs’ mouth, she let the giggle erupt and he chuckled, too.
“Are you going to do that every time?”
“Every time you fail to pay attention to my directions.”
Her lips still twitched with amusement. “I'm sorry. I will pay attention, Daddy Diggs.”
“Good. What were my directions?”
“Treble only.”
“Play it for me.”
She played it several times, until she could play it smoothly, and only then did he permit her to add the left hand chords.
By the time their lesson was through, she was able to play the entire song, treble and bass, at the tempo she liked to sing.
“Well done, Cora,” he praised her, and she flushed with pride.
“Where did you learn to play?” she asked him.
He smiled. “It's odd for a man to play, isn't it?”
“Well, yes,” she admitted.
“My mother played the pianoforte and I begged her to teach me. She said I loved music straight out of the womb. My father allowed it because I seemed to have an aptitude.” He gave a wry grin. “Maybe he thought I'd be the next Mozart.”
“Well, you are, practically,” she said, knowing she was gushing, but unable to stop herself.
He threw his head back and laughed, then stood from his stool. “You stay and practice a while longer. See if you can't memorize it by tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir. Jake? I mean—Daddy Diggs?” She flushed, unsure what had made her use his first name.
He sat back down on his stool next to her. “You may call me Jake,” he said softly, his eyes intent on her face.
“I, uh—I'm sorry—I didn't mean to be so familiar.”
“I said I'd permit it.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, her face still flaming.
He sat staring at her, the magnetic pull of his gaze sucking the breath right out of her chest. “What were you going to say, Cora?” He asked in a low, gravelly voice.
“Oh. I just wondered, ah, if you would play with me again? Like you did yesterday.”
He smiled slightly and nodded. “You begin,” he said, “Treble only.”
She played the song he'd written out for her, and then he joined her, weaving an elaborate harmony of bass, then reaching around behind her, as he had done the day before, adding higher notes to their song. She closed her eyes, enveloped by the song and adding her voice to the tapestry, making it as soft and angelic as she could, the way she remembered her mother singing it. When they finished, Diggory pulled her head to his chest and kissed the top of it, then released her and stood without a word, his long strides taking him out of the saloon.
She sat staring after him, feeling warm all over.
* * *
“No, no, Joaquin. What are you doing? You've messed the whole thing up! Ack. Here, let me.”
He elbowed the boy aside and moved underneath the large wash basin in the kitchen, where he'd fashioned a series of hollow logs to carry the used water to the dirt outside. Josefina had informed him the drain had become clogged, so he and the boy were working on repairing it. He snatched up the little shims he'd been using to change the angle of the drain pipe.
“That's a fine way to treat someone who's trying to help.”
“Eh?” Jake craned his neck around to see Cora standing next to them, her hands on her hips, her eyes flashing. From where he was lying he could see up her dress, a fact which amused him considering the attitude she was giving him.
“You might tell him nicely—you don't have to act like a jackass.”
The room had gone quiet with Cora's first snappy words to him and the air now crackled with tension. No one cursed at Jake. Holding the pipe in place, he looked past her at Joaquin, who had scrambled out and was staring at his shoes, his face a splotchy red. Had he hurt the boy's feelings? It appeared so.
“Joaquin, come here. Cora, you'll go to my office and wait for me and if you say one more word, you'll be sorry.”
Her mouth had opened, but she snapped it shut, blanching. She did not obey immediately, however, staying to watch what he would do with the boy. Joaquin approached and he handed the pipe back to the boy. “I do need your help—I'm sorry I was rude. Hold this,” he said. He looked over his shoulder at Cora. “Now, Cora.”
She jumped a little and left the room, her back stiff and straight as she walked.
To make amends for the lad's damaged pride, he turned the project back over to him, explaining what needed to happen. Then he stood and dusted off his hands to deal with the bigger problem in his office.
Cora looked up warily when he walked in. He strode across the room, picked her up and plopped her on his desk.
“When you have something to say to me, you will say it politely.”
“Yes, sir,” she answered immediately, her eyes wide with fright.
“I will not tolerate your sass, and you already know how I feel about cursing.”
“I'm sorry, sir.”
“You will be.”
She licked her lips nervously. He pulled her off her perch, spun her around and pushed her torso down over the wide expanse of his desk to present her bottom for chastisement. Pulling her skirt and chemise up to her shoulders, he roughly pulled open the laces of the bottom half of her corset so she could breathe. The cord to the petticoats was in the back, while the one for the drawers was in the front. He tugged each of them loose and let them fall to the floor in a crumpled heap. She wasn't wearing stockings and her lower half was now completely bared to him, a sight which stirred him despite his ire.
He began spanking with his hand, using his full strength, listening to the sound of her yelps and cries as she flinched and squeezed her bottom in useless defense. He spanked mercilessly, watching as her creamy skin turned pink and then a deeper red. Because it was an act of dominance, and he wanted to put her in her place, he pressed his thumb into her back hole as he had done that first night. She stilled. Her listing and flinching stopped and her whimpers increased as he continued spanking while his thumb held her in place. He had to adjust the angle of his spanks, but he still managed to make them sting.
Her hands moved down and he thought she was going to try to cover herself, but instead she stunned him by bringing them between her legs, cupping her mound and holding it as he slapped her round cheeks. Did she have to use the chamber pot? But no, she was moving her fingers over her folds. He heard the sound of slick flesh on flesh.
Suddenly dizzy, the room grew hot and began to spin. Slowly, deliberately, he slid his thumb out of her bottom and reached around to catch hold of her hands, lifting them out of the way. Nudging her legs farther apart, he slapped her pussy. It was wet and swollen, begging for touch. He slapped it again and again. His forearm was stopped by her tailbone as his hand wrapped down to fully slap her sex, so he caught the entire corridor from her anus to her little rosebud of pleasure. The wanton cries she made fueled an overwhelming desire to take her like a wild animal in heat. After a dozen slow slaps he replaced her hand over her sex, helping to pleasure her by moving his fingers over hers, tangling through them to penetrate, to circle, to lightly slap.
He was sweating. All thought had left his brain. The need to bring her to completion was overwhelming, and he thrust his fingers into her welcoming sex, using the thumb of his other hand in her back hole, pushing them in and out at the same time. His movements were rough and desperate and she was making keening cries, standing up on her tiptoes, her pelvis pressed tightly against his desk. With a choked sound, she orgasmed. He continued moving his fingers within her, slowing the speed, checking the intensity until the tight squeezing of her muscles had eased. He slid his fingers out and rested with a hand on each side of her, leaning over her bent form.
He panted there for a moment, his mind still half-crazed, and then began to spank her again. Her bottom was so enticing to him—no, more than enticing, spanking it was a need for him, an itch that must be scratched. He grabbed a chair and yanked it around the desk, plopping into it as he pulled her across his lap at the same time. She let out a shriek of protest, gripping his calf to steady herself. He started to spank again, fast and hard, rubbing the full erection in his pants against her sex. He knew she understood—she ground against him, even as she squealed at his relentless smacks. He continued spanking until he brought himself to a climax, grabbing her waist with both hands and rubbin
g her body against his lap as he ejaculated.
Oh God.
And it had not been enough. He leaned back in the chair, catching his breath, relief from his release already fading as the raw, underlying passion flamed even hotter. It was as if once lit, the fire would continue growing until it exploded within him. He ran his hand through his hair in frustration, allowing Cora to slide off his lap. Normally so in control, he was now strangely helpless—no words could address their situation.
Yet Cora, sweet Cora, who of all the girls was the least likely to ever try to seduce him, was kneeling at his feet, reaching for his cock. She unbuttoned his trousers and released his length, which still stood at attention, despite the release. She met his eyes, opened her mouth and extended her tongue, slipping it around the rim of his cock as if she wanted to taste him.
It was his undoing. With a roar, he grasped her by the hair and hauled her to her feet, half shoving, half carrying her backward until she hit the wall. His mouth open, he attacked her lips, her cheek, her neck, devouring her, consuming her very essence until their two bodies fused into one. Her dress had fallen back down and he tore at the skirt, lifting it and one thigh to his waist, lowering his trousers enough to free his erection and plow into her.
Oh God, yes! Fifteen years since he'd had a woman and it had never been so good. He slammed into her, his fingers digging into her flesh, his pelvis pumping forward and back as if his very life depended on it. In fact, he was sure the only thing that could have stopped him at that moment would have been death itself. If sex was a beast, then he was the devil, and nothing would sate him until he'd plumbed every inch of Cora Underhill.
As the wall shook under the force of his thrusts, Cora made that same keening sound she'd made before and the need to satisfy her filtered into his consciousness. Reaching his hand around, he once again pressed a finger into her arse and she nearly screamed, her body convulsing against his, her pussy and anus clamping down hard on his cock and his finger as her entire body shuddered. The magnificence of her climax brought on his own and he shot his load into her, thrusting upward while he held her tightly against him.
