Gideon, Robin - Desire of the Phantom [Ecstasy in the Old West] (Siren Publishing Classic)

by Robin Gideon

  Pamela filled a large kettle with the heated water, tossed a wash towel in along with a cake of soap, placed a drying towel over her shoulder, and then returned to the bedroom. Garrett was still on his back, a hand now resting lightly on his ribs.

  “Good morning,” Pamela whispered, not entirely certain whether he was awake.

  “Morning. I’m not so sure how good it is,” Garrett said with a groan. Then he opened his eyes and smiled. “The ribs are throbbing a little, that’s all. Doc Jamison said that would happen when they started to mend. It’s a good sign.”

  “Yes, a good sign.” Pamela’s words came out little more than a whisper. “How criminal it is that your beautiful, powerful body should be so senselessly damaged. Why, Garrett? Why would anyone do this to you?”

  “Kind of hard on the eyes?”

  “Not at all. I love looking at you. It’s just that when I see you in pain, I feel it here.” She put a hand over her heart.

  She set the kettle down on the floor then sat very cautiously at the edge of the bed. With Garrett’s broken ribs, any unnecessary movement had to be avoided.

  “I’ll be able to get up today,” Garrett said.

  “No, you won’t. Not for at least a week. Doctor’s orders.”

  Garrett growled his disapproval. “What do doctors know?”

  “About broken ribs? More than a lawyer, I’m afraid. Besides, I promised your brother I wouldn’t let you out of bed. Now, you don’t want to make me a liar to your brother, do you?”

  “Paul can be a bit on the dictatorial side, can’t he?”

  Pamela squeezed out the washcloth then worked in a rich, soapy lather with the bar of soap Paul had provided. “Let’s get you cleaned up a bit.”

  “I can do that myself,” Garrett replied quickly, as though his independence had suddenly been challenged.

  He reached for the cloth, but when Pamela pulled away from him, he moved his arms too quickly. Stabbing pain from the broken ribs on his left side shot through him, and he clenched his teeth to keep from crying out.

  “Don’t fight me,” she said sternly, her green gaze boring angrily into Garrett. “Now just lie back and, for once in your life, do as you’re told.”

  “Yes, Nurse Pamela,” Garrett said with thick sarcasm as she began soaping up his right arm, then wiping the soap away with the warm, wet washcloth.

  She washed his face, neck, chest, and arms, enjoying herself immensely as she chatted with Garrett about inconsequential things. She adjusted the bandage above his left eye so it no longer interfered with his vision, then she leaned away. What remained to be washed was beneath the blankets, and Pamela wasn’t at all certain how he would react to that.

  “I think I can do the rest. I’ve been bathing myself without the help of a nanny for a couple of months now.”

  “I’m not listening to you,” Pamela replied as she brought the blanket down to the foot of the bed.

  For an instant, her breath caught in her throat. Garrett was completely naked. She had known this, so it shouldn’t have struck so sharply. But seeing him now, awake and in control of himself, was different from looking at his naked body while he was sleeping or unconscious.

  “This is silly,” Garrett said.

  He started to sit up, but the moment his shoulders got more than a few inches off the mattress, fresh pain knifed through him from the damaged ribs. He lay down again, his breathing ragged, his features distorted with the strain.

  “It’s silly pretending you’re not in agony.” Pamela pursed her lips into an angry, tight line. “Now stop hurting yourself. I hate seeing you do that.”

  Garrett closed his eyes, breathing softly, evenly, clearly waiting for the pain to subside. “It’s not the pain that bothers me so much, it’s the feeling of uselessness, of needing your help just to wash myself.”

  Pamela began washing Garrett’s feet. Now that he’d reclined and was motionless once again, she could enjoy the domesticity of what she was doing. Still, she remained aware of Garrett’s richly sensual nakedness.

  “You should just accept my help,” she said as she lathered Garrett’s right thigh. “Often people have needed your aid against Jonathon Darwell, but you’ve not taken a cent for it. Now it’s time for you to let someone do something nice for you. Don’t fight me. It’s only fair. You have to learn to receive as well as give.”

  Garrett closed his eyes, letting the impact of Pamela’s words sink in. On only a few times in his life had he ever felt quite this helpless. Once was during a severe case of influenza when he was a young man, and another time was when he’d had what the doctor suspected was a case of food poisoning and was wretchedly sick for eighteen hours.

  “Yes,” he said quietly, his eyes closed. “Time to relax and let the body heal.”

  He felt her hands on his penis, soft and warm, slippery with water and soap. Nothing sexual about it, Garrett told himself. Nothing sexual at all. No reason at all to be embarrassed—and no reason to respond. No reason at all to respond like a man when one of the world’s truly vivacious, earthy women was working her hands along the shaft of his cock in a manner that, in other circumstances, could only be considered blatantly, openly, even aggressively, sexual.

  He toyed with opening his eyes then banished that thought. Any hope he had of not responding to Pamela’s touch was predicated on his ability to not look at her. If he did open his eyes, if he saw her, examined her beauty, perhaps even watched her soapy hands on his cock, all hope of calm detachment would be lost.

  There are words that could be spoken, he thought then. Perhaps some light, teasing banter to shatter the tension that now seemed to have taken all the air from the small room. Yes, some silly little joke that Pamela would be mildly annoyed at.

  If Garrett was trying to control himself, Pamela intended that he fail. She wanted to destroy whatever calm he sought. With the washcloth, she wiped away the soap suds she had worked over him. Very slowly and with infinite care, she cleaned Garrett’s cock then curled her fingers around his shaft, squeezing lightly, gently. She felt him move in her hand, very subtly at first, almost imperceptibly, then with increasing force. His lifeblood coursed into him, making his cock stretch and grow, thicken, pulsing with virility. A deep, throaty sigh escaped her as she watched his burgeoning erection expand under her touch, responding to her even though it was apparent that he had not wanted to do so.

  With the towel, she patted Garrett dry, but by this time, his erection had reached full dimensions, and all pretense on his part that he was passively being washed had been abandoned.

  “Pamela, as much as I would like to, I don’t really think I can make love with you, at least not with the energy that is necessary,” he said quietly, his eyes still closed. There was an edge of anger in his tone, as though he was blaming himself for not being able to satisfy her.

  “I know that, darling,” Pamela whispered in response, her voice husky with escalating passion. “This time, you must not think of my pleasure.”

  “But—”

  She put a finger to his lips. “Shhh,” she shushed. “There’s nothing for you to say.”

  But there was much for Garrett to say. He was a man of more than considerable experience with women, and though he’d certainly allowed himself to be passively pleased by a woman before, he had always been a man who believed in reciprocity. A quid pro quo approach to sexuality made him determined to satisfy his partner while demanding satisfaction for himself. Now, his broken ribs howling in protest with each breath he took, the slightest movements of his arms reminding him of where boots had struck or ham-sized fists had battered him, Garrett knew he could not give as good as he would receive—certainly not with his split and swollen lips.

  “You’re fighting it,” Pamela whispered, her hand moving slowly over his erection. “Don’t fight it…relax…and enjoy.” Her voice was a soft, sultry purr as she shifted her position on the bed so that she was sitting a little lower now, closer to his knees. “You don’t always have to
be the one in charge.”

  Garrett’s hands were at his sides, and he had to consciously loosen his fingers to release the blankets that he’d balled up in his fists.

  He opened his eyes just a little to look at her. She smiled softly at him, her every movement, every gesture, languid, indolent, natural, as though she’d done this a thousand times.

  “There now,” Pamela whispered, smiling but in command. “I can see in your eyes that you’re a little more relaxed, more at ease.” She leaned forward slowly, her gaze locked with Garrett’s, and kissed his chest. “You’ve had a difficult time. Let me take care of you.”

  She flicked the tip of her tongue against his flat nipple, and his sudden intake of breath pleased her. He bunched the blankets at his sides again in his fists. Pamela released her hold on his shaft then took his forearm in both hands and began kneading the tension-knotted muscles firmly.

  “What did I tell you?” she asked in a faux scolding tone. “I told you to relax, didn’t I?”

  “Yes,” Garrett replied, his voice a thin, hoarse croaking sound.

  He watched as Pamela massaged his arm until it was relaxed then did the same for his other arm. He wondered if this was some bizarre, absurdly pleasurable form of torture. Never in his life had he felt less capable of satisfying a woman, nor more desirous of doing so.

  “So, will you relax?” Pamela asked, leaning over him, one hand on his naked chest, the other on his flat abdomen just above his thrusting cock. Despite being ignored for the past few minutes, his cock had lost none of its rigidity.

  “I’ll try,” Garrett replied. “But that’s all I can promise.”

  Pamela reached low, curling her fingers around his shaft once again. “I suppose I’m making it hard for you,” she said then smiled wickedly. “There’s a word for that, isn’t there? A double something-or-other.”

  “Double entendre.”

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  Garrett swallowed, struggled to moisten his lips, and then finally whispered, “Quite so, I’m afraid.”

  She kissed his chest, letting the tip of her tongue follow a line from one nipple to the other, moving just above the tight bandage wrapped around his battered ribs. For only an instant, Pamela squeezed her eyes tightly shut as she thought about the pain and fear Garrett must have known when the men attacked him, clubbing him to the ground and then brutally kicking him.

  She moved lower on the bed again, sitting near his knees. His cock filled her hand with its strength, and as she touched him, she felt an odd sense of power. Garrett, even though battered and in pain, could not resist responding to her feminine charms.

  It didn’t matter to Pamela then that he had known many women, most of them probably more skilled and certainly more experienced in the art of lovemaking than she. What did matter was that he was in her bed—and was responding to her caresses despite his pain.

  “You are such an exquisite man,” Pamela whispered, her breath washing over the inflamed tip of his cock.

  She kissed the plump crown of his cock, softly, quickly, tentatively. With her right hand resting lightly upon his stomach, she felt him suck in his breath and unconsciously hold it. For a single instant, a myriad of conflicting emotions went through her as she wondered whether she was doing something wrong. She simply didn’t know, and there wasn’t anyone other than Garrett to ask, though putting such a question to him was completely out of the question.

  She inhaled deeply. He smelled of fresh soap and clean water, despite the faintly disquieting odor of the disinfectant she’d gently patted on the stitches over his eye.

  She tasted his cock then, putting her tongue to him, and again his body tightened up, all those finely honed muscles in his legs, arms, and chest knotting with excitement. This time, however, the flinching was accompanied by a soft, rather strangled sigh of pleasure, and Pamela’s confidence was heightened.

  In a playfully scientific manner, she went about calmly experimenting with him to find out exactly what he enjoyed the most and what he didn’t care for as much, judging his satisfaction by how he breathed or held his breath, by how he held his body, tense or easy, and by the myriad little reactions he displayed.

  She discovered that rational, coherent thought and observation were infinitely easier to sustain when one was doing the pleasing. Memories of her own wild, incoherent thrills when Garrett had kissed her pussy and sucked with such skill on her clit spurred her on.

  A warm flush of excitement flooded through her as she recalled the spine-tingling excitement she’d known as the joyous recipient of Garrett’s exquisite skill, and this fueled her desire to satisfy Garrett more than he’d dreamed possible.

  She took his cock into her mouth deeply, feeling his passion pulsing through him, taking delight in the way his flesh throbbed with tension.

  Pamela looked up into Garrett’s face, and when her gaze met his, he looked away, closing his eyes.

  After a moment of deliberation, Pamela leaned away from him slightly. “Do you like to watch me?” she asked.

  Garrett looked at her. His tongue went around his mouth to moisten lips now dry from his ragged breathing. “Yes,” he admitted finally, his gaze darting from Pamela’s smoky green eyes down to the small hand, which continued to move over the length of his now-moist cock.

  “I like it when you look at me,” she replied, her tone more confident than her emotions. Actually, she’d felt scrutinized, but she wanted whatever Garrett wanted.

  She leaned down to kiss him once more then sat upright at the edge of the bed. In a calm, matter-of-fact fashion, with no haste at all, she began unbuttoning her shirt. Once she’d stripped it off, she neatly folded it and placed it at the foot of the bed. Then, with calculated languor, Pamela unfastened the ties of her chemise and stripped it off to reveal her breasts, her nipples aroused and erect.

  “I like it when you caress me with your eyes,” she explained in a whisper. “It makes me feel pretty, womanly. Sometimes I don’t feel very womanly, I guess, because of the clothes I wear and the way I’m built. When you’re a tomboy, people don’t think of you as womanly.”

  “I can’t begin to tell you how absurd those words sound in my ears. You not feminine? Lordy, woman, you’re turning me inside out.”

  Only his battered, broken body prevented him from taking her in his arms and throwing himself upon her—and she knew it. And that was why, with calculated calm, she was taking her sweet time about everything she did. She had removed her shirt and chemise slowly to reveal the pink-tipped breasts, knowing how that always incited Garrett’s desire.

  His voice a hoarse whisper, Garrett said, “You’re going to kill me.”

  Pamela smiled at Garrett as she finished carefully folding her chemise and placing it neatly upon the foot of the bed. “No, my darling, I’m not going to kill you. I’m going to show you just exactly how alive you really are.” She took his arousal in her hands again, loving the heated pulse of his passion against her palms. “I’m going to teach you many things,” she continued, her gaze locked with his as she leaned forward once more, her breasts firm and warm against his legs. “And for starters, I’m going to teach you that you must never underestimate me.”

  The warm wetness that surrounded the crown of his erection forced Garrett to close his eyes.

  “No, I want you to look at me,” Pamela said, her lips brushing against the crest of his cock. “I don’t want you thinking of some other woman while I pleasure you.”

  “My darling, thinking of anyone else is impossible.”

  “Just relax.”

  No matter how much he wanted to, no matter how determined he was to at least break even in this bizarre battle of wills with Pamela, he could not remain calm, could not relax, could not, in fact, do anything but surrender himself to her—completely, passionately, irrevocably.

  His climax was volcanic.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Angie Darwell wanted to kill, and she very likely would have if her father hadn’t be
en in a similarly lethal frame of mind. Since the death of her mother, Angie had realized it was her job to make sure the elder Darwell’s deadly impulses were kept somewhat in check. She didn’t have to be told this, she simply understood it, so whenever her father was savagely angry, she forced herself to remain calm in order to put a damper on his foul temper.

  “It can’t be as bad as all that,” she now said, leaning against Jonathon Darwell’s heavy desk and looking down at him as he sat in his enormous, leather-covered swivel chair.

  “It damn sure is. The point isn’t that I can’t collect on the money that’s owed to me. The amount’s small change, any way you look at it.” He looked up at his beloved daughter, but he felt no compassion whatsoever. “The problem is that the people no longer fear me. The Midnight Phantom broke into the General Store and stole the debt ledger. It’s not the money I’m worried about, it’s that people now know I can be defied without their suffering for it.”

  Jonathon balled his hand into a fist and raised it high above his head, about to smash it into his desk. Angie moved quickly, grabbing his fist with both of her hands.

  “That’s enough, Papa,” she said. A man out of control always excited and touched something responsive within her. “You can’t undo what has already been done, and hurting your hand isn’t going to fix anything.”

  Angie kissed her father’s hand then set it gently upon his desk.

  “You’re right, of course. You’re always right, Angie,” he said quietly. “What would I do without you?”

  “Probably break your fist.”

  He laughed then because he knew she was right. Once his anger had abated, he began rationally and calmly dissecting the problems that had been plaguing him lately.

  “Stealing the general store ledger was a slap in the face, but in reality, it was nothing more than that. An insult, not really a threat.” Jonathon was speaking more to himself than to his daughter.

  “That’s absolutely right.”