by L. A. Witt
Unsteadily, John whispered, “Robert, we shouldn’t.”
“Says who?”
His fingers brushed my face, and he leaned closer, but hesitated. “This is . . .”
“I’m not offering to do it for pay.” My voice shook as badly as his hand against my cheek. “I don’t want to be your whore, John. I want to be your—”
He kissed me. For the first time ever, he kissed me, and for a long, long moment, we were still. Then he tilted his head slowly, and I parted my lips, and the kiss deepened until we both moaned and pulled each other closer. His hand slid into my hair, and as he rolled me onto my back, I wrapped my arms around him. He covered my body with his, and covered my lips with his hungry mouth. Shivers rippled up and down my spine as fingers tangled in hair and limbs tangled with each other.
With his weight over me, even beneath my bedroll, the ground was hard, but so were we. For two weeks, we’d kept our distance, and now we sought all the nearness we could get.
John bent to kiss my neck, and I gasped. Coarse chin, soft lips, warm breath, all on flesh I never knew could be so sensitive, and I moaned as he explored every inch from my jaw to my collar and back again.
“Oh, Robert,” he breathed. “I’ve been dying to touch you again. You simply . . . you don’t understand . . .” He trailed gentle kisses up the front of my throat to the underside of my jaw. “I’ve wanted you since the first time I laid eyes on you.” His lips lingered against my chin. “And that didn’t change after I’d had you. I want . . .” He shuddered, brushing his lips across mine. “I want to be inside you.”
“Please . . .” I dug my fingers into his shoulders. Remembering the white bottle I’d again strategically placed within reach, I let go of one shoulder and fumbled around in the darkness until my fingertips found the cool glass.
John raised his head. “What are—” The bottle’s top rattled, and John released a low growl. “You brought it. Thank God.”
He pushed himself up off me. Frantically, desperately, we stripped out of our clothes, and when we came back together, hot flesh against hot flesh had never been so arousing. We kissed with an eagerness I’d never experienced. Giving as much as taking, wanting as much as needing. Our hands were shaking—his on my face, mine in his hair. Every time his hips moved, his hard cock rubbed against mine, and so I pressed my own hips to his, silently begging him to keep moving.
Then, arms around me, John rolled onto his back, and I was over him. Still beneath the fur blanket, we were on his bedroll now. He reached back toward my side, fumbling in the darkness, and a second later, the bottle’s top clinked. I bit my lip as vague, shadowy movements in the darkness hinted at John pouring some of the liquid into his hand. My teeth chattered, but it had nothing to do with the chilly air around us. The blanket and John’s body kept me warm while anticipation made my heart beat faster, and by the time he set the bottle aside, I was about to go mad.
His hand snaked over my thigh and cupped my buttock, and he nudged me forward. I rested my weight on my forearms and found his mouth with my own, and as I kissed him hard, his other hand slid between us. His fingertips drifted along my cock but didn’t stop. The hand on my hip nudged me again, and I leaned further forward.
John’s lips met the side of my throat in the same instant his slick, cool fingers found my entrance. I closed my eyes and sucked in a breath, and when his fingers pressed gently, I leaned against them, exhaling as one fingertip slid past the tight ring of muscle. Before I’d caught my breath, he added a second finger, and I arched against him as he kissed my neck and teased me with slow, slippery strokes.
Without any conscious thought, I moved my hips, desperate for more, more, more. His hand stilled, and he let me ride his fingers. His other hand closed around my cock, and the dual pleasure of being stroked and fingered turned the darkness to tear-blurred silver and white.
“Do you like that?” he whispered, breathing hard below me.
“God yes.” Stretched and slick and desperate for him, I wanted him inside me, but this . . . this felt so damned good. It felt so goddamned— “Fuck me, John.” The words burst out of me, and the world echoed with the plea I’d never allowed myself to speak before. “Please, please, fuck me.”
John withdrew his fingers. The bottle’s top rattled, and we both shuddered as he lubricated his hard cock. Then with a hand on my hip, he guided me up, down again, and onto his cock.
I sat up straighter, the thick fur blanket sliding off my back and exposing my skin to the cold of the night. The bitter chill hardened my nipples and raised gooseflesh on my shoulders, but the rest of my body was warm against John’s, and he was inside me, sliding deeper and filling me, and we could have been out in the falling snow for all I cared.
Taking him all the way inside me, I moaned softly.
“Am I hurting you?” he whispered. “Tell me if I . . . please—”
“No, you’re not.” I gasped for breath and rose again. “Not . . . oh, you feel perfect . . .” Throwing my head back, I came down on his cock. Again. Again. Again. “Oh God . . .”
He drew me down to kiss him, sliding a hand around the back of my neck and gripping my hip with the other.
“I don’t know what you’ve done to me, Robert,” he murmured into my kiss. “The moment I walked into that saloon, I wanted you.” He thrust up. “And every day of this journey, I’ve been going mad wanting you again, and having you now . . .” He groaned, pulling my hips down on his cock as he thrust up. “Having you now, I just . . . oh God, I can barely stand it . . .”
Words eluded me, and it took all I had just to whimper with the pleasure of taking his cock again and again, of having him below me and against me and inside me. My throat constricted around my breath. My eyes watered, rolled back. I swore, and when John released a low growl from the back of his throat and forced himself deeper inside me, I shattered.
Trembling and moaning, I collapsed over him, and he kept moving, kept fucking me from below, until he gripped my hips painfully tight and pulled me against him. He panted in sharp, hot huffs, and his cock pulsed inside me.
I touched my forehead to his, and John wrapped his arms around me.
“This should . . .” He paused to catch his breath. “This should keep the nights warmer from here on out.”
I just laughed and pulled him into another kiss.
Daybreak came much too soon. Under any other circumstances, I’d have suggested we lie here for hours, wrapped up in each other beneath the blanket, but of course, we couldn’t.
Outside, mechs were already clanging and sputtering past us. Men walked and grumbled. Horse hooves and dog paws crunched on snow. Before long, the trail would be crowded with men and machines. Comfortable as we were, we had to move on.
Besides, the longer we lingered this far south, the worse the weather would be when we reached the north, so we finally pulled away from each other and rose for the day. Thankfully, our clothes were still under the blanket when we awoke. Nothing would put an unpleasant end to a wonderful night like slipping into cold clothes.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watched John dress. He’d long ago abandoned the dignified silk and embroidery he’d worn when he’d stepped into my world. He dressed like any other man on the trail now—thicker trousers and a plain, unembellished shirt beneath a long coat not unlike my own.
We each had a set of brass goggles hanging around our necks by thick leather straps. Snow wasn’t falling yet, but it could start with little warning, so we kept them at the ready in case we needed to fend off snow blindness.
Many of the men grew out beards in preparation for the bitter northern cold, but not John. He tried a few times. Day by day, the shadow on his jaw would darken until, after a few hours of cursing and scratching at it when it scuffed against his collar, he’d dig out a razor and shear it off.
He’d shaved it yesterday morning, and now had only a dusting of stubble around his lips and along his jaw. Even like this, unshaven and dressed like any other s
tampeder, he’d have stood out in any crowd. Fatigue and cold didn’t stop him from carrying himself the very same way he had when he’d strolled into the saloon, as if to tell the world it would take more than a thousand-mile journey to hunch his back. Once in a while, he even pulled out that pocket watch, withdrawing it from the breast pocket of his jacket and casually glancing at it like a bored man at a dinner party.
This morning was no different, even if his gait was a little stiffer and slower than usual as we hit the trail. My own hips and back ached, but I wasn’t about to complain.
The conversation that had carried us over miles and miles dwindled in the wake of the night we’d spent together. We exchanged looks across the mech, and those looks both promised and demanded more as soon as possible. I wondered a few times if we might throw caution and haste to the wind and spend the afternoon like we’d spent last night.
But we couldn’t afford to lose more time, so for now, we walked.
John and I were lovers now, but for how long? Rich or poor, when this was all over, John would go back to Chicago and I’d . . . I’d find my own path. To somewhere.
I sighed, nestling my face into my high collar, hoping he thought I was hiding from the biting wind instead of covering up my frustration.
Even if I followed him back to Chicago, a professor struggling to stay in his university’s good graces couldn’t risk a lover like me. That assumed he’d even want me to come with him, and I didn’t let myself hope he would. I could dream, but I knew as well as John surely did, that this would end when the trail did.
In silence, we continued north, but by noon, sheer boredom nudged us back into conversation just like our occasional pushes nudged the wandering mech back onto the trail. We talked of mundane topics, as we always had, but things had undeniably changed. That much was clear every time our eyes met over the mech and our conversation faded away.
But the future would be dealt with when it arrived. For now, I told myself, there were many miles and many days ahead, and for the duration, John and I had each other. Short of striking it filthy rich in Dawson City, there wasn’t much more I could ask for.
Day by day, both the weather and terrain worsened. Hills were steeper and longer. Rain fell with more force. The wind bit at us until we pulled our goggles over our eyes and tucked our faces beneath our collars. The ground thawed, then froze, and slippery mud became treacherous frozen ground.
John and I spent every night wrapped tight in each other’s arms. Sometimes for pleasure, always for warmth. Our bodies ached, and cold and exhaustion kept us from a lover’s embrace more often than not. It was frequently tempting to fire up the heating device, so tempting, but we couldn’t waste coal, so we shivered together beneath the fur blanket. In spite of the cold, I found a small, delicious thrill in his slow, soft breaths on my neck while he slept. There were less pleasant ways to spend a night.
Then the snow came. The mech creaked and groaned, protesting every slow step. It slipped and slid across the trail, making me dread the steep, dangerous crossing of the Chilkoot.
Mile after mile, the trail was more and more congested with men, animals, and mechs, just like it had been when we’d left Ketchikan. Roads and other trails converged with this one, which meant we were getting close to the pass.
Sure enough, early one afternoon, we rounded a bend and a crooked, hand-painted sign came into view: Chilkoot Pass – 6 miles
Not half a day, and we’d be at the foot of the pass. I shivered. The Chilkoot would be by far the most arduous part of our journey, though there was also the river and its rapids that would take us the very last stretch to Dawson City.
An expansive tent city sprawled across the snowy terrain just beyond the sign. Tents were erected in long, irregular rows. Rickety buildings had been put up around the perimeter of the camp, plus a few scattered amongst the tents, where outfitters, prostitutes, and makeshift saloon owners made a killing off hungry, thirsty, and frisky stampeders.
At the entrance to the tent city was a more solid structure, this one bearing the distinctive flag of the Canadian territories, with its red background, yellow coat of arms, and the Union Jack in one corner. This must be the place where we had to obtain approval to cross the pass. The North-West Mounted Police had originally set up their checkpoint on top of the pass, but then they’d moved it to a few miles south.
This technically put them on the wrong side of the hotly disputed Canadian-Alaskan border, but for safety and efficiency’s sake, they were allowed to conduct their inspections here so they could carefully ration the number of teams allowed on the pass at a given time. Otherwise, too many mechs that never should have been allowed to ascend the mountain made it onto the pass. After someone’s mech lost control and went crashing down the trail last year, killing dozens, the Mounties inspected every machine before it was allowed to climb the mountain, and they kept a strict limit of twenty mechs at a time on the Golden Staircase, the fifteen hundred steps carved into the ice from Chilkoot’s base to its peak.
Every team of stampeders had to pass through this checkpoint and obtain authorization to cross the pass. The Mounties had no qualms about turning away sparsely provisioned teams, lame horses, and malfunctioning mechs. So the outfitters said, anyway.
But the mech inspections were mandatory, and so, like everyone else, John and I put our names on the inspection list and waited outside the encampment. If we passed, we’d be allowed to set up camp within the designated boundaries and wait for our turn to cross into Canada. If we failed, there was another camp where we could stay until we either repaired our mech or turned back.
John was confident we had everything we needed, and the repairs didn’t concern him. Still, as we sat on the raised side of our mech, chewing on beef jerky and waiting our turn, he was unusually quiet. Tense, even. I couldn’t decide if he was concerned about the inspection for some reason, or if he was just ready to set up camp and relax for the remainder of the day.
He wasn’t alone in his silence. With the urgent need to get to the gold fields, not to mention the bitter cold and the frustration at being held up, most of the people waiting weren’t interested in conversation. The mouthwatering scents of hot food and campfires taunting us from the other side of the fence didn’t help. Over the echoing rumble of idling mechs came voices and the sounds of utensils tinkling against bowls; men engaged in rest and relaxation instead of grueling travels or the maddening tedium out here. Those among us who did speak complained about everything from the snow beneath our feet to the men conducting the inspections.
“They’re strict, these ones,” a grizzled man muttered a few paces away from me. “Just today, they’ve turned back three teams because of stripped bolts.”
“Better to be turned back now,” another man replied, “than break down in the Yukon.”
The first sniffed sharply and shook his head. “They just want to keep us from the gold so the Canadians can get to it first.”
John rolled his eyes but didn’t say anything. He bit down on a piece of beef jerky and gnawed on it as he watched the Mounties inspect a team ahead of us.
Three uniformed men conducted the inspections. One of them inspected the mech, scrutinizing every gear and cog, examining the boiler and its lines, and testing legs and joints. Another Mountie went through the team’s papers and documents while the third combed through the piles, bags, and crates of provisions, ticking items off a list in his hand. Whether they were looking for contraband or truly counting out a year’s worth of supplies, I couldn’t tell.
The third Mountie beckoned to the owner of the mech, and indicated a sealed crate tucked beneath a few bags of flour. John fidgeted beside me as the Mountie ordered the owner to open the box.
The man obeyed. He put the crate on the ground, then dug out a pry bar and used that to pop the nails and open the box. The contents, which were mostly tools for repairing the mech, were laid out for the Mountie—and the gathered crowd—to see. The inspector picked up one of three flasks
and unscrewed the top. He sniffed it and flinched like it was stronger than he’d anticipated.
“How much alcohol do you have in your possession?” he asked as he screwed the cap back on.
“Just what’s in there, sir,” the owner said. “Three flasks. We’re saving ’em to celebrate in Dawson.”
The Mountie grunted and handed the flask back to him. “All right, then. Pack it up. One too many firearms, though. Going to have to leave one behind.”
“Leave one behind?” The owner scoffed. “Are you mad?” He gestured sharply to the north. “There’s grizzlies up there. And bandits!”
“There’s also laws.” The first Mountie eyed him coolly. “And our laws limit each man to three guns apiece.”
The owner huffed and glared at each of the Mounties in turn. “Then what do you recommend I do with it? Throw it in the snow? Give it away?”
The one who’d announced the excess firearm nodded toward the encampment. “There are three outfitters who’d buy it from you outright. Plenty of men who might trade food or coal for it.”
The other wrote something on the inspection sheet and handed it to the owner. “You’ll be required a second inspection before you leave for the pass. See to it the gun isn’t among your provisions and you have a receipt for its sale or trade, and you’re permitted to enter Canada.”
Snatching the sheet away, the owner gestured for his team to join him. They put everything back into the mech, fired it up, and walked beside it into the encampment.
Beside me, John fidgeted.
Keeping my voice low, I asked, “What’s wrong?”
“I thought they only checked to make sure the mech is sound and our required provisions are accounted for.” He drummed his fingers on the side of the mech. “No one said anything about checking for contraband.”
I turned to him, eyebrows up. “Do . . . do we have contraband?”
“No, but not every item on our mech is one I want brandished for all to see.”
