“Been on since White River Junction,” I said shortly. It was more than clear that Terry expected an introduction. “Yasmin, Terry O’Brian. We were in college together. Terry, Princess Yasmin, fourth wife of the Sultan of Isbani.” It was some satisfaction to see Terry’s jaw drop for an instant before her suave butch facade resurfaced.
“Ooh, Terry!” Yasmin warbled, jiggling provocatively. “I didn’t know Sergeant Jo had such nice friends!”
“The princess somehow…missed…leaving New Hampshire with her husband’s entourage,” I said. “They’d been visiting her stepson at Dartmouth. I’m escorting her to D.C. to meet them.” As far as I could tell, it had been a combination of Yasmin’s laziness and the head wife’s hatred that had culminated in her missing the limo caravan, and her absence going unnoticed until too late. I was developing a good deal of sympathy for the head wife.
“The weather’s too risky for flying or driving,” I added, “but the train should make it through. Not supposed to be much snow south of Connecticut.”
“Well, now,” Terry said, sliding into the seat facing Yasmin. “I’ll be happy to share security duty as far as New York.”
“Don’t get too happy.” I sat down beside my charge. There were suddenly more limbs between the seats than would comfortably fit; I tried to let my long legs stretch into the aisle, but that tilted my ass too close to Yasmin, who wriggled appreciatively against my holster. I straightened up. “This is official business. The last thing I need is an international incident.”
I wondered why the hell I hadn’t told Terry to fuck off in the first place. Did I hope she’d distract Yasmin enough to take off some of the pressure? The tension had been building all morning. Even the rhythm of the train had been driving me toward the edge, with its subtle, insistent vibration. Or maybe it was just that the little bitch was too damned good at the game and too clearly driven by spite. I don’t have to like a tease to call her on it; if I hadn’t been on the job I’d have given Yasmin more than she knew she was asking for, and if it left my conscience a bit scuffed, what the hell—other parts of me would have earned a fine, lingering glow.
But I was on duty, and she was doubly untouchable, and knew it. Seven more hours of this was going to be a particularly interesting version of Hell.
“Keep it professional, Jo,” Lieutenant Willey had said. “This one’s a real handful.”
“I noticed,” I’d told her. Several handfuls, in fact, in all the right places, with all the right moves. “Don’t worry. I know better than to fuck the sheep I’m herding.” She should have slapped me down for that, but instead she rolled her eyes toward the door, and I saw, too late, that the troublesome sheep had just come in. No chance she hadn’t heard me. Anger sparked with interest sharpened her kittenish face, segueing into challenge as she looked me up and down.
“You’re off to a great start,” the lieutenant said dryly. “Just bear in mind that the Sultan wants her back ‘untouched,’ and I’d just as soon not have to argue the semantics of that with the State Department.” Something in her usually impassive expression made me wonder whether our charge had come on to her. If so, I was sure sorry I’d missed it.
By the time the train crossed from Vermont into Massachusetts, I realized Yasmin would come on to any available pair of trousers, with no discrimination as to what filled them. Even the professionally affable conductor got flustered when she rubbed up against him in passing, and she had a threesome of college boys so interested that I’d made the mistake of putting a proprietary arm around her shoulders and shooting them my best dyke-cop look as I yanked her back to our seats. The look worked fine, but it encouraged Yasmin to renew her attack on me.
“Ow!” she yelped when I tightened my grip on a hand that kept going where it had no business. “Why you are so mean to Yasmin?” Her coquettish pout left me cold, but a definite heat was building where her hand had trailed over my ass and nudged between my thighs. She knew I wasn’t impervious.
“Let’s just stick to the business of getting you back to your husband,” I said neutrally, aware of the continuing interest of the college kids three seats back. The less drama here the better.
“Why do you worry? He can’t order them to cut off your balls, the way they did to Haroun just for looking.”
“Right, and you can’t yank me around by them, either,” I muttered. The glitter of pleasurable recollection in her eyes was nauseating. What little I’d read about female genital mutilation flashed through my mind, and for a few minutes I really was impervious to her charms.
Terry’s company, whatever the complications, might be better than being alone with Yasmin—unless my competitive instincts reared up and made it all exponentially worse.
Terry could have been reading my mind. “Gee, Jo,” she said, “remember the last time you introduced me to one of your little friends?” Her grin was demonic.
“How could I forget? You healed up pretty well, though.” I stared pointedly at the scar running under her pierced eyebrow.
“Nothing like a dueling scar to intrigue the ladies,” Terry said cheerfully. “You seem to have found a good dentist.”
“You bet.” I flashed what Katzi used to call my alpha bitch grin.
Yasmin was practically frothing with excitement, jiggling her assets and leaning toward Terry to offer an in-depth view of her cleavage and a whiff of her sensuous perfume. When she balanced herself with a far-from-accidental hand high on my thigh, I realized that all I’d done was set her up to play us off against each other.
“So, Terry,” I said, firmly removing the fingers trying to make their way toward my treacherously responsive crotch, “What are you up to these days? Still living in the area?”
“I’m a paralegal in Northampton,” she said. “Going to law school nights.” Her gaze lingered on my badge, and for a rare instant I was hyperconscious of the breast underneath it. “Funny how we both got onto the straight side of the law.”
“No kidding,” I said. “I heard that anything goes in Hamp these days, but can you go to court rigged out like that?”
“I could, but I don’t.” I was pleasantly surprised to see a bit of a flush rise from her neck to her jawline. “I’m on my way to New York to do a reading at a bookstore in the East Village.”
“You’re a writer?” My surprise was hardly flattering, and her jaw tightened, as the flush extended all the way to her hairline.
“On the side, yeah,” she said brusquely. “Doesn’t pay much, but the fringe benefits can be outstanding.”
“Hey, I’ll just bet they are, if the stories match the getup! Erotica groupies, huh?”
Terry caught the new respect in my voice and relaxed. She let her legs splay apart. I’d already noticed she was packing; now Yasmin stared at the huge bulge stretching the black leather pants along the right thigh, and her kewpie-doll mouth formed an awe-struck O.
“Loaded for bear, aren’t we,” I said. “Ah, the literary life. I’ll have to check out some of your stuff—maybe get you to autograph a book.” I was more than half serious. She started to grin, and then an odd, startled look swept over her face. I glanced down and saw Yasmin’s stockinged foot nudging against the straining black leather.
It wasn’t a big enough deal to account for my first raging impulse to break Yasmin’s leg. I managed to suppress it, but by then everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. Terry’s presence was definitely making things worse. Much worse.
Yasmin pulled her silk skirt up so that we could get the full benefit of the shapely leg extended between the seats and the toes caressing the leather-sheathed cock. Then she applied enough force so that Terry caught her breath and automatically shifted her hips to get the most benefit; I felt the pressure as if she were prodding my own clit. But all I was packing was a gun, and that was on my hip.
I know from experience that you don’t get the optimum angle the way Yasmin was working. But you can get damned close. Katzi used to tease me like that in restaurants, he
r leg up under the table, her foot in my lap, her eyes gleaming wickedly as she watched me struggle not to make the kind of sounds you can’t make in public. She knew I wouldn’t let myself come, because I just can’t manage it without making a lot of noise.
The train wasn’t crowded, but it was public. Terry’s head was thrown back, her eyes glazing over, her hands gripping the seat. I was afraid my breathing was even louder than hers, and damned sure my cunt was just as hot. I had to stop the little bitch, but I was afraid if I touched her I’d do serious damage.
Then Yasmin, with a sly sidelong glance at me, unbuttoned her blouse and spread it open. As she fondled her breasts, her rosy nipples, which had thrust against the silky fabric all morning as though permanently engorged, grew even fuller and harder. Her torso undulated as her butt squirmed against the seat. Her foot was still working Terry’s equipment, but her focus had shifted.
“God damn!” whispered Terry. Or maybe it was me. Yasmin turned slightly and leaned toward me, still working her flesh, offering it to me, watching my reaction with half-closed eyes, her little pink tongue moving over her full upper lip. The tantalizing effect of her perfume was magnified by the musk of three aroused bodies.
“We’re coming into Hartford.” Terry’s strangled words sounded far away. “We’ll be at the station any minute!”
Yasmin’s voice, soft, taunting, so close that I felt her breath on my throat, echoed through my head. “Sergeant Jo doesn’t have the balls to fuck a sheep!”
I snapped.
I lunged.
With my right hand I clamped her wrists together above her head. With my left arm across her windpipe I pinned her to the seat back. I leaned over her, one knee between her thighs. Then I dropped my hands to her shoulders and shook her so hard that her head bobbled and her tits jiggled against my shirt front and the hard edges of my badge.
A strong hand grabbed my shoulder and yanked me back. When I resisted, something whacked me fairly hard across the back of my head. Then a soft, bulky object—my sheepskin jacket—was shoved down between us.
“Dammit, Jo, cool it!” Terry hissed. “And you,” she said to Yasmin in a tone slightly less harsh, “you little slut—and I mean that, of course, in the best possible sense of the word—cover up or I’ll let the sergeant toss you out onto the train platform.”
I nearly turned on her, but people were moving down the aisles to get off the train, and more people would be getting on. By the time the train was rolling again, I’d begun to get a grip, although I was still breathing hard, and my heart, along with several other body parts, was still pounding.
“Thanks,” I muttered. “I guess I needed that.”
“What you need,” Terry said deliberately, “is a good fucking. Jesus, Jo, if you don’t get it off pretty soon, you’ll have not only your international incident, but the mother of all lawsuits!”
She was right. I glanced at Yasmin. She had stopped whimpering and sat clutching my jacket around herself, watching us with great interest.
I pushed myself up into the aisle. “Can I trust you to keep her out of trouble for a couple of minutes while I at least take a leak?”
“You can count on me,” Terry said, and I had to go with it.
There was a handicapped-accessible restroom just across from us, long and roomy by Amtrak standards. I pissed, tied my long straggling hair back up as well as I could with a mirror too low to show anything above my chin, and leaned my pelvis against the rounded edge of the sink. It was cold, but not enough to do me any good. Then I shoved off and unlocked the door, knowing that nothing I could do for myself would give me enough relief to be worth the hassle.
As the door slid open, a black-clad arm came through, then a shoulder, and suddenly Terry and Yasmin were in there with me and the door was shut and locked again.
“Sudden attack of patriotism,” Terry announced with a lupine grin. “Have to prevent that international incident. It’s a tough job, but somebody’s gotta do it.”
“You and who else?”
“Just me. Our little princess is going to keep real quiet, now and forever, in return for letting her watch. No accusations, false or otherwise.”
I looked at Yasmin. Her eyes were avid. “I swear on my mother’s grave,” she said, and then, as I still looked skeptical, added, “on my sister’s grave!” Somehow, that was convincing. Just the same, I unhooked the cuffs from my belt and snapped them around her wrists with paper towels for padding, then pinned her to the door handle. When I turned back to Terry, the quirk of her brow told me I’d tacitly agreed.
To what, I wasn’t sure. We sized each other up for a minute like wrestlers considering grips. Then Terry made her move, trying to press me against the wall with her body, and I reflexively raised a knee to fend her off. Her cock against my kneecap made me feel naked. I’m used to being the hard body in these encounters. I know the steps to this dance, but I’ve never had to do them backward.
She retreated a few inches. “Gonna stay in uniform?” she asked, eyeing my badge. I unpinned it, slipped it into my holster, unfastened my belt, and hung the whole deal on a coat hook.
“Civilian enough for you?”
“Hell, no! The least you could do is show me your tits.”
I stared her in the eyes for a second—somehow I’d never noticed how green they could get—and started to unbutton my shirt. I wasn’t sure yet just where I might draw the line. I hung my shirt and sports bra over the gun and holster, even yanked my hair loose from its knot and let it flow over my shoulders. It would have come down anyway.
“So how about you?” She had left her jacket behind but wore a tight-cut leather vest over a black silk shirt.
She was observing me with such interest that she might not have heard. “Breasts like pomegranates,” she said softly. “Round and high and tight. Jeez, don’t they have gravity in New Hampshire?”
I looked down at myself. My nipples were hardening under an independent impulse. I grabbed Terry’s vest and pulled her close to mash the studded leather hard against me, then eased up to rub languorously against it. The leather felt intriguing enough that I didn’t push the issue of her staying dressed. And Katzi had accused me of never trying anything different!
Terry pressed closer. I leaned my mouth against her ear. “Pomegranates? Christ, Terry, is that the kind of tripe you write?”
“Yeah, sometimes, when the inspiration’s right. But I usually edit it out later.” She eased back and looked me over. “I don’t suppose,” she said, somewhat wistfully, “you could jiggle a little for me?”
“In your dreams!” We were both a bit short of breath now, both struggling with the question of who’d get to do what to whom. Much as my flesh wanted to be touched, my instinct was to lash out if she tried.
“In my dreams?” There was such an odd look in her eyes that I didn’t notice that she’d raised her hands until they almost brushed the outer curve of my breasts. “In my dreams,” she murmured, just barely stroking me, “you’re wearing red velvet.”
I hadn’t thought of that dress in years. Maybe the last one I ever wore. She’d worn black satin. A college mixer, some clumsy groping in a broom closet, a few weeks of feverish euphoria—then the realization that instead of striking sparks we were more apt to knock chips off each other. Eventually, in fact, we had. I ran my tongue over my reconstructed teeth.
Terry telegraphed an attempt at a kiss, but I wasn’t quite ready for that. I let her cup my breasts and rub her thumbs over my appreciative nipples. “One-time only offer,” I said, “for old times’ sake,” and pulled her head downward. She nuzzled the hollow of my throat while I ran my fingers through her crisp brush-cut. Then she went lower, her open mouth wet and hot on my skin, and by the time she was biting where it really mattered her knee was working between my thighs and I was rubbing against it like a cat in heat.
“Come on,” I muttered, “show me what you’ve got!” I groped the bulge in her crotch, and then, while she unbuckled and unbutto
ned and rearranged her gear for action, I kicked off my boots and pants.
She tried to clinch too fast. I let her grab my ass for a few seconds, then grabbed hers and shoved her leather pants back far enough that I could get a good look at what had been pressing between my legs.
“State of the art, huh?” Ten thick inches of glistening black high-tech cock, slippery even when not wet. At another time I’d have been envious. Hell, I was envious.
“This one’s mostly for show,” she muttered. “Are you sure…” But it was too late not to be sure.
“I can handle it,” I said. And I did handle it, working it with my hand, making her pant and squirm. I manipulated it so that the tip just licked at me, then leaned into it, and for long seconds we were linked in co-ownership of the black cock, clits zinged by a current keen as electricity but far sweeter. Then the slick material skidded in my natural lube and slid along my wet folds, and I spread for it and took it in just an inch or two.
Can’t hurt to see how the other half lives, I thought, and then, as Terry pressed harder, I remembered the size of what I was dealing with and realized that yeah, it might hurt, and yeah, I might just like it that way.
She pulled back a little and thrust again, and I opened up more, and she plunged harder, building into a compelling rhythm. I gripped the safety railing behind me and tilted my hips to take her deeper inside, aching for even more pounding.
But I had to go after it myself. “Let me move!” I growled.
Terry, uncomprehending, resisted my efforts to swing her around. The black cock, glistening for real now, slipped out as we grappled together.
We were pretty evenly matched in strength. She was a bit beefier; I was taller. She’d been working out with weights and machines; I’d been working over smart-ass punks and pot-bellied drunks. The tie-breaker was that I needed it more.
“You get to wear it; just shut up and let me work it!” I had her back against the railing now. I grabbed the slippery cock and held it steady just long enough to get it where I needed it. Then I swung into serious action.
Best of Best Women's Erotica Page 17
