Labor Day in Lusty, Texas [The Lusty, Texas Collection] (Siren Publishing Menage Everlasting)

by Cara Covington

  She complied, and when Carson held his cock at the base and pointed it toward her, she moved forward.

  “Another of your firsts?” His tone had softened.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Open your mouth, baby. Suck my cock inside. Use your tongue on my shaft and suckle. I’ll guide you.”

  She’d worried, for just a moment, that she wouldn’t know what to do. But Carson’s words soothed her. He would guide her. She trusted him. She trusted both of these men.

  Abigail licked the pearly drop from the tip of Carson’s cock then sucked the bulbous purple head between her lips and into her mouth. The taste of him opened a need within her and began to fill that need in the same heartbeat. Then he placed his hands on her head, his fingers twined in her tresses, as he moved her head, down, then up, as he gently but decisively began to fuck her mouth. His soft groans and words of pleasure encouraged her. When she felt hands on her thighs, she gave over, parted her legs slightly, but never stopped moving her tongue on Carson’s shaft, never stopped giving his cock those suckles that continued to feed her tiny drops of his jism.

  And she shuddered and jerked when warm, wet male lips and a skilled tongue began to eat her pussy.

  Chapter Eleven

  Thinking ceased. Only feeling existed here, and Abigail, a woman of reason, became Abby, a woman in the thrall of her lovers, devoted solely to pleasuring and receiving pleasure. She emptied her mind as she swirled her tongue along the shaft of Carson’s cock. She sucked on the head, drawing it into the cavern of her mouth even as she tilted her hips back to thrust her pussy against Michael’s face.

  She sucked and she thrust and she groaned as her horniness grew. Carson flexed his fingers in her hair and cursed, heart-felt utterances of pleasure. She felt his hands shaking and knew it was from restraint. His movements inside her mouth were gentle, despite his obvious rising passion. Can I make him lose control?

  Michael made a relishing sound against her wet folds, and the vibration, added to the friction of his tongue and lips, nearly triggered another orgasm for her. She whimpered and understood immediately that Carson was just as susceptible to the erotic combination of vibration and friction as she when his cock flexed in response.

  There were sounds of passion, wet slurping sounds of pleasure given and taken. The scent of sex—raw, pungent and seductive—filled the air and her lungs and stripped off another layer of civilization. She moaned and growled and counted it all as lucid conversation.

  Then Michael inserted his fingers into her pussy and seemed to find the same trigger within her tunnel that Carson had found earlier.

  Her scream against the cock in her mouth, and then her deep draw on it, pulled Carson’s ejaculation right out of his body and into hers. Abigail swallowed instinctively, fighting the impulse of her throat to close, as the nearly overpowering flavor of Carson’s seed exploded over her taste buds. She was hyper-aware of her pussy, of each little rivulet cream she oozed as Michael growled and lapped as if tasting something addictive.

  Each wave of her own rapture was complemented by her throat being bathed in Carson’s cum, and she swallowed as a new and dark desire blossomed within her.

  When he’d given her all he had, Carson extricated himself from her mouth, his hands languid as he stroked her head, her shoulders, and her neck. “Thank you, baby.” He bent over and kissed her head. “You have got one hell of a talented mouth.”

  She looked up and met Carson’s gaze. Such tenderness shone back at her that her breath hitched. “I’ve never done that before, but I enjoyed myself.” The taste had given her a moment, but already she wanted more. Then a thought struck. “I hope I did it right.”

  Carson chuckled lightly. “Trust me, baby, you can’t do it wrong.”

  She hadn’t moved from the four-on-the-floor position Carson had commanded her into. Beneath her, Michael kissed her left inner thigh. She felt him move out from between her legs. In the next heartbeat he tented her, his back nearly touching hers as he placed kisses on her shoulders. Then he picked her up and cradled her in his arms as he sat on the edge of the bed.

  As she had with Carson, she raised her head and stared at the evidence of her sexual release on his face. He must have understood what she needed because he anchored his fingers in her hair, angled her head, and covered her mouth with his.

  I taste different on him. The odd thought flitted away, and Abigail absorbed the flavors of them, the taste serving to spark her arousal to new life. Her tongue danced with his, and she returned his suction, swallowing as if she could truly drink him. She felt Michael’s hard naked cock against her hip. A keen craving to truly drink him exploded into a desperate need.

  Abigail felt wild and wanton, and it was wonderful!

  She lifted her lips from his. “Please, Michael, let me suck your cock. I need to taste you, too.” She moved to get down, but he stayed her. Instead, he rolled back onto the bed and drew her with him.

  When he was done arranging them, Michael was on his back in the middle of the bed, as he’d been earlier when he’d commanded her to ride him. He gave her a raunchy smile as he used his hand in a sweeping gesture. “My cock is all yours, Abby.”

  She had more knowledge now even if it was newly learned and immediately got on her knees on the bed and lowered her face to his crotch. She took a moment to really look at his cock. Is he slightly longer than Carson, maybe not as thick? Michael’s cockhead was a slight purple, and oh, so smooth to the touch. She rubbed her nose in the hair that nestled his shaft, inhaling his scent deep into her soul. His unique aroma teased her senses, tickling her arousal. Already wet, she felt more of her own dew emerge from her body, just a little. Bent over him the way she was, her legs slightly spread, she imagined she could smell herself. Using her tongue, Abby licked Michael’s cock like he was a large, all-day sugar pop—hers to savor.

  “You’re killing me, woman. Take me into your mouth. Suck me off.”

  Abigail loved it when either of her lovers got that commanding tone. Hearing it sent delicious shivers down her spine. She met his gaze. “Yes, sir!” She’d think about the way his eyes and nostrils had flared, the way his cock had just bounced in her hand with her response, but later. At the moment, she needed to obey. Abigail bent to him once more and sucked his cock deep into her mouth.

  “God, yes.”

  The flavor of his cock was different, just his, and Abigail had the stray thought that one day she might be able to identify her lovers by the taste of their cocks in her mouth.

  A tiny drop of Michael’s pre-cum settled on her tongue, and she lost herself in pleasuring them both.

  She sucked and stroked, one hand on his shaft and the other cupping his balls. She shivered when his hand in her hair seemed to grip passionately. She wanted his gift, wanted to feel his jism in her throat, and devoted herself, her attention, her everything then and there to making that happen.

  The bed dipped, and Carson placed a firm hand on her lower back. Fingers coated with something slick and cool wedged between her ass cheeks and began to stroke back and forth over her anus.

  She jerked and gasped around Michael’s cock, and both men chuckled.

  “She is such a delightfully dirty girl,” Carson said.

  “She’s absolutely perfect.”

  Being talked about as if she wasn’t even there didn’t affect her like she would have imagined. Abigail didn’t feel objectified. She felt cherished. Clearly her brain had short-circuited from sex. She’d try to work it all out later.

  Carson bent over her and nuzzled her shoulder. “We’re going to want to fuck your ass, baby. But not before we prepare you to take our cocks, first.”

  Carson’s fingers against her rosette didn’t annoy, they thrilled, and as Abigail’s arousal soared, she pressed back, needing more. Drawing strongly on Michael’s cock, caressing his balls and squeezing his shaft, she shivered as she ran for the finish.

  She felt Michael’s cock twitch. “Yes, now.”

 
Abigail had braced for Michael’s ejaculate when Carson slid a hand around her and pinched her clit at the same time he pressed a finger against her anus, pushing steadily until he penetrated her.

  Abigail swallowed Michael’s cum as she came, wave after wave, spasm after spasm, and knew she would never, ever be the same.

  * * * *

  Early Monday evening Neil Farnsworth drove past the address he’d written to over the years but never visited. It looked much different than what he’d seen in the couple pictures Cleve had sent him. He’d known the house was built in a style referred to as Victorian but didn’t quite match what he’d seen in England. Over there, where the so-called style originated, many of the structures resembled what his former countrymen would call small castles. This house was quite small by comparison.

  There, most of the Victorian homes were made of stone. Here, wood frames and slats stood in place of stone. There, it meant a home built during the Victorian era. Here, Victorian style was the term used and, in his opinion, quite incorrectly. There really was no such thing as a “Victorian style.”

  Conscious of oncoming traffic, Neil continued on his way then, after a half-mile or so, turned his rental car around and cruised passed the structure once more.

  This time, he parked along the curb a block down then got out and strolled toward his target. Treat this like any other job. He wished Cleve had sent him more than pictures of his home/bookstore. He wished he’d sent the blueprints for the place, as well.

  Hell, I wish he’d just told me where, exactly, he hid his cache.

  Of course, the man obviously never thought he might just up and die and that Neil would be forced to break in and search the place.

  Cleve had been very good at ensuring there were blueprints for every building they’d ever targeted. Neil had never gotten involved in that end of the planning, and he wasn’t even certain he could obtain the schematics for this house, even if he knew how to go about getting them. He’d never enquired as to the mechanics involved in preparation. That was a failing, on my part. Neil didn’t know when this house had been built, although Houston, like most of the cities on this continent, wasn’t really very old at all—certainly not compared to England.

  A wooden sign had been affixed on the lawn. It read “Arbuckle’s Books” in a simple script. The front door to the place, situated at the top of the small porch, which held a couple of glass panes with screen behind, was reinforced by a more formidable wooden inner door.

  Now that he was here—not just here in America but here in front of his objective—he needed to take a few moments and figure out exactly what he was going to do and how he was going to do it.

  He would treat this like any other job. He and Cleve would arrive in their target destination and check into their chosen hotel. Neil nodded. That much was already done. Then they would pour over the specs Cleve had procured and decide on point of entry, relative to where the target safe was located. They’d make sure they had eyes on their target in the daylight. If possible, they’d make several passes of the address, ensuring there would be no last-minute surprises. Then they’d ensure they had all the hardware they needed—ropes, glass cutter, pick set, stethoscope for the tumblers in the safe.

  Neil couldn’t follow their usual procedure in that aspect, exactly. There were no specs to be consulted. No, but what he did have were memories. Memories that spanned a couple of decades, of letters and conversations over time about this building where Cleveland Arbuckle had built a home and a business that served as an excellent means to launder the dollars made from his other, best destiny occupation—cat burglar.

  Together we make the perfect cat burglar, Neil. I handle the prep, and you lead the mission.

  Yes, Cleve’s forte was the prep work while Neil had never met a door he couldn’t breach.

  He stepped forward to read the sign on the door. Anyone looking would assume he was just interested in buying books. The sign read simply, “Re-Opening Soon.” It must have just been good luck that someone answered when I rang. It didn’t appear, at the moment, that there was anyone living here—and certainly, the store itself was currently closed. Locked up right and tight, or so the new owner would think.

  Perhaps the new owner had yet to install someone to manage the place. He didn’t need to search his memory. It was at the forefront of his thoughts. Michael Benedict. The man’s voice had sounded educated—more educated than he was used to hearing, as he dealt with a great number of Americans in his travel business.

  One of the things Neil could do was go to the local library and see if the city of Houston published a directory. He’d use that, and peruse phone books and the like, and see if he could come up with that name.

  In the meantime, it was nearing the supper hour. Neil would head back to his hotel—leaving his cap and fake moustache he was wearing now in his rental car. He’d eat, and then he’d ensconce himself in his room and make his lists. Tomorrow, he’d seek out the library then see what he could do to purchase the tools he’d need and maybe spend some more time staking out the place. It would be handy to know how much traffic there would be in the neighborhood at night. As well, if the store did happen to open, he could drop in and introduce himself as a friend of the late previous owner. That would give him an inside look, and that would be invaluable as he formalized his plans.

  There were other businesses here, along this street, but some of the houses appeared to be simple residences. The neighborhood wouldn’t be as deserted after hours as, say, a manufacturing area or dockyard. He’d have to wait and see what he learned over the next few days and nights.

  This was going to be his last “job.” He knew what he was about and would see it through. Then he’d retire, a little earlier than planned.

  Then, and only then, would he allow himself to mourn the loss of his best friend—and partner in crime.

  Chapter Twelve

  She’s absolutely perfect for us.

  Carson had suspected Abigail was meant to be theirs the first moment he laid eyes on her. That knowledge paled compared to how he felt right now. The reality of holding her, kissing her, and making love to her was the greatest experience of his life. The way Michael stood close to her, the way he couldn’t seem to keep his hands off her, told Carson his brother felt the exact same way.

  He, too, worked beside her as they prepared the simple supper of omelets and toast. He already considered this meal they were about to share to be the most lavish feast ever because they’d made it, the three of them, together.

  God willing, this will be just the first of many such intimate times we share.

  Carson had offered to order in from one of the five-star restaurants in town. He was a Benedict and would have had no problem having a catered supper delivered within minutes. But Abby—their Abby—had suggested this, instead.

  “You’re going to have to show me where the nearest grocery store is.” She shook her head and even laughed. “From what I’ve heard over the years, the two of you keep this place like a typical bachelor pad, at least when it comes to the contents of your kitchen. How y’all expected to make meals with only milk, eggs, cheese, and beer in the fridge is beyond me.”

  “We can’t deny that charge, sweetheart,” Michael said. “Though I should point out that we can both cook—the fathers insisted on our learning to do just that—but up until now, it’s always been easier, and preferable, for us to just eat out.”

  “I guess I can understand that, especially if the two of you have schedules that don’t mesh all the time.”

  “That’s it, exactly. Our schedules rarely do mesh. We’ve used this apartment, mostly, only as someplace to sleep or for me to host small parties as CEO of the company, when necessary.” Carson met Abby’s gaze. He wanted her again already. Don’t be greedy. As tight as she’d been when he’d taken her that first time, she probably felt a little uncomfortable at the moment. He’d see about drawing her a nice warm bath after they ate. He and Michael could serve as her bat
h attendants, and then…he put away that train of thought and brought his mind back to the conversation at hand. He couldn’t, however, do anything about the boner that pushed against his pants.

  Carson met her gaze and knew what he needed to say. “We never had any reason to make this apartment seem like a home. But right now, staying here with you is all we want to do. Right now, for the first time, this feels like a home. Because you’re here, with us.”

  He didn’t know what she saw in his gaze, but Abby removed the pan with the omelets from the burner and came to him. She reached up, caressed his face, and then stroked her hand down his arm. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me. And I understand it, completely. My house, back in Abilene, is just a house, a place to eat and sleep. This does feel like a home here—as did the Big House, back in Lusty. I never knew what that would feel like or that I was missing out on anything at all. But now I do know, and I also know, it’s not the location, or whether it’s a house or an apartment that makes the difference. It’s the people you’re with that make where you are feel like home.”

  Was it wrong of him to wish he had a few minutes with her mother and grandmother? To wish he could let them know the pain they’d dealt Abigail as a child, at a time in her life when they should have been nurturing her, loving her, instead? It was a marvel to him that she’d grown into the warm and open woman she was.

  He wouldn’t say that, but he couldn’t stay silent, either. “Is it any wonder that we’re drawn to you, Abigail Parker? Your heart is the most beautiful thing about you.” He lowered his face and kissed her, needing to taste, to caress, to show her in the only way he knew how, just how special she was to him.

  Carson ended the kiss then ran his thumb over her bottom lip. “Let’s get this supper on the table.”