by Gem Sivad
“As you well know, Robert, I cannot tolerate the smell of tobacco. It ruins the carpets and fouls the air.”
He knew Lydia’s rules as did every other customer ten steps through her front door. It appeared she wasn’t fussing about tobacco as much as her butler though.
“If he wasn’t such a pretty boy I would already have fired him.” Doorman absent or not, Lydia had no intentions of turning Deacon loose to roam.
“Benjamin will see you upstairs.” Benjamin was a bruiser dressed in a fine suit tailored to fit smoothly across muscles and concealed weapons.
Deacon remained silent as they climbed the broad sweep of stairs leading to the suites above. Upon arrival, he handed the escort a stack of greenbacks, which the man refused.
“Lydia says you’re her guest this visit. Dinner will be delivered at midnight. Enjoy your stay at the Pleasure Dome.”
Deacon waited until the other man disappeared down the steps. Then he fitted the key into the lock, entered and relocked the door before he faced the woman who’d been sent to entertain him.
Shock coursed through him. Lydia’s promise of someone special had for once been fulfilled. Deacon crossed the room and stood before the waiting girl. Women rarely reached above chest high on Deacon since, even barefoot, he dwarfed most men. But his night’s companion met his gaze without tilting her head or craning her neck.
Sooty lashes framed gray eyes flecked with silver, making her appearance strangely exotic. Charcoal brows contrasted with both her pale skin and the white-blonde hair hanging in a silken mane down her back.
“You work for Lydia?” His astonished words were out before he could stop himself.
“Tonight I work for you.” She laughed and touched his sleeve.
Surely she remembered him. But she didn’t mention that the last time they’d met, he’d been staked out over an anthill with strips of flesh torn from his back. Was it possible she’d never gotten a look at his face?
That was the first surprise. Her clothes or lack thereof was his second. Usually Lydia had her girls decked out in transparent costumes that left nothing to the imagination.
This woman wore a ruffled white shirt buttoned from shirttail to neck. It revealed little but what he could see made his breath catch in his throat. His gaze trailed upward, enjoying the shape of her bare feet, defined calves, not quite bony knees and pale columns of sculpted muscles. His gaze stalled on the tail of the shirt where it touched the top of her thighs.
She brushed her hands down her front as if trying to make the material cover more of her. The gesture served only to mold the fabric to her plump breasts, marking the white shirt with dents from the stiff peaks of her taut nipples.
She glanced at her chest and unexpectedly chuckled, the husky sound making its way straight to Deacon’s groin. He forgot about his mission to save Beauregard and ended all thoughts of spending the night alone.
Matter-of-factly she raised her arms to divide the thick mane hanging down her back. When she pulled two thick strands over her shoulders, her shirt pulled taut, displaying puckered nubs. He wanted her.
“I need to clean up,” he said abruptly. She gestured at the tub in the middle of the floor. He shook his head. “Shave first, then bathe.”
He scrubbed his hands and then made short work of lathering his face. He didn’t want to get dirty prints on the white material when he removed it. Excitement rippled through him. “Unbutton your shirt so I can look at you while I scrape off this beard.”
Absently he palmed the soap, rubbing it into lather while he surveyed her. The pale skin and light hair should have made her appear drab or dull but instead they served as a creamy landscape framing each vivid splash of color in her features.
Apricot blush tinted her cheeks as she obediently reached for the buttons closest to the bottom. Long tapered fingers unfastened the first four and stopped. The sight of her calloused palm and strong wrist startled him but he forgot about it when he glimpsed the soft nest of curls on her mound.
His glance traveled over the ruffles on the linen shirt past the full swell of unfettered breasts, up the elegant line of her neck. He paused and watched the tip of her pink tongue wet ruby lips. His gaze continued upward until he stared into her eyes. He’d been wrong. They weren’t gray but dark silver, the color of pewter. Laugh lines crinkled at the corners as she lifted a brow inquiringly.
“You don’t remember me?” He tensed, waiting.
“Of course I remember you,” she laughed, her tone husky when she added, “Beau said you needed rescued so there was no way out of it. You owe me a honeycomb. I’m glad to see I didn’t waste it doctoring you.”
“You let Beauregard talk you into going into that camp. That was crazy.”
“Well now,” she drawled agreeably, “we could talk about that. Or—we could play.”
It had been a long time since Deacon had played. A growl of pleasure rumbled in his chest. Though his hands were covered in lather, he touched the ruffled shirt’s neck, ran his finger down the front placket and paused when her breasts swelled on either side of his fingers.
“To here,” he said, leaving a wet mark that clearly defined where she could stop. He resumed shaving, staring at the reflection of his jaw in the mirror instead of at her. Deacon concentrated on keeping his hand from trembling as he scraped away dark whiskers.
“Want me to use that on you?” She gestured at the straight razor, stepping closer to him so he could see her reflection.
The button marking the wet spot he’d left in the middle of the shirt kept it from falling open. Lust roared through him.
“No, you do sloppy work.” He rinsed the razor in the bowl of water, flicking the excess water from it before slicing through the threads holding the last button in place. “You missed one.”
She leaned against the dresser and shifted her stance, displaying long, strong thighs covered in pale satiny skin—and the juncture between them. Deacon flipped apart the shirt, revealing the high, full breasts. A drop of water flicked from his hand to slide down her pearl-white flesh.
Her body was spare, without the usual softness or voluptuous curves he’d come to expect on a woman. Though her arms and shoulders were subtly defined by muscle, nothing on her body suggested excess other than the full bottom lip presenting him with a wickedly plump promise of sin—and the decadence of her breasts.
He held her gaze and cupped the rounded globes that defied the angles and planes of the rest of her. Need clawed inside him as the exquisite silk of her skin caressed his rough palms. Besides bringing his cock to life, she had a coltish grace that stirred a deeper part of him.
Instead of clipping his beard, he’d shaved it completely off. He felt almost naked without his facial hair.
“Where you shaved, your skin’s as smooth as a baby’s bottom.” She leaned closer, stroking the back of her hand along his jaw, and he turned his head, capturing her fingers in his mouth.
His reward was a startled hiss and goose bumps chasing over her skin. He kept her from removing her fingers and sucked on two of them, teasing them hard enough to make her nipples stand in stiff peaks. She moaned a husky sound of desire and swayed nearer, brushing against his shirt with her naked breasts. Relinquishing her fingers, he splashed water on his face before blotting the excess on a towel.
He wanted to close his lips around her nub, lave and suckle it until she whimpered and worry it with his teeth and tongue until she screamed and demanded more. As if she read his mind, she stepped back slightly, letting the sides of her shirt come together to hide her treasure.
“Your bath’s ready now.” Her hand trembled slightly as she pointed at the tub. Steam rose from the half-filled porcelain device that was big enough to accommodate both him and his companion.
Deacon grunted in appreciation. A woven screen decorated with pictures of exotic birds stood to the side, ready to give privacy if so desired.
“You can talk to me while I get rid of this layer of dust.” He dropped hi
s hand to his shirt. “I’m pretty ripe from the trail,” he warned her.
Their play during his shave had eased the awkwardness between two strangers but suddenly he was self-conscious. Before he’d fumbled open the second button on his shirt she took over.
“I’ve smelled worse,” she assured him, unbuckling and laying aside his gun belt before returning to the front of his pants. His swollen cock pushed against the denim material, making it hard to free the buttons from their slots. She bit her lip, concentrating on her task and avoiding his stare.
As he examined his paid companion, her cheeks flushed and had he not understood that she was a prostitute and experienced at the game, he would have said she was shy. As it was, he acknowledged Lydia’s claim. His night’s entertainment was special. She knew how to feign innocence.
After she mastered his buttons, she knelt next to his feet and his cock ached at the thought of her mouth on him. Obediently he steadied himself by holding her shoulder, admiring the silken length of thigh exposed to his view as she removed his boots and socks.
As soon as he stood in his bare feet, he freed his cock and stripped off the dusty denims. She remained crouched on the floor when he stood naked before her, his member a rigid lance begging to be buried between her legs—or lips. He stopped her when she lifted her hand as if to touch it.
“Not yet. Let me get clean first so we can both enjoy it.” Hastily, before he succumbed to lust, he stepped into the tub, dipping below the water and hiding his back. She surprised him again when she pressed him forward in the tub, inspecting his scars. They were healed but still tender welts running from his lower back to his shoulders. Silently, she picked up a sponge and began to bathe him.
“Pretty hair,” she murmured, soaping his head and kneading his scalp. He leaned into her ministrations, closing his eyes and shedding the weight of the world as she rubbed away the knots of tension at the back of his skull and then stroked lower, massaging his shoulders. He groaned, savoring bliss.
After she’d thoroughly rubbed and scrubbed, she popped open the drain and rinsed suds from his hair as the dirty water emptied.
“Hand me a towel,” he said gruffly. “I can take it from here.” His cock stood rigid between his thighs, reminding him why he’d prolonged his visit to the Pleasure Dome. Instead of handing him a towel, she blotted the excess drops from his head before leaning over his shoulder, closing the drain, and turning on the water to refill the tub.
“I favor a bath myself,” she explained when he looked at her in surprise.
He was ready for bed sports himself. She had him so hot he thought the new water might start boiling. But she’d earned the right to be in charge. He stayed in the tub. The sound of her shirt hitting the floor accompanied her slide in behind him. She gathered him in an embrace, pressing her breasts against his back and holding on to him as water inched higher, surrounding them in a pool of warmth.
“Ease on back and relax.” She was showing a surprising bossy streak but under the circumstances, Deacon let it slide. When he lay with his head nestled against her shoulder, drifting mindlessly in a fog of pleasure, she wrapped her legs around his waist, locking her feet and holding him captive. “Gotcha,” she said as if he was her prisoner.
Except for the ache in his shaft, Deacon couldn’t remember ever being so comfortable. He repositioned her hand, moving it from where it stroked his chest, guiding it to his groin and the rigid length of his arousal. His cock grew harder and her hand trembled under his.
She rode into an outlaw camp and saved my sorry ass. It had been stupid, him getting caught in the first place. He hadn’t even been hunting Pettigrew. After he’d caught sight of Joe Small in Abilene, he’d tracked the sonofabitch into hell’s country where rattlers were the closest thing to friendly that a man saw.
But Joe had seemed to know where he was going and instead of capturing him when he could have, Deacon got curious—and careless. He’d followed his outlaw quarry through a series of interconnecting canyons, not realizing that sentries aimed rifles down at him from the rim above. He’d been destined to die as soon as he’d entered the stone maze.
“I never told you thank you.” He shuddered, remembering. He’d been praying for a quick death when she’d saved him.
“You can do that now.” She began to explore, caressing his shaft, tracing a vein to the head of his cock, swirling her finger over his slit before curling her palm around his thickness. He covered her hand with his, guiding it up and down, his hips rising from the water, thrusting more of his dick in her hand as she tightened her grip and pumped him.
She leaned over his shoulder and he thought she was admiring his cock. He was startled when she laid a trail of kisses from behind his ear to the spot where his neck met his shoulder then lower, brushing her lips across his scars. He groaned when she licked him there.
It was all he could handle. If he didn’t get out of the water and in bed in a moment he’d have her spread in the tub, pounding into her.
“What should I call you, sweetheart?” he asked gruffly as he stood, lifting her with him, her legs still wrapped around his torso.
“Sweetheart’s fine,” she said, clinging to his back and laughing out loud.
Deacon laughed too. His fully aroused, rock-hard cock pointed at the bed as a beautiful woman rode him piggyback, her legs wrapping his waist and her pussy rubbing his back. The joy of being alive unfurled inside him.
Her giggles stopped after he crossed the room. She unlocked her legs and slid from his back to stand beside him, facing the bed. He turned, gazing over her long limbs and strong beauty.
She trembled when he let his hand travel down the curve of her waist, stopping to caress her flat belly before dropping lower. Her nether curls, the same blonde color adorning her head, formed a pale triangle between her thighs.
“Spread your legs.” He ran his finger down the lips of her sex, holding her gaze as she loosened her thighs. Stroking the soft folds of flesh, he coaxed her until honey flowed from her channel and she relaxed her rigid stance.
Deacon played in her liquid heat before sliding his finger inside her. She flinched at his touch and her channel clenched as if it sought to repel the intruder. He pulled out and coated his digit with her slippery essence before testing her size again. This time he pulled her closer, pressing her body against his as his finger circled her entrance, teasing her sensitive flesh until she relaxed and moaned.
The wind kicked up, howling in the night outside, and she shivered against him, chill bumps racing over her flesh. He reached behind her and grabbed the cover from the bed, pulling it around her shoulders.
“Thank you. I’m not partial to cold,” she explained.
“I’ll keep you warm,” he promised, loving the soft cadence of her speech.
Deacon laid her on the sheet, covering her body with his before inserting his leg between hers and spreading her thighs. He drew his knee higher until it brushed her lower curls.
“Still cold?” He held himself above her, his chest touching her breasts, his face close enough to hers for his murmured question to brush her lips.
Her head jerked sideways indicating no. He couldn’t wait any longer and nudged her legs wider. Aligning his cock with her channel, he imagined plunging through her tight passage. But she wasn’t ready. He rubbed the end of his shaft in her honey, wetting his cock before sliding it along her entrance instead of thrusting to her core as he wanted.
She tensed, squeezing her internal muscles so hard the end of his dick throbbed, threatening to spill. He stopped, staring down at her. She had her eyes screwed shut and her lower lip caught between her teeth.
“It’s not supposed to be an unpleasant experience,” he observed wryly.
“Sorry.” She blinked at him owlishly. “Might take a time or two before I know what’s what with you.”
He stared into her eyes, feeling a tug of awareness at her words. But then the moment of uneasy recognition passed as he focused on the now. Her pu
pils were huge black dots obliterating the gray of the surrounding iris. Her skin was blanched of color and her breath came in shallow pants.
“Do you want me to stand down?” Though he offered, it was the last thing Deacon wanted to do.
“No,” she gasped and threw a leg over his hip as if to hold him in place.
Deacon hadn’t kissed a woman in over ten years—since his wife had died to be exact. He’d bedded females to ease his lust, spoken to them pleasantly when conversation demanded, even set up a short-term liaison once, testing the idea of maintaining a mistress. But kissing required a degree of intimacy he’d refrained from.
That changed when he gazed at the woman beneath him. Her mouth trembled as he nudged his cock through the opening to her channel.
“Relax, sweetheart,” he murmured. His breath mingled with hers as they stared into each other’s eyes. And then he took possession of her lips, slid his hand under her rump to tilt her to a better angle and swallowed her cry of surprise as he thrust inside.
He couldn’t stop. An animal-like roar gathered inside him as he penetrated her sheath, tearing through the barrier that had guarded her innocence.
It was hard to say who was more shocked in that moment—Deacon or the virgin prostitute who’d just been deflowered.
“I’m your first.” He grunted in disbelief, staring into teary eyes that were also crinkled in mirth.
“You might be my last too if it’s all like this.” She giggled, surprising him with her flash of humor.
He wanted to ask her why in hell she was whoring in a brothel for Lydia Lynch, but set aside such questions for later. For the moment, he concentrated on pleasing her and making this a night to always remember.
“Can’t be responsible for making your first time a bad time,” he assured her. He began to move, stretching her passage with slow, easy thrusts, straining to hold himself above her and show her the tenderness a woman’s first time deserved.
When he bent to take her mouth again, she opened her lips to him, threading her fingers through his hair and stroking the back of his head as he deepened the kiss. His cock filled her below and his tongue above.
