The Substantial Gift [The Sunset Palomino Ranch 3] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting)

by Karen Mercury

  Only her eyes peeked over the dune’s crest now, as her fingers moved to undo her jean buttons. She slid her longest middle finger over her button, finding it plump and slippery. Now Harper was massaging his balls with what must have been pleasure, because surely he didn’t need to fondle them that much to wash them. His free hand snaked around the limb of his cock, soap bubbles squirting between his fingers.

  He squeezed just beneath the ridge where the plum-like glans swelled, shiny and purple. He must be an expert at that. I sure don’t know what I’m doing. Having masturbated so infrequently, Violet barely knew how to touch herself to create which sensation. She found that if she flicked the pad of her finger over the bulb of her clitoris—“clit,” Bryan liked to call it, when busy not paying attention to it—it caused an electric, shooting sensation that went straight to her uterus. Animals must have this sensation, to induce them to procreate. Otherwise, why do it? It was pointless, really, if bearing children wasn’t the aim. She had never understood the drive, the goal, the pleasure in it.

  It was definitely not pointless when Harper’s stroking movements became hurried and urgent. Erotic waves of delight washed up and down Violet’s torso as she fingered her clit. It was a completely foreign, alien sensation to feel such wicked delight in spying on a man masturbating himself like this. California must be turning her into a wanton vamp. When Harper gripped the breadth of his cock in his fist and stroked insistently, Violet sped up her own movements. Her middle finger diddled so fast it must have been a blur as she matched Harper’s strokes with her own.

  She didn’t even care that she was gasping aloud, panting even, her puffs of breath creating a little crater in the sand dune. Harper thrust his hips forward, humping his penis into his fist, massaging his ball sac so fervently he created a little cloud of foam. With his head tilted back, his lips parted, and one eyebrow quirking as he lost himself in his pleasure, he was the picture of the sultry Roman god, a sculpted, unself-conscious beauty. His thigh muscles quivered, his nostrils flared, and Violet wondered if he was building up to the same sort of crescendo as she was.

  Her fingers dug into the sand as though she clung to the dune for life. Her entire palm was awash with her own juices as she fought to find room inside her tight jeans. When Harper shot his seed in a glittering arc across the moving current, Violet had no choice but to heed her insistent body’s urging. She came too.

  Unbidden, her pussy thrust her hand into the sand as though to find better friction. Her face smashed against the dune as her eyes automatically squeezed shut, and she choked on her own cries like an animal caught in a snare. Time after time the inner walls of her pussy clamped down on nothing, as the spasms sucked against an absent penis. She was swept away by the first several waves of ecstasy, and as they ebbed she struggled to regain control. She wasn’t accustomed to getting lost like this. She liked control.

  She dragged herself upright, trying to force air into her lungs. She was just in time to see Harper choke the last few dribbles of semen from his cock, his hips still twitching with his own spasms. Violet knew she’d never witnessed such a mind-blowing sight. He caressed his foamy balls as though it hurt him, wincing, lifting his upper lip in a snarl.

  A few soft whiffles had Violet snapping her neck around. The wondrous sight of Harper was yanked from her mind painfully. Her damned frisky mount that she hadn’t bothered to picket had trotted up the dune to huff and puff at her that it was time to go. Damned horse probably knows Harper. Violet reached up to grasp a strap and quiet the horse. She wrenched her torso back down when she realized this brought her into Harper’s view.

  She was staring eye to eye with the dapper outdoorsman. He had walked into a deeper pool to rinse the soap from his groin, but evidently had frozen when he caught sight of her grabbing the horse’s latigo. His pinpoint pupils fixed her, pinning her to the dune. Like a rogue wave he was out of the water, his body a streak of light. It seemed to only take him three or four long-legged strides to close the distance between them, but suddenly he loomed above her, grabbing the strap from her fist.

  “What’s the big fucking idea?” Ordinarily it would have been funny—his penis still at half-mast. It hung heavy between his sinewy thighs, still throbbing from recent stimulation. Harper didn’t seem to care, though. He rattled the strap so thoroughly Violet was forced to let go, and she fell to the sand in a pile. “Now you’re fucking spying on me? First you want one of my horses, now you’re lurking on the beach like some kind of perverted voyeur?”

  Violet tried to defend herself. She was in a subservient position both emotionally as well as physically, and she already knew any protestation would come out feebly. “I…I was already here. I was here first, watering my horse.”

  “First, eh? Is that why I had time to completely take an entire head to toe bath before noticing you lurking?” Harper opened his mouth more fully to reprimand her louder, but his face seemed to soften. Violet followed his gaze, and with the sudden shock of nausea realized her jeans were still unbuttoned. Her hand felt stickier and clammier than ever, and she lowered her eyes in shame. “Well, then. In that case. Nothing wrong with a little healthy spying. Whatever floats your boat, my little heiress.”

  “I’m no heiress,” Violet protested weakly. Her voice was weak as well as her denial as she fumbled with her jeans buttons. Is that the only defense I have for being caught red-handed spying on him as he jacked himself off? “I…invest my dad’s money and live on the returns.”

  She was surprised when Harper reached a hand down to her to help her stand. “Really? That’s what you took from that?” He chuckled as they stood face to face. He was even handsomer, if such a thing was possible, with his hair slicked back, rainbow droplets of freshly melted ice in his sparse beard, his nipples stiff as bullets. Violet shrank back from the direct slam of his body heat, his pulsating cock just inches from her abdomen. “I’m thoroughly busted, that’s all there is to it. I was getting a good heat on, beating off down there. All’s fair in love and war.”

  Which was it, then? Love or war? Violet was only bold enough to stare at his lower lip. “I have no excuse for spying on you in a private moment. I’m ashamed, as well I should be. I acted like an animal.”

  She deserved it when he took her chin his fingers and forced her to look him in the eye. He examined her carefully, probably for signs of mental illness. “Tell me, then. You’re into biology, right? Did it excite you to watch me?”

  She didn’t have to look in his eyes. She wasn’t accustomed to bold talk like this. She looked at his ear instead. “Yes. Of course. It’s only natural that a female—or a male, for that matter—should get excited when viewing an erect, excited penis. It’s a natural response. My estrogen just surged when you started—when you—” She couldn’t finish her sentence, her shame was so great. Harper had truly and well busted her. Her only hope was to slink off on her horse in shame.

  Harper finished her sentence. “When I started jacking my hard-on?” He was still holding her by the hand, and his hard-on was still practically knocking against her navel. She had to give him credit for courage. He was probably accustomed to standing around in the nude holding conversations with people. Cowboys always lived in close quarters. They had no choice. Was it her imagination, or was he breathing a little heavier? “Look, don’t be embarrassed. Like you said, hormones, a natural reaction. I’m used to that reaction from women. But you’ve got to understand, Miss Stinson. I bat for the other team. You’ll never get the same response from me.”

  Finally roused to act, Violet wrenched her hand from his. “What an arrogant ass! ‘Used to that reaction,’ what a pompous jerk!” she cried, before her brain could filter her words. She nodded at his erection, jutting out boldly from his steamy crotch. “And what about that, pray tell? Why is your penis still standing at attention if the idea of me spying on you doesn’t arouse you in the slightest?”

  Finally, Harper seemed a bit taken aback. He folded his arms below his admirable chest,
and Violet despised him a little. “Like you said. A natural reaction. Just a holdover from my climax, which I’m sure you got an eyeful of. Admit it, Miss Tycoon. You were getting off against your hand at the exact same second I was shooting my wad.”

  The blood swirling in Violet’s head nearly drowned out her loud gasp. Unbidden, her hand reached up and even pulled back in order to deliver a better, louder slap to Harper’s face. Bap! “You complete and utter prick!” she cried. If she’d been calmer, she would’ve chosen her words more wisely. “I pity the male sex if you’re god’s gift to them! You can’t handle the reality of a real woman, so you play around in your stupid club, tying them up in chains and whipping them! Yeah, I heard all about that, Mr. Davies. Don’t think I don’t know what goes on in those clubs—I lived in Europe for fifteen years.”

  And with a haughty jerk of her head, Violet stormed back to her horse. Unaccustomed to the western saddle, she knocked her boot against the high cantle. She clutched at the fender and was not the picture of outraged grace as she hefted herself into the seat.

  But she had gotten through to him, she could tell. He flailed his arms around and yelled, “If you knew so much, you’d know it wasn’t ‘whips and chains,’ Miss Stinson! Maybe you’re just in denial because you’re afraid how excited you might get it you went and observed what really goes on!”

  Safely in her saddle now, Violet tugged at the reins she’d gathered in one hand. The western way was to use both hands, and the horse jerked its neck and wheeled about. Violet was almost a comical circus performer as she raged back at the stupid vaquero. “Oh, I have no doubt at all I’d be excited to watch some of that go on. I wouldn’t mind being the one to give you a whipping myself!”

  Satisfied with her final riposte, Violet spurred the mount and rode off, furious. She was a brave, fine rider, she knew. She could go very fast and could jump anything in her path. She knew she cut a lovely figure stampeding off like that, zigzagging between the Joshua trees.

  What a pompous fucking scum-sucker that man is. I may have been attracted to him, but it was purely chemical, purely a result of estrogen overload. He’s got a celestial body and the brain of a toolbag. In fact, I’m so fueled by estrogen right now, I’ll go home and call my lawyer. It’s about time I moved onto the next stage of the divorce proceedings.

  I want that money. I want more than half of Bryan’s fortune. And I’m going to turn around and donate it to rhinos in Africa.

  Chapter Five

  That ride had lasted all of five seconds.

  The gelding had burst from the bucking chute full of vigor and promise. Both Harper’s spurs were touching the gelding’s shoulders, and with one hand he gripped the rigging. It was thrilling and arousing both at the same time, and Sinclair got to his feet along with half the crowd in the outdoor arena.

  “Harper’s made seventy-seven thousand dollars so far this year,” Drake yelled at Sinclair.

  Sinclair yelled back. “But the beatings they take! He’s flailing around like a jackhammer out there!”

  “Yeah, they take a lot of abuse on their arms and back. Whoa!”

  Harper frantically spurred the mount in an effort to make the qualifying eight second ride, but he was doomed from the beginning. Looking like a dummy with fringed chaps, leather vest, and white Stetson, Harper was thrashed back and forth as he kept his seat on the animal’s back. Sensing his ride was doomed, pick-up men closed in warily.

  Drake yelled, “The horse would score well for power and agility, but see how Harper’s losing it? Yup, there he goes.”

  Probably knowing he couldn’t make eight seconds for whatever reason, it looked as though Harper took a wild leap to be free of the bucking animal.

  Drake bellowed, “It’s the most physically demanding event in rodeo. It’s like pro football, only tougher.”

  The annual Last Chance Roundup was on Amadeo Barbieri’s property. This regional for the California circuit was one of many that led to the National Finals in Oklahoma City. Harper’s day was off to a bad start with the bailout.

  Drake mused, stroking his chin. “It’s almost like he was distracted.”

  Sinclair’s heart thudded in his chest. It was too good to hope that the hypnotic, athletic cowboy was distracted by him. Then in the same beat, Sinclair berated himself for caring why the twisted guy was distracted. Maybe Harper was wondering which full-body PVC harness he should wear to The Racquet Club that night. Sinclair tried to scoff as much as possible at the hearty outdoorsman who would have looked more at home during the Revolutionary War. Scoffing and belittling the cow boss improved Sinclair’s mood, lifted the dark fog that had settled over his shoulders ever since that run-in with the randy vaquero.

  But truth was, Sinclair could think of little else. That night, he had masturbated to the swiftest climax in years just thinking about that elegant, sun-brown, roughened hand massaging his dick to orgasm. He justified it to himself. It was solely because it was a faceless, zipless encounter. It could have been a man or a woman groping his cock to orgasm. But when Sinclair had again run into the cowhand in Drake Stinson’s office, the powerful attraction between them couldn’t be brushed aside. When Harper had arrogantly snapped his neckerchief while staring daggers at Sinclair, Sinclair’s cock swelled against his thigh. “Morgan,” the tat on his pectoral said. Morgan must’ve been one lucky guy.

  And then Sinclair had to figuratively slap himself to stop thinking that way. Who cared who Morgan was, anyway? The last thing Sinclair was about to do in Last Chance was embark on some gay fling. He didn’t want to gulp a long, fat cock down his throat. He was straight to the bone.

  He’d come to the rodeo today to watch Harper act manly in the “rough stock” competition. The fact that Drake seemed to be pushing his sister at Sinclair was only icing on the cake. After the way she’d run off in the Cavern on the Green, he’d finally figured out she didn’t like his association with her wayward husband. But today when Drake had introduced them, for the first time to Drake’s knowledge, she had smiled widely, and her hand had lingered longer than it should have when they shook. Now she sat next to Sinclair on the bench wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat and giant shades that made her look like an ant.

  Her words didn’t help take Sinclair’s mind off Harper, though. “He’s only been pro for two years, but he’s taken the world by storm. So they say, anyway.”

  “I heard that, too,” said Sinclair. “But he’s thirty-four, which means he’s sort of old already. Most rough stock competitors are in their twenties. They burn out or get injured by the time they’re thirty.”

  “Well, since he just started, maybe he hasn’t had time to burn out yet.” Violet seemed to want to talk about the horny cowboy, too.

  Drake leaned over both of them. “It means he’ll go to finals in Oklahoma City in April if he can just stay on that damned bronc longer than eight seconds. So stop distracting him!”

  Sinclair’s heart thudded in his chest to think that Drake referred to him. “Distracting him? Who’s distracting him?”

  Drake jerked a thumb at Violet. “I keep seeing him looking over at you, Violet. You know I don’t like that and Dad’s going to have a coronary if you keep making eyes at a fucking cowboy.”

  Violet drew away from her brother, leaning on Sinclair in the process. “I’m not making any fucking eyes. And I haven’t seen him looking over here once.”

  Sinclair took exception to that. “Oh, he’s looked over here several times, tipped his hat.” It gave him a thrill to imagine that Harper tipped his hat at him. Of course, it probably was Violet. Harper was just paying his respects to the lady of the ranch.

  Drake nodded vehemently. “I’ve seen that too. So, Violet, just a warning. I’m not a snitch or a nark, but if Dad ever remotely heard you had the hots for a fucking cowboy—well, look what he did to me after that mishap in India.”

  “He practically disowned you,” said Sinclair.

  Violet frowned. “He gave you the ranch, Drake. That’s h
ardly a punishment for having banged—”

  “Almost banged,” Drake corrected.

  “—a transvestite in a sari. Anyway, you don’t need to worry about me.” She waved dismissively at the other side of the grandstands, where Harper was ostensibly warming up for another round in the bucking chute. “That guy’s an arrogant ass. He’s way too full of himself. Thinks he’s god’s gift to…” Violet trailed off, pretending to be interested in the next bareback bronc rider. This one did stay on the required eight seconds, albeit with brain damage from the looks of things.

  “I really don’t know him,” Sinclair ventured, “but he seems like he could be arrogant.”

  “Well,” said Drake, “that’s a required trait among rodeo performers, so let’s not do anything to bring his egotism down to earth. He’s actually got some kind of degree from Rice University and I don’t even know why he’s riding for our brand when he’s clearly intelligent enough to do something else. But don’t take that the wrong way, Violet. He doesn’t need you pumping up his ego, or anything else for that matter.”

  It sounded as though Violet mumbled, “He wouldn’t want me pumping anything of his,” but Sinclair couldn’t be sure. He was further surprised when she slipped her hand in his and squeezed. “Let’s go down and get a beer, a hot dog,” she suggested.

  Sinclair was all for that. Now that Violet had apparently melted toward him, he wanted to get to know her better. They had much in common. Their charities for one. Drake had told him that Violet also gave to the Ronald McDonald House, Dian Fossey and her gorillas, Farm Africa, Witness, and the Roar Foundation. Sinclair was all for the critters, with a special fondness in his heart for Africa.

  “Your brother vetted me,” Sinclair assumed as they made their way down the stands which were almost one hundred percent packed with spectators whistling through their fingers and swilling enormous cups of watered-down beer. “He told you I’m not pals with your husband Bryan.”