Violet cried out in a new, ecstatic way when Harper fingered aside the soaking strip of panty that covered her pussy and dove right in, lapping away. Her fingers dug into the sand so tightly her knuckles were white. Harper moved in with some fancy, show-offy moves, making figure eights all over her bulging “man in the boat” with its eight thousand nerve endings. Violet would be hyperventilating if she didn’t stop that right now! Sinclair was getting so angry, he punched the sand.
Then did something about it.
What was good for the goose was good for the gander, right? He kneeled squarely behind Harper and grabbed him roughly by the hips, pulling the cowboy to his knees. Sinclair was going to prove his worth and get revenge on this savage bastard all at the same time.
When his fist wrapped around the fat cock, a rush of lust raced through his pelvis. Sinclair’s balls drew up and engorged, filling his cock with seed. But this time it wasn’t about Sinclair’s satisfaction. Not a sexual one, anyway. This was more a mental satisfaction for him, a revenge, a way of showing Harper that he was top dog. His ego had been humiliated when Harper had lashed him to that saddle rack and had his way with him. At the same time, it was the most highly charged erotic experience of Sinclair’s life, so he was conflicted.
He took his conflict out in the most logical way. He’d do the same to Harper.
He spit into his palm and jacked the cock. Its thick, engorged silkiness inside his fist aroused Sinclair even further. Harper’s subservient position—on his elbows licking Violet to orgasm, his ass lifted in the air—turned Sinclair on too. Was he a “switch”? He had hugely enjoyed the incident in the tack room, although he couldn’t admit it. And now he was getting off on Harper’s submissive posture, the way that the cowboy thrust his dick into the sheath of Sinclair’s hand. Sinclair could tell, when he twined his fingertips around the slick, mushroom-like cockhead, that Harper was so stimulated he’d come in a matter of seconds.
As Harper fucked his hand, Sinclair swatted the bared ass. He’d seen this done in fuck movies, and he’d indulged in a little light spanking before. Hell, there had been one woman in Kitzbuehel, Austria who had demanded to be spanked. Now, that had been exciting. The woman had squirmed and protested as she was tied to the headboard by his belt, but her moans let him know that she was really the one in control.
Harper was in no way in control as Sinclair jacked his dick. Harper was the poor sucker being used by both Violet and Sinclair as a tool of their desires. It seemed that as Sinclair increased the speed of his fist, so did Harper’s tongue against Violet’s button. She was whining in a higher and higher pitch like a tea kettle, shaking her fists so violently sand sprayed everywhere, but Harper didn’t pause a beat.
And neither did Sinclair. He found if he cupped his hand he could make hollow, louder smacks against the shapely, meaty ass. When he paused to slip a hand between the thighs and caress Harper’s balls, that was it. He felt the gush of semen shoot up and out the cock, and he pressed his thumb beneath the corona’s ridge, just to be an asshole, to draw out Harper’s ecstasy. He squeezed the testicles in his other palm, feeling them drain.
* * * *
Harper had made a split second decision. He had the long ride all the way across the valley to think about what action to take regarding the amorous couple. But it wasn’t until he’d given instructions to the two vaqueros to take the herd over the next ridge that he ventured close enough to watch that mail order cowboy diddling the sensual Miss Stinson, his hand under her jean skirt.
It enraged him so badly he could barely see, so he walked his mount the next two hundred yards nearly blinded by anger. He knew deep down that Sinclair had never made him a promise to keep his hands off Violet. He knew there was a greater likelihood that Sinclair would win the battle, being a bling-bling asshole like Violet’s ex-husband, some fucking jetsetter who flew around the globe on his daddy’s dime. Sure, Sinclair might continue to allow Harper to fondle him to crisis whenever it suited him, always in secret, with no responsibility to admit it publicly.
But he would win Miss Stinson just because they ran in the same circles. Look at them now. Sketching some artsy-fartsy landscape and drinking wine. Harper knew that sketching was part of who Violet was, so he focused his wrath on Sinclair. Rich motherfuckers get all the girls. He didn’t do anything to deserve his wealth, either.
But when Harper kneeled before Violet and spilled out his heart, it was as if Sinclair faded into the background like just another head of cattle. The swell of affection for Violet terrified Harper. He knew it was time to stop holding women away at arm’s length. He had known for years that a time would come when he’d have to face his demons.
At first he’d blotted out the agony of Morgan’s death with booze. When that became unreasonable, he’d become a sober addict of BDSM clubs. The Racquet Club was the best and the closest. Once, he’d even accidentally had a play session with Amadeo Barbieri, the owner of adjacent Lone Palm Ranch. Because they were both basically Doms, their paths hadn’t crossed much. But one night Amadeo must have been in a switchy mood, for he was in a booth, hands cuffed behind him, blindfolded, his partner urging Harper to suck his dick. But yeah. That was Amadeo, all right, before he’d met his wife Willow, his partner Steffen. He’d been a player.
Harper was a player, and he was making no commitment as he muff dived beneath Violet’s skirt. Licking her pussy just gave her pleasure and bound her more closely to him. The more pleasure one bestowed on others, the more they came back for more. Harper was no moron. He knew that by tying up Sinclair “against his will” and sucking him silly, Sinclair would recall him fondly. He might even come back for more, if Harper played his cards right.
Now, on his elbows under the moist, cinnamon darkness of Violet’s skirt, Harper lapped like a madman. It had been years since—well, he never thought about that, but his tongue and throat muscles were still in top condition from giving blow jobs. It wasn’t an unselfish act, performing oral sex on others. It gave Harper more power over them, to have them squirming at every twitch of his tongue.
Violet bucked like a mustang, her jaw clenched shut, only allowing some hisses to emerge, like a deflating tire. Harper could tell by the copious flow of juices and the stiffness of her button that she was nearing her climax. True, Sinclair had primed her, and now it was easier than ever for Harper to dive in for the prize.
He was shocked, and missed a few strokes of the tongue, when Sinclair’s hand fumbled with his belt buckle. This is fantastic. Sinclair couldn’t resist joining in, always a good sign. Maybe they wouldn’t have to fight over Violet after all. Yes, please. Jack my dick like I did yours. Always the accommodating one, Harper raised his butt toward the sky, giving Sinclair room to lift his dick from his jeans and fondle it vigorously.
Oh, yes. Already turned on by the scent of sex and the knowledge that he was sending Violet sky-high, Harper soon felt the swell of semen down the length of his cock. Sinclair had the technique of a man used to “blowing his own horn.” True, Sinclair obviously worked out in a gym with weights, but he had the grip and technique of a guy accustomed to “hitchhiking to heaven,” that was for sure. It was strange and almost…loving, the way Sinclair stroked his penis. When he added a few slaps to Harper’s bare ass, the sting intermingled with the entire bliss experience. Harper didn’t often put himself in a position to be spanked, but right now, being defenseless turned him on even more.
When Violet’s whimpers became plaintive cries—even caterwauls—Harper knew he’d hit the jackpot. As Sinclair urged an explosive ejaculation from Harper, Violet went over the edge. Her spine arched, her toes in their sandals curled, and she was such a vigorous chute fighter Harper had to lift his entire torso off the sand to keep his mouth attached to her cunt.
His seed spilled over Sinclair’s jerking fist, and he panted against Violet’s pussy. She seemed to come for a long, long time, shimmying her hips as though trying to kiss the sun. Harper slowed his lapping, and when he’d sucked the l
ast droplets of juice from her, he set her hips down easily on top of the palm fronds.
He wiped off his face with his forearm and regarded her. Now Sinclair faded into the background, just a reflection on the surface of the still pool below them. “Well,” he drawled with admiration, “if you aren’t just a high roller.”
Violet gasped and twitched in the final throes of her orgasm. Modestly, she smoothed her jean skirt over her knees and spoke with catches in her breath. “You are…very talented, Mr. Davies.”
He didn’t mind that she called him Mister. It was similar to the Sir moniker he was accustomed to in clubs. Leaning back on his heels, Harper whipped off his neckerchief without taking his eyes off the athletic, sultry woman. It had been so long since he’d gazed on a satisfied woman. It was painful, yes, the memories of Morgan prodding at the back of his brain. He had to keep telling himself that was then, this is now. He wiped his cock with the kerchief and stuffed the fabric into his pocket before clothing his flagging cock again.
Violet sighed deeply, her eyed heavily lidded. “Oh, Dear God in heaven! And you are…” Violet searched for the word. “A very hungry stallion.”
Harper had to laugh. He didn’t often laugh, and it felt weird. He didn’t often give head to women, especially one he’d practically just ran off the entire ranch with his asshole ways.
But already he was feeling antsy—this was too much, too soon. He had to take this—whatever “it” was—slower. So he stood, swiping his hat from the ground, and tapped the sand out of it. Casually, he asked the other man, “What’re you two doing later on?”
Luckily, Sinclair took it casually, as well. He stood and took a sip from his wine glass. “Well, I’m on a quest to find this thimble, an old family heirloom. My mother swears that our father traded it to some hooker at the old Sunset Palomino Ranch. Willow Paige unearthed a ton of artifacts during the remodel, and we have a few clues.”
Harper’s curiosity was piqued. “Oh yeah? What sort of clues?”
Sinclair explained, but guardedly. “Well, apparently my Dad wrote something down before he died and Mom found it in his safe. It was a list of money he’d given hookers over the years.”
Violet rolled her eyes and refilled her own wine glass. “Don’t they all. Drake caught my father in flagrante doing a neighbor’s wife over his desk when Drake was fifteen.” She gulped the wine. “You’re lucky you didn’t find the note in his desk. Eyew.”
Sinclair sighed. “Well, I can commiserate, because Mom wants that damned thimble back. It came from her side of the family. Anyway, in the paper my dad wrote, he said he’d given the thimble to a hooker named Amber. He wrote a cryptic note next to the entry. ‘Look in the bed.’”
Violet explained, “So we’re thinking, obviously, that it might not have been carried off by Amber but might still be in one of the old beds Willow kept.”
Harper was intrigued. “Obviously you’ve looked in all of those beds.”
“Right. Nothing. But a thimble is very small. I think it’s fun just to help Sinclair with his quest.”
Sinclair was looking at his smartphone. “Speaking of. Willow must’ve texted me an hour ago. She says she thinks she found our bed.”
“Is that it?” asked Violet. “That’s all she said?”
“She thinks it’s a waterbed.”
Harper’s curiosity was hopelessly aroused. He knew he’d go with his new partners to the Searchlight to be there for the unveiling of the thimble. His vaqueros could handle the herd. On his way back to his mount, he swooped to pick up a piece of paper the wind had blown.
Hm. Doctor’s Orders. I’ll bet my high roller could use a session of that.
Guess I just had a Feast at the Y.
Harper patted his abdomen and was very satisfied, overall.
Chapter Nine
Violet was thrilled beyond belief to be walking through the Searchlight’s lobby with a man on either side of her.
People did turn and stare, no doubt instantly wondering at her relationship with them. There was dusty, scruffy Harper, still wearing his chaps, although he’d removed his spurs. With his moustache and patchy Van Dyke beard, the upper layer of his hair swept back into a rubber band at the back of his skull, he was the epitome of the rugged outdoorsman. The pirate’s cuff and gun belt he hadn’t removed told everyone he meant business.
Then Sinclair, in his turquoise alligator shirt and desert boots. His blow-dried hair was flawless, and his deep tan was from relaxing in the sun, not working in it. A few people had already recognized him as Arnold Nieman’s son and had waved to him. Violet didn’t even know where he lived because he’d moved into a bedroom at Shining Lands. The blue-blooded playboy looked like the head honcho of a political magazine—one started by his great-grandfather.
Willow’s office suddenly seemed tiny, crowded by the two men. The voluptuous hotel owner already knew Sinclair from his previous queries about the thimble, but Willow looked sideways at Harper. Willow was married to Amadeo Barbieri of rival ranch Lone Palm, so maybe they’d had some run-ins before. Willow’s eyes glowed again when she grasped Sinclair’s hands in hers.
“We were wrong, Sinclair. The name we were looking for wasn’t Amber. It’s American.”
Sinclair frowned. “Isn’t there a huge difference? I think I’d know if my Dad wrote ‘American’ on that list.”
Willow started leading Sinclair out of her office behind the lobby, and into a breezeway by the pool. “Well, your dad made an understandable mistake. He was correct when he said to look in the bed. Maybe the girl he gave it to did utilize the Shag Room.”
“Shag Room?” Harper was skeptical, as they were just passing by a room with an engraved plate that denoted it as the “Cesar Romero Room.”
Violet told Harper, “It probably had shag carpet in it when Willow bought it.”
Willow made a face. “Oh, God, yes. Horrifying shag carpet. Like three different shades of psychedelic orange. It’s still got shag carpet, but something a bit less vomit-inducing. Anyway, let me show you the mistake your father made. The room was finally unoccupied, so I did a little more looking around.”
“The Red Skelton Room?” Harper gaped at the next plaque.
“Ssh,” Violet told Harper, and took him by the hand.
Violet was still reeling from her experience in the Fringe-Toed Lizard Preserve. Her wildest dreams hadn’t involved being so wanton, so free. It terrified her, the possibility she might be allowing not one but two men into her life. Being close meant pain, and she suspected she shared that phobia with Harper Davies. The man who secretly wished to be a pirate obviously kept a lot of painful memories shoved away in some attic. Violet was attracted to his twisty, mysterious psyche. Also, he’d rocked her world with his talented tongue between her legs.
She knew she’d be going back for more. And she knew Harper was only a temporary thing. Men like him were explorers, travelers, never happy in one place, antsy to move on. She knew that logically she should stick with Sinclair, who wasn’t a dangerous bad boy. But on a hormonal, deep-seated level, her cells were crying out for Harper.
The Shag Room, predictably, was covered in a rug that sprouted about four different flavors of green. Violet didn’t see how it could have been less nauseous than the old orange rug, but the spotlight of attraction to the room was the enormous wood waterbed. It was one of those vintage seventies monstrosities that must have weighed a ton, with the drawers underneath and the bookshelf headboard. In keeping with the fashion, it boasted a crushed velvet bedspread in a comforting chartreuse.
Willow’s eyes gleamed with the excitement of discovery. “It wasn’t Amber your dad was writing down. Look.”
Violet allowed Sinclair to squat next to Willow and check out some logo or other that had been affixed near one of the pedestal’s drawers. “What the fuck…” he mused.
“Okay, I can’t stand this anymore.” Violet kneeled and shouldered Willow aside. She felt the raised metal letters before she read them. AMER.
Willow was right. “American” was the maker of the colossal waterbed, but part of the logo had fallen off. Sinclair’s father had been trying to tell them which bed to find the thimble in. “Wow,” she breathed, then looked at Willow. “But obviously you didn’t find any thimble in the bed?”
“Not a thing.”
“I heard about your menu,” said Harper, pacing the room to inspect a hi-fi turntable. A Spiral Starecase album cover was displayed beside it. “I’ll find the original for you. I’m good at tracking things down.”
Willow stood and went over to the stranger. “Oh, thank you so much. I know it’s only a worthless piece of paper, which makes it even stranger that someone should steal it. It only means something to me and my guests. Hey. Why don’t you guys just stay in the room tonight, have a little getaway?”
Violet lurched to her feet, panic-stricken. “Oh, we couldn’t possibly. We really just barely know each other.”
Sinclair stood behind her, stroking her upper arm. “Doesn’t sound like a bad idea, Violet. We could look for the thimble and explore this place to get more knowledge for the Modern Committee.”
“Done,” said Harper, shaking Willow’s hand. “I could use a decent meal that wasn’t flash-frozen in the age of that album cover, and I know Rose is a mouth-watering chef. She comes down sometimes and cooks for my outfit.”
“There you are.” An African-American guy popped into the room, full of urgency. “Willow, there’s something you’re going to want to see.”
Willow looked skeptical. “Do I have to, Carl?”
Carl nodded definitively. “Oh, you have to. The smell emanating from the David Niven Room hearkens me back to the part of the sixties that I can recall.”
“Maybe they have a medical marijuana card.”
“Oh, I’m fine with that. This is a no-kids-allowed motel,” he explained to Violet. “I’m just wondering about your no smoking in the rooms policy.”
The Substantial Gift [The Sunset Palomino Ranch 3] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) Page 9
