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

by Karen Mercury

  “I can’t guarantee that,” Violet said earnestly. “The likelihood of us engaging in sexual activity gets exponentially higher when a rodeo is in town, because the estrogen levels—”

  The cameramen had shut off their cameras and the newsman had turned away, but Violet wasn’t talking for the cameras, Harper knew. That was just how she was. She took everything literally. Harper grabbed her and planted a big kiss in the pit of her throat.

  “Miss Violet, my high roller. Speaking of sexual activity. Let’s go up to the room. You can be my buckle bunny.”

  They started for the room. They had to pass the gauntlet of tables packed with dyed-in-the-wool buckle bunnies, and those women were not shy or retiring. They were buxom, shapely, and some were models and actresses, but Harper only had eyes for Violet.

  “My kids are coming to the dinner tonight,” said Violet.

  “Good.”

  Violet’s daughter, Angela, was attending Yale University, and her twenty-year-old son, Hodgins, was taking a year off to tour Europe before hitting the books at another Ivy League college. But both had come to Oklahoma City to show their support for their mother and her new fiancé. Harper knew it must have been difficult after having their parents stay legally married for so long, but now Violet’s divorce was final. The favorable outcome was expedited by their father’s criminal activities in hiring Don Wexler. The kids were currently not happy with their father and his charge of first degree attempted murder, since Wexler had sung like a canary against his employer. Violet was awaiting his extradition to face the charges, but he had fled St. Moritz. Their private investigator was currently tracking him in Brazil.

  The hallway of their suite’s floor was jammed with blitzed rodeo fans, and Harper got stuck talking to a California circuit barrel racer for a few minutes. Harper soon joined Violet in the room. In that few minutes, she had had time to strip herself of the flouncy country and western skirt and the twinkling sequined shirt. But she’d kept her boots, panties, and push-up bra, and she posed dramatically by the window with one arm running up the wall.

  Wow. Violet had been taking seductive cues from the world around her. She was a good student of the world, taking what suited her and rejecting what didn’t.

  This. Suited her.

  Harper tore apart his shirt so violently the mother-of-pearl snaps were a glittering arc of light as he rushed toward his fiancée. He mashed his chest to hers, luxuriating in the feel of her flesh against him. “Darlin’,” he murmured, brushing his lips against hers. “You are the number one light in my life.”

  Violet speared her fingers through his hair and affectionately massaged his scalp. “What about Sinclair? He counts.”

  “Only to ten.” Harper silenced her with a deep kiss.

  Harper was downplaying Sinclair’s part in their life. They would be married to him just as they would be married to each other. Sinclair had moved all of his business banking from Gstaad to Palm Springs. He had opened up the doors of his amazing mid-century home near Barry Manilow’s and the three had effectively moved in there. Drake, not wanting his new brother-in-law to be a cow boss—and Harper not particularly keen on it either—had promoted a vaquero to that position so that Harper could get back into the world of rocket science. Already he had a new Boeing gig with a contractor working at Twentynine Palms. The pay was about five times that of the ranching gig. Harper was going to continue to work the rodeo circuit, and they were building a stable and small arena on Sinclair’s property. Harper and Violet liked to ride every day.

  “I can’t express how much I love you, darlin’,” Harper whispered.

  “I know words fail you.” Violet gasped as Harper licked a trail over her clavicle while cupping her breasts.

  The humor in her voice was evident. She had been the one uncomfortable with human emotions. Now that she was studying them, feeling them, reacting to them, she was much more at home with their expression. Harper grinned as he squeezed her boob, popping the nipple out of her bra cup. “I love you as much as I love the guru who stands sideways by the clock tower of hell.”

  It was a reference to the poem they had found inside the Look magazine. Some of the obscure “beat” lines had become catchphrases to them, mostly because no one had any idea what they meant. Violet laughed delightfully like the tinkling of little bells. “And I love you as much as I love shilly-shallying in the blackened room where the cherubs blare their—their—”

  Violet couldn’t remember the line, and Harper had to laugh as he sucked her taut nipple into his mouth. They both jumped in tandem when a voice boomed right over Harper’s shoulder.

  “The cherubs blare their roses of doom.”

  It was the worst poem ever, really, but Sinclair was dead set that Kerouac himself had penned it. Now Sinclair slid behind Violet and the wall so he could hold her tits up for Harper to pleasure.

  Violet slithered her body seductively, like a pole dancer, with the lucky Sinclair as the pole. “Oh, I’ll give you roses of doom. Is that a quivering lotus in your pocket, or are you happy to see me?”

  The poem was good for lots of laughs, and Sinclair was hoping for lots of money. Harper was the owner, having discovered the poem, so of course he was hoping Sinclair was right. Harper reached behind Violet and squeezed Sinclair’s cock. His reliable lover was stiff as a board simply from feeling Violet’s velvety tits.

  With one hand Sinclair unhooked her bra and tossed it aside. Harper briefly licked and blew streams of cool air onto her nipples, raising goose bumps on her chest. Harper dropped to his knees then, leaving a trail behind with his tongue against Violet’s abdomen, and she squealed like a child. She placed a cowboy boot up on the low windowsill. They were on the twelfth floor and although the windows were tinted, Harper got off on the idea that people down by the pool could see them. Yanking the strip of her panties aside, Harper dove between her thighs, lapping like a thirsty dog.

  Sinclair provided the commentary, unclothing his own dick as he spoke. “Harper licks you good, doesn’t he, Violet? He knows exactly how to touch you, how to eat your pussy, how to make you come around my hard cock.”

  Sinclair was just going to drill Violet, right there on the windowsill. Her thighs were spread to admit his long, fat cock, and Harper was just priming her. He still felt a twinge of jealousy when Sinclair dared to invade her cunt. He was working on overcoming it because theirs was a sharing relationship where everyone was equal. He couldn’t stake any bigger claim to her pussy than Sinclair just because he was the one legally marrying her.

  So Harper took a deeper breath and concentrated on his pussy licking. He even lifted a hand and delved between Violet’s legs to stroke and massage the big, pulsing prick that was seeking her slick, hot channel. He sucked on the bulging cockhead for a brief moment before allowing Sinclair to slide inside his fiancée.

  “Oh, Goddd, Sin!” moaned Violet. “You’re filling me up to the absolute brim!”

  Harper smiled and suckled her distended clit some more as Sinclair arched into her, but Harper had other plans. He knew Sinclair expected him to continue suckling on the swollen button, just so Sinclair could feel her orgasm, feel her cunt squeeze the life from his dick. Harper knew from experience just how mind-blowing it was, feeling Violet’s inner pussy clamp down and strenuously massage one’s prick. Sinclair wouldn’t be so lucky today.

  Harper was randy as hell. He was surfing a high buzz of testosterone after that last ride that was cut off too soon. That always happened. The sharp jolt of natural steroids as the horse bucked violently in the chute, followed by a few seconds of brain-knocking, limb-jolting absolute rush, followed by an abrupt bail. The whole thing was over so quickly after such a long, drawn-out buildup, that inevitably there would be enough leftover hormones to rile any cowboy.

  Harper utilized those hormones now, standing and unsheathing his cock. Violet had turned to face the window as Sinclair bent low at the knees and swiveled into her. The pale, muscular ass was just too tempting for Harp
er. Spitting into his hand, Harper slicked up his hard-on. Sinclair had stripped off his shirt, and now Harper arched over him, sinking his teeth into the shoulder muscle. He adored the sinewy rigidity of Sinclair’s well-worked muscles. Sinclair rode his bike twice as far as Harper and Violet rode horses, and Harper always envied his carved physique. Harper’s muscles were leaner, longer, cut from taming the power of horses. Sinclair was built like a weightlifter, and Harper couldn’t resist pinching the nipples that stood out stiffly from the juicy pecs.

  The virile rush as Harper entered his lover was like an icy slap. Fully awake and in the moment, he impaled Sinclair on his cock. Sinclair allowed this about as often as Harper allowed Sin to mount his fiancée, and it heightened his arousal to be sandwiching the tough jet-setter like that. It felt like it had been years since Harper had first manhandled him in the Racquet Club’s rooms—years since he had tried to push Violet away in Drake’s kitchen.

  Harper had wanted to run from them because they exerted an emotional pull. Harper had recoiled from their ability to touch him so deeply. Now he embraced it.

  * * * *

  Violet swallowed a moan when she became aware Harper had penetrated Sinclair. There was nothing sexier than watching those two grunt and slap against each other. With one cowboy boot on the windowsill, Violet clutched the window’s edge, her other palm pressed flat against the thick glass. She liked to look in the mirror they had taken down from over the bureau. They had leaned it against the wall to capture the widest view. Now, if she craned her neck over her shoulder a bit, she had the perfect image that would be seared forever in her brain.

  Sinclair’s muscular torso pressed against her back as he thrust hungrily into her. And Harper’s rugged, lean body plastered to Sinclair as he fucked his best man.

  And she didn’t look so bad with her back arched like that, either. Her tits sloped buoyantly, making them look much bigger than they were. She had managed to lose a few pounds, probably due to the strenuous horseback riding she’d been doing and the lack of stress eating, and her ass looked nearly perfect as Sinclair pounded into her, doggie style. Yup, no cellulite here.

  Every time Harper speared his cock into Sinclair’s back side, Sinclair’s cock twitched inside of Violet. Clutching the wall, she gyrated her hips to encourage Sinclair to get fancier, more athletic with her. She could take it. “Oh, yessss. Get up on me, Sinclair. Feel Harper’s cock reaming you. Every time he pounds into you, you fuck me deeper. Deeper, deeper, Sinclair!” She slapped her own ass to give Sinclair the picture, and he picked up on it, whacking her with an open palm over and over, every third thrust of his hips.

  She was surprised at how much this elevated her perception of pleasure. The painful stinging of his spanks made her acutely feel every lunge of his hips. She whimpered with every strike, and it seemed to drive Harper, too. He grunted every time he drove into his friend, practically bouncing Sinclair up and down on the end of his cock with his force.

  Violet was so stimulated by the three-way that when Sinclair moved his free hand to diddle her clit, she was set to explode. Instantly, her climax tore through her. It was so sudden and intense she lost her grip on the window frame. Her palm slid down the window until she was nearly doubled over, wide open for her lovers.

  The men were locked in an orgasmic embrace too. Their reflection in the mirror showed Harper’s arms wrapped around Sinclair’s admirable torso as the robust cowboy pressed a bruising kiss to Sinclair’s mouth. The sight was so erotic Violet’s own orgasm soared to new heights and she felt herself squirting against Sinclair’s fingertips. That happened when she was more excited than usual, when the men and their activities urged her to greater heights. The liquid ejaculated over Sinclair’s fingers, and he would feel the little gusher as well.

  She knew she was finished when her hips began to shudder spastically. It would soon be too, too much for her clit to take, and she pushed Sinclair’s hand away. She extricated herself from the two men’s grasp and sidestepped as though line dancing. She liked nothing better than just leaning against a wall and watching her two men go hard at it.

  Harper’s delectable ass flexed, his balls slapping against Sinclair’s. Now it was Sinclair’s turn to grip the windowsill as he got royally fucked, Harper depositing his load of jism.

  Tingling still rocketed through Violet’s body, tickling her jaw, her abdomen, her hands. She shook her hands and danced in her boots, waiting for the almost painful tingling to subside. She slapped her hands together and slapped her chest and jaw, unable to decide if the tingling was pleasant or not. Harper gripped his lover’s hips and slammed into him, his head thrown back, eyes closed in bliss. Violet took a mental snapshot of her two men then ran to the bathroom.

  Everything was turning out well. Of course, Bryan’s part in the attempted murder-for-hire scheme hadn’t boded well for his side of the divorce proceedings. Almost immediately she’d been able to get a very lucrative agreement, enabling her to donate to her rhinos and the African Well Fund, as well as to Sinclair’s safe houses for abused women. Sinclair’s own mother, she found out, had been abused by his father, that thimble-and-hooker loving man. That was why he’d taken some of his inheritance to found the nonprofit. He’d named the charity the Sylvia Nieman Project. Violet thought it was the best sort of tribute to his mother imaginable.

  And even the Don Wexler incident had turned out decently. It would have been much worse if those handcuffs had not been in that drawer. But it was Wexler’s own kink that had resulted in his near-drowning. Apparently after Violet had escaped, he had thrashed and kicked so violently that one of his spiked heels had popped a hole in the waterbed mattress. The puncture had allowed the water to rush out, and Don was basically contained in a giant wooden bath tub that filled up faster the more he thrashed.

  By the time the SWAT team finally figured out their approach, deciding it was safe to storm the Shag Room, Don’s face was underwater and he was unconscious. Violet had stuck around long enough to tell them where the handcuff key was and they were able to revive him. But his career as a hit man was over. Willow even got her beloved menu back, so all was well.

  When Violet emerged from the bathroom, for once she didn’t feel self-conscious wearing only a bra and panties. She knew it was time to go back to the ballroom and attend the awards dinner so she swiped up her flouncy black skirt from the ground. “Hey guys, I think the dinner starts at—what? What’s going on?”

  The two men were gathered by the light of a cell phone, avidly reading some text. Violet chuckled at their cocks hanging out of their jeans like hoses as they absentmindedly scratched their abdomens, gaping at whatever the text said.

  Violet crowded closer, elbowing them aside. “What, what?”

  Sinclair exploded. “I knew it, I knew it!” He fist-pumped the air with the hand that held the phone, so Violet wrested it away from him. While he did a celebration dance, she read the text.

  Mr. Nieman. I have determined that the handwritten poem entitled All the Way to Mulegé Ai-Yi-Yi-Yi was not penned by Jack Kerouac but in fact by Paul Terrell, a lesser but no less intriguing Beat poet.

  “What?” Violet whispered.

  Harper pointed with vindication at the phone. “So it was something valuable.” Getting an idea, he raced to the laptop on the desk and typed something in.

  Violet read the rest. Paul Terrell was a contemporary of Kerouac who traveled with him to Mexico City. In fact it is said Terrell was the last person to see Neal Cassady alive.

  Violet wasn’t terribly up on her beat poets, but had done a bit of reading since the discovery of the poem in the Look magazine. She raced to peer over Harper’s shoulder at the Wikipedia entry for Paul Terrell.

  Terrell survived a drug-laced journey in a school bus down to Mulegé, Baja in 1968 where he nearly fell out the back of the bus when a water heater toppled on him. He was pulled back by Jack Kerouac and they were fast friends afterward.

  Terrell apparently died in 1969 in a bizarre tugboa
t accident in San Francisco while ferrying some Cheyenne Indians to occupy Alcatraz. Of course this made the poem more valuable.

  Violet snuggled her face against Harper’s neck. “Wow, Harper. You did good. I wonder how much the poem is worth.”

  Sinclair took the phone from Violet’s fingers. Harper stood up and led her to the window. The sun had set outside and the pinkish flood lights directed at the room windows bathed Harper in a beatific light. He didn’t need it—he always looked like some Biblical personage with his beard and moustache, his long hair usually cinched back in a ponytail. But tonight, shirtless with his bling show belt buckle and the Stetson he’d clapped back on his heat, he was enough to stop any woman’s—or man’s—heart. Tonight his Morgan tat didn’t even irk her. He’d offered to have it removed, but she had said no. That was an important part of his past. There was no sense in pretending it had never happened. The tragedy had helped make him who he was.

  “Violet, listen. That poem is my wedding gift to you. Whatever it’s worth, it’s yours.”

  “Oh, Harper. I don’t need it.”

  “Give it to a charity, I don’t care. I don’t like how I’ve been unable to contribute much to anything. We’re living in Sinclair’s house, using his damned towels for God’s sake—”

  “Here,” called Sinclair, his face lit up like a science fiction explorer by the phone’s screen. “The analyst said a handwritten letter from Neal Cassady to Allen Ginsberg went for twenty-eight thousand last year.”

  “See?” said Harper. “That could build you some nice wells in Africa.”

  Violet’s heart melted. The first windfall Harper had probably ever received in his life and he instantly gave it away. She would have liked to think it was her influence on him, but really, it was probably just his dear, sweet heart.

  “I love you, Harper.” Violet pressed her lips against his cheekbone to feel the velvet of his skin. She loved both her men equally, but in different ways. Sinclair was her compatriot who shared her world views. They were the same—they had grown up in privileged atmospheres, and they pursued the same interests. Harper was the thunderbolt from heaven. He’d gone straight to her heart. They had both used substances to blot out pain—Violet with food, Harper with rough sex.