Desperado

by Sandra Hill

  “It’s a new military strategy,” he said thickly, wetting her with his tongue, then blowing her dry with his searing breath.

  “Ah,” she sighed, then, “A-a-ah” as he continued to explore her “bunkers” with lips and teeth and teasing tongue. While he fondled one breast and took another deep in his mouth, suckling, she shivered with the wildfire that overwhelmed her.

  “Uh oh, I see a sand trap up ahead.” His mouth left her breasts, which ached for more attention, and moved to her navel. He studied her navel with his fingertips and pointed tongue.

  “Did you find the enemy?” she asked shakily, finding it increasingly harder to play games when blood roared in her ears and her senses reeled with yearning.

  He shook his head. “It was a mirage . . . an alluring mirage. But look, that forest up ahead could hold hidden perils.” He moved between her parted legs, kneeling. His erection stood out like a beautiful symbol of his love for her.

  “What perils?” she said breathlessly, feeling the incredibly tantalizing brush of his fingertips over her soft curls. Did that groan just come from her, or him?

  “Warm lagoons. Perhaps quicksand,” he said in a voice raw with passion as he dipped his fingertips into her slick need. She should feel embarrassed. Instead, she spread her legs wider for his exploring fingers.

  “Do you know that you have freckles in the most scandalous places?”

  She cringed. “I hate my freckles.”

  “I love your freckles,” he said and kissed one of them that was, indeed, in a scandalous place.

  “Channels,” he added then. “We have to look for treacherous channels.” He ran long fingers along her satiny folds to demonstrate.

  “I want you,” she whimpered, reaching out her arms to pull him forward.

  He forced her back down with a hand on her chest and a gentle kiss. “No, there’s more. Hidden caves, perhaps?” He slid one finger, then another inside her.

  She began to writhe from side to side, begging unintelligibly, “Now . . . please . . . oh, oh . . . yes, I like that . . . please . . . RAFE! No, I don’t want to wait . . . I want . . . RAFE!”

  “One minute, darlin’,” he said in a shaky voice. “I see something. Could be dangerous.” He slipped his fingers from inside her, and she cried out in protest. “Shhh,” he cautioned. “Don’t you want to know what it is?” he asked, lowering his head to look at her more closely.

  “No,” she snapped.

  “Now, honey. Patience. Remember the Army survival code.”

  She said something vulgar about the survival code.

  He chuckled, then looped his arms under her knees, raising them and exploring the creases with caresses that were tickling and surprisingly erotic. He abandoned that play momentarily and looked down once again. “As I was saying, sweetheart, I think I’ve discovered an ammunition dump.”

  “A dump,” she sputtered.

  “Ammunition dump. See this here . . . Aha, a bullet.”

  She looked down and shuddered.

  “Do you think it’s live?” he asked with mock seriousness.

  “I think it’s about to explode,” she said waspishly. “Enough of the military strategy and games. I want . . .” Her words trailed off in a shiver as Rafe tested her with his tongue, then took the sensitized flesh between his lips.

  “Definitely deadly,” he said against her throbbing center.

  “No!” she cried out as the first tremors of her impending climax rippled over her. Liquid pleasure oozed from her. “I want you to come with me.”

  He gave her one last flick of his tongue, then knelt upright. His eyes were glazed with passion, his lips wet and parted. Guiding her hand to his steely erection, he hissed with raw sensuality, “Take me then.”

  She did.

  The instant he filled her, she climaxed around his shaft, weeping with frustration. “Too soon, too soon.”

  “No, it was perfect, cara mía. Perfect. I love you, I love you, I love you,” he said with each agonizing stroke.

  When she was keening with mindless yearning, he reared back on his knees, the velvety tip of him barely inside her body. “And does the enemy yield?” he whispered in a plea cloaked with double meanings.

  “She surrenders . . . everything,” Helen said, and raised her hips for his final plunge. Rafe’s ragged outcry blanketed her cries.

  When they finally lay sated in each other’s arms, murmuring sweet love words, Rafe asked, “Did you like my fantasy?”

  Helen thought, how like a man, always needing his ego to be bolstered, even when a woman had shown her appreciation in all the important ways.

  “I loved it.”

  “Good.” A decidedly mischievous tone marked his voice.

  “Good?” What was he up to now?

  “Yep. ’Cause you get to reciprocate.” He jiggled his brows at her.

  “Reciprocate?”

  “Is there an echo in here?”

  She cuffed him on the shoulder. “Explain.”

  “Well, it’s only fair . . .”

  She slanted a suspicious glance at him. The rogue!

  “. . . It’s only fair that you show me your secret fantasy.” He winked. “Man, oh, man, I can’t wait.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  It wasn’t tantric sex, but still . . .

  “I don’t have any sexual fantasies,” she said primly.

  “Liar.” He laughed.

  “Well, maybe one. Just a little fantasy.”

  “A little one? There’s such a thing as a little sexual fantasy?” He arched a brow.

  “Meditating.”

  He groaned.

  “I knew you’d think it was silly.”

  “No, no, no. I’m game.” God, she wants to have yoga sex. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to try the Lone Ranger? I’d let you be Tonto.”

  “And what would you be—the masked guy, or the horse?”

  “Hmmm. I’m not sure.”

  “Nope, no diverting me here, Rafe. This is my fantasy,” Helen insisted.

  So, he built up the fire and, according to her directive, he was the one who sat cross-legged in the lotus position before the roaring flames.

  “Try to find your center.”

  “No problem, babe.” He peered downward, watching his “center” come to life, although it was really interfering with, rather than heightening, his inner peace.

  “Concentrate,” Helen demanded for the twentieth time.

  “Oh, yeah, I’m concentrating, all right. Come here, sweetie, and let me show you my concentration.”

  “Behave.”

  He did, for about a second, until she sat on his lap, right on top of his “center,” and blew to hell any chance he ever had of concentrating. Even so, she proceeded to give him all kinds of advice on how to let his mind float out of his body.

  And she was serious, too.

  “Rafe, get your hands off my tush. You’re supposed to have them on the floor, palms up, loose and relaxed. And don’t move.”

  “When do we get to the good part?”

  “This is the good part.”

  “Oh.” Boy, does she have a lot to learn! He played along with her, though, and was amazed to find that he could sit perfectly still for a long time—five minutes—with the woman he loved impaled on his erection. It was probably a record of some kind. He’d have to check his brother Eduardo’s Penthouse Book of World Records when he got home.

  But he couldn’t think about that now. Helen had moved to step two of her fantasy. Every time she ooohmed, he felt the most incredible vibrations in all his essential hot spots. Maybe her fantasies aren’t so far off base, after all. Maybe I’m the one who’s got a lot to learn. Hmmm.

  Rafe’s conjectures soon proved true when, to his absolute astonishment, he learned how to control the movement of his favorite organ just by focusing. It was like driving a car with a remote control.

  And Helen developed a neat trick of squeezing him from inside in something she called a Kegel exc
ercise—Helen could use technical terms like that even in the midst of hot sex, that’s the kind of marvel she was.

  Yep, Helen’s fantasy was turning out to be a surprise. Of course, he liked his own fantasies better, but he didn’t tell her that, either. He was too busy experiencing an explosive climax.

  They rested then—thank God!—and ate leftover venison and raw turnips. They sat at the table, bundled in blankets, murmuring softly. The air had turned very chilly.

  “I’m so damn sick of venison,” he complained. “What I wouldn’t give for chocolate chip cookies! Or a cheddar and chicken burrito. Or barbecued ribs. Or a thin-crust pizza with pepperoni and sausage and mushrooms and onions.”

  She smiled and made a tsking noise. “You don’t really eat like that, do you?”

  “Of course, I do.”

  “Those are all empty calories.”

  “Yep.” He wrinkled his nose at her. “Bootie calories.”

  “Huh?”

  “They go right to your butt.”

  “Well, you don’t have to worry about that. You have a very nice . . . butt.”

  He grinned. “Thank you, honey, and likewise. I’ll let you check it out later.”

  They both laughed then.

  In a little while, Helen stared at him shyly, hesitating.

  “What?”

  “I never knew people laughed when they made love,” she confessed.

  He tilted his head at her. “Sex is fun. Why would that surprise you?”

  She blushed.

  “Oh, Prissy, I’m going to make you laugh so much.” And he wasn’t referring to tickling her funny bone.

  Rafe took Helen’s hand across the table then, and they talked of inconsequential things. Usually, he didn’t like to chitchat after sex. He just wanted to fall asleep, or go home. Everything about sex with Helen was different.

  Was it love that made the difference?

  Shaking his head at that disarming cliché, he rose and pulled on a pair of pants and boots. He needed to go outside for a nature call and to get some more firewood.

  A few moments later, Helen was straightening out the bed linens when she heard Rafe yell, “Helen, come here! Quick! You won’t believe this.”

  Helen glanced toward the door, alarmed by the rising pitch of Rafe’s voice. She wrapped a blanket tightly around her shoulders and rushed outside.

  It was snowing. Hard. A regular blizzard.

  And Rafe stood with his arms outstretched joyously in the moonlight, his tongue catching snowflakes. Apparently he didn’t see much snow in L.A.

  “Isn’t this great!” he said eagerly, letting snowflakes settle in his hair and on his chest and bare shoulders, oblivious to the cold. He reminded her of a little boy.

  She leaned against the doorframe, feasting on the glorious sight. She wished she could freeze the scene for all time. “I’m going to paint this picture when I get back to the future,” she told him softly.

  “Yeah. What’re you gonna call it?”

  “‘The Man I Love.’”

  “Too unoriginal. It’s got to be something like ‘Snow in the Sierras,’ or ‘Wild Man in Angel Valley.’”

  “I like my title better.”

  “Okay,” he said agreeably, and opened his arms to her.

  She stepped toward him and opened her blanket, enveloping them both in its warmth. When he’d heated both their bodies with his kisses and roving hands, she showed him how to make snow angels, in the nude—yes, she was losing her mind—and Rafe showed her how to have snow sex—yes, they were both losing their minds.

  The next day, they awakened, burrowed under the quilts, to find even more snow had fallen—ten more inches—and it was still coming down. They looked at each other, coming to the same conclusions.

  “Zeb and Hector aren’t coming back soon.”

  “We’re going to be snowed in.”

  They exchanged a smile. The gods were smiling on them, it seemed.

  After a breakfast of bread and honey—Rafe kept complaining about the wax—he showed her another fantasy. It involved honey. She’d never realized what a versatile food honey was.

  Later, Rafe dressed warmly and went out to care for the animals and gather up his tools and bag of gold dust, bringing them up to the cabin. As he went out the door, he commented dryly, “Too bad you won’t be able to dig up any more carrots with all this snow.”

  “We can still have liver and onions,” she called after him.

  “Hah! If you make me eat liver and onions, I’ll make you have foot sex.”

  For a long time after he was gone, she pondered his words. Foot sex? He was teasing, of course.

  That afternoon, Rafe suggested they try another one of her fantasies.

  “I don’t have any more. Really.”

  “Invent one then.”

  Flushing pink from her scalp to her curled toes—she was still nude under a blanket wrapped toga-style around her body—she offered hesitantly, “Well, there is the rocking chair.”

  They both glanced at Zeb’s armless rocker, then at each other.

  Rafe broke into a slow, lazy grin. “Helen, Helen, Helen. You are a very quick learner.”

  Sometimes fortune comes to us in the oddest ways . . .

  For a week, they were marooned in the cabin, going out only to take care of bodily functions, feed the horses, and bring in firewood. They weren’t bored. They made love and talked and read books aloud and made love and shared secrets and ate enough venison to grow hooves and indulged Rafe’s numerous—really numerous—fantasies and her burgeoning ones, and they planned for their future.

  Of course, their idyllic interlude had to end eventually. It did, with a bang.

  Big Ben came knocking, and knocking, and knocking.

  They both dressed and Rafe got the rifle off the wall, checking the ammunition.

  “You’re going to kill him?” she cried in panic.

  He considered her grimly. “He might go after the horses. Or us.”

  “But what about Bertha, his wife?”

  Rafe cast her a incredulous look. “Bears don’t get married.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Give me a break, Helen. Do you really think I want to kill some animal weighing as much as a Mack truck?”

  She shook her head slowly. “Be careful.” Grabbing their two pistols, she started to follow him.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m coming to help.”

  “No way! Those pistols would be like a cap gun to a bear.”

  “I’m coming,” she asserted.

  By now, Ben was on the other side of the cabin, near the garden, sniffing the ground, presumably hunting for carrots. Then, still sniffing, he moved to the stream bank. The snowfall had stopped days ago, and the sun was warm, but a foot of snow still lay on the ground.

  “Shoot in the air. I don’t want to waste my ammunition,” Rafe advised her. “We might be able to scare him away.”

  “BAM!” Helen shot just above the beast’s head.

  At first, the animal just turned his huge head toward them, almost in puzzlement. Saliva drooled from its mouth, and yellow teeth the size of sharpened piano keys stood out in deadly detail. Just to show off, he reared up on his hind legs to his full height, about ten feet, and growled loud enough to wake the dead.

  “I thought bears hibernated in the winter,” she said fearfully.

  “It’s not really winter yet. Besides, he likely wanted a midnight snack. Us.”

  “Very funny. Maybe you could turn this into one of your sexual fantasies.”

  “Maybe,” he said grimly and raised his rifle, taking careful aim.

  “Try for the shoulder. A bear’s heart is located in the shoulder area. What you want to do is break through the shoulder so the bullet will enter the heart or lungs and anchor there.”

  Rafe grunted. “You are a real font of information.”

  “This isn’t the time for sarcasm, sweetheart. Shoot!”

/>   Rafe pulled the trigger, but, in just that instant, Ben heard his mate calling from the distant woods and he lurched to the side. Rafe only winged his ear.

  The bear lost its balance, though, and hit a small oak tree. Bellowing his rage, Ben righted himself and took the trunk of the young sapling in his wide mouth, shaking and snarling until he’d pulled it from the ground, roots and all. He was probably practicing, imagining it was their necks.

  “God!” Rafe exclaimed, taking aim again, this time with Helen’s second pistol. He hit the beast moving toward them on all fours right through the top of his shoulder. Blood showed immediately on the mangy fur. “Did I hit the right spot?”

  “I don’t know. Possibly a little too high.”

  Ben reared up again, his vicious eyes centered on them, but his ears perked to the persistent cry of his mate in the forest. Bertha could be calling for help, or perhaps she was just worried about her man. In any case, Ben let out a mighty roar, which clearly said, “Later, dudes!” and loped off in the snow.

  At first, Helen and Rafe just gaped at each other, then they exhaled at the same time, neither realizing they’d been holding their breath. Rafe hugged her, and they walked over to the area where the bear had pulled the tree from the ground. The snow around it had been pounded down by the animal’s massive weight, and loose limbs and dirt littered the white snow.

  Rafe tried to pick up the tree and found it too heavy. Deep teeth marks marred its bark. They glanced at each other in mutual horror at what they’d just escaped.

  Releasing her hand, Rafe walked to the other side of the fallen tree to examine the hole where the tree had stood. With a quick intake of air, he dropped to his knees and closed his eyes, almost like he was praying.

  “What is it?” she cried, alarmed at the pallor of his face. Rushing forward, she knelt down beside him. Rafe’s face was buried in his trembling hands. Maybe this was a delayed reaction to the danger they’d just escaped. “Honey, it’s over now,” she soothed.

  Rafe raised his head and sheer bliss spread across his face. “No, Helen, it’s just beginning.” He pointed to the cavity in the ground, and she saw at least a dozen huge nuggets, and the reddish earth was loaded with a yellowish dust. Still more nuggets and dust clung to the long roots of the fallen tree. Rafe pumped his fist in the air in the victory sign.