She backed into a dirt crusted and rotting barrel and leaned against it, spreading her ample thighs and drawing Longarm right onto—and into—the wet heat of her sweating body.
Ready? She couldn’t have been any more slick and greasy if she’d been bathing in a tub of snot. He slid inside easy as dunking a biscuit in gravy and mightn’t have been sure he was in her if it hadn’t been for the heat that surrounded him.
Ready? He hadn’t more than bumped his belly tight to hers than Fancy went to shuddering and buffing and turning all red in the face. She wiggled and moaned and the lips of her pussy contracted so hard that he could actually feel her around him. The girl was just plain big. Loose and sloppy and big enough so that even he, big as he was, had room left over.
Longarm knew that while Fancy might be having a helluva lot of fun this way he wasn’t likely to get much out of it. Not like this. He pulled out and turned her around, giving her a little push so that she leaned facedown over the top of the ancient barrel.
“You want me in the ass, sweetie? You go right ahead, honey. I like it there too.”
Interesting, he supposed, and a generous offer. But not exactly what he had in mind.
“Pull your legs together.”
“Make me,” she demanded.
He didn’t understand what she wanted at first. Then did. What the hell, it was her quirk not his. He slapped her butt a couple times, harder than he really wanted if not so hard as she would have liked, and Fancy climaxed again under this tender treatment. “Now put your legs close together,” he repeated.
This time Fancy did what she was told—hell, if she got balky he might refuse to spank her again—and Longarm stepped up behind her broad ass.
This time when he slid the meat into her locker she was tight enough that he could enjoy being there.
And truth to tell there was something about Fancy that had him just damn near as hot as she’d been.
He stirred it around a few times and soon felt the swift rise of intense pressure building deep in his balls and flowing up into his cock.
He held back, trying to contain it, but it was like trying to hold back the spring floods. Just couldn’t be done.
When he came it was a flood sure enough. He pumped fluid enough to make a fire engine proud, and while he was doing that Fancy came again, too.
Longarm’s knees went weak and his eyes crossed—well, they almost felt like they might have—and he had sudden visions of soft beds that didn’t rock and jolt along a bunch of damned railroad tracks and long hours of uninterrupted sleep and things like that.
But then he was a United States deputy marshal here trying to do his duty.
Right.
He swayed backward, letting his limp, wet pecker flop out into the cooling air.
“Lawd’a’mercy, sweetheart,” Fancy said. Or something like that.
“Yeah,” Longarm agreed. He yawned and patted Fancy on the butt, which did not get a rise out of her this time. He supposed she must’ve been pretty well spent by now too, though.
“Excuse me, honey,” he told her, “but I gotta go see a man about a horse.”
Fancy made a face at him but didn’t object when Longarm went to tucking and buttoning himself into outward respectability again.
“Any time you want to talk some more,” she offered.
Longarm smiled and winked at her and leaned forward to plant a chaste, brotherly little kiss on the tip of her nose.
Then he turned and got the hell out of the close confinement of the old carriage house. Damn girl smelled like a goat, he swore she did.
Chapter 43
At some point not long before daybreak the P & P train had crossed the state line, carrying the baseball club out of flat, drab, and dreary Kansas and into a piece of Colorado that was … every damn bit as flat and drab and dreary as it’d been back in Kansas.
But at least this was familiarly flat, drab and dreary. Hell, it seemed practically like home after being stuck in Kansas so long. Not that Longarm had anything against Kansas. Far from it. But Colorado was home territory and he was pleased to be back.
He stood in the middle of the main street of Jonesboro—he didn’t exactly have to fret about being run over by the crush of onrushing traffic; at the moment the only thing he could see moving at ground level was a stray cat that emerged from an alley, took one look around and quickly retreated back into the shade of the alley it just came from—and took a deep drag on a cheroot while he peered around.
He’d been in Jonesboro before. Twice if he remembered correctly. And the truth was that it had grown some since the last he saw it.
There still wasn’t a tree to be found for fifteen or twenty miles in any direction, but here lately a forest seemed to’ve been growing anyway.
Windmills. The country had become of a sudden overgrown with brand-new windmills, each one of them busily pumping water into newly dug irrigation ditches. Jonesboro and environs was fast becoming farm country whereas the last time Longarm looked it had been devoted mostly to small-parcel livestock raising, like chickens, pigs, goats, and some sheep raised on a small scale.
