Damned if she didn’t seem to be naked again under that cover of heavy linen.
He goggled just a bit at the discovery. Then he felt around some to verify that, no, there wasn’t any cloth anywhere to be found inside that garment. There was nothing but warm, soft skin.
The woman’s head bobbed just a little, and despite the hat and veil Longarm was pretty sure she was laughing. She was enjoying this little joke, and probably had been the whole time, sitting there close by, naked as a boiled egg, and him never suspecting it.
Longarm chuckled too, and tweaked her nipple.
He heard what he thought to be a slightly muffled gasp. Then damned if she didn’t reach over to his crotch and commence undoing buttons there.
Now there wasn’t any way in hell the two of them could get away with fucking on top of a stagecoach full of folks traveling through wide-open country. Not even at night would anyone be crazy enough to try that. Not with Quint just a few feet away driving his team. Jeez!
They couldn’t fuck, and it would have been a dead giveaway too if she’d gone to her knees in front of him.
It turned out what she had in mind was, in fact, safe enough from discovery to be worth a try.
She took him out of his britches and calmly, methodically, very gently, began to whack him off.
It was almighty considerate of her, Longarm thought. He leaned back and let her have her fun, a big part of which no doubt involved the risk of discovery and the very public experience of it all.
This odd woman just plain liked getting it on, it seemed.
Longarm did not complain once he reached that conclusion, just kinda enjoyed it while he could.
At one point she leaned close to his ear and in a barely audible whisper told him, “When you’re about to come, signal me by squeezing my tit. Hard.”
He nodded. At the appropriate moment he squeezed. Hard.
The woman gasped again, turned her head to check on Quentin Cooper, and then bent low, sweeping her veil aside and taking Longarm’s cock into the wet heat of her mouth.
That was all he damn well needed to send him spilling over the edge. He came a quart. Hell, maybe more. Felt like that much anyway. And the woman drank it down without a murmur.
When she sat up again she was smiling. She winked at him and, silently laughing, licked her lips.
She carefully tucked him back where he belonged and buttoned his fly over the now-quite limp and satisfied appendage.
Then she took Longarm’s hand and guided it down into the soft, furry nest of hair at her crotch.
This time she whispered, “Now me, dearie. Use your fingers. Deep and hard, honey.”
This was, Longarm thought, a service every stagecoach line should lay on for its passengers. A man could make a fortune that way. Or a woman.
Chapter 8
Quentin Cooper had managed to make up almost three hours of their delay back at the Miller place, but the driver was grumbling and cussing himself for running behind schedule when they pulled into Deadwood late at night. They arrived in the middle of a rainstorm so heavy Longarm had been forced to abandon the coach roof and take shelter inside with the other passengers. The woman—she wasn’t any lady—had had Cooper stop and let her get inside at the first hint of rainfall.
Which Longarm had found to be something of a relief. The damned female was insatiable. Hell, even atop a bumping stagecoach in the middle of the night, she’d been after him and after him until he thought his fingers were going to purely wear down to nubs. Then what would he do if he needed to shoot somebody. Or something. Why, the woman was practically dangerous. All in all he was just as happy to see the trip come to an end so he could forget about her and get on with business.
He did, of course, help her out of the coach and onto the covered sidewalk where a boy—her son? Longarm didn’t know and wasn’t told—showed up to take her luggage away.
Longarm’s gear was the last to be unloaded. Naturally. He sometimes thought there was a Law of Nature to that regard. Or did it just seem that way?
“Thank you, Mr. Cooper. I enjoyed bein’ in your charge these past few days.”
“Don’t tell me, son. Tell the boss.”
“I’ll make a point of it,” Longarm told him, taking out a pair of cheroots and offering the spare to Quint.
“Thanks. Mind if I give you a word of advice?”
“Not at all, Mr. Cooper.”
The jehu grinned. Big. “If you want to keep on doing what you been doing the past couple nights, son, you oughta learn to control your breathing. Times there you was grunting and snorting louder than my old Aunt Matilda.” Cooper’s grin got even bigger. Which Longarm would not have thought possible. “God, that woman can snore. Uh, my aunt, I mean. Not … you know.”
Longarm laughed. “Mr. Cooper, I maybe shouldn’t ought to tell you this … but it wasn’t me doing that snorting.”
“Oh, my. In that case I apologize, son. Forget I said anything.”
Longarm struck a match and lighted Quint’s smoke first, then his own. “Do you happen to know if there’s a line that serves Camp Beloit or the Upper Belle Fourche Intertribal Agency? Whatever the hell that is?”
“No scheduled service that I know of, but Jess Maxwell at the general store two blocks down”—he pointed —“does business with them. You could talk to him about catching a ride out the next time he goes.”
