It wasn’t long before Fargo heard splashing and girlish giggling. Making himself comfortable, he broke several branches and stacked them for later use. A multitude of stars sparkled on high. Out in the chaparral coyotes yipped.
“Skye! Skye! Come quick!”
The urgent cry brought Fargo on the run. Colt in hand, he rushed through the dark to the edge of the stream. He saw no one, heard no sounds. Fearful Apaches had abducted her, he crouched and whispered, “Where are you?”
“Right here.” A pale shape rose out of a shallow pool.
“Are you all right? What was the shouting about? What do you need me for?”
The shape sashayed closer. “I need someone to scrub my back. Know where I can find a volunteer?”
11
Skye Fargo was angry. With good cause. What Gwen Pearson had done was thoughtless, almost childish. He had been genuinely concerned, afraid she had come to harm. He wasn’t the least bit amused.
Yet when the country girl waded up to him, her splendid body shimmering with beads of moisture, as exquisite as the finest sculpture ever rendered, Fargo’s anger evaporated. In its place lust was kindled, lust that put a lump in his throat and stirred his manhood. Newfound energy coursed through his limbs, temporarily erasing his fatigue. He slid the Colt into his holster and stood waiting.
“What’s the matter?” Gwen teased. “Cat got your tongue?” She gazed up at him with an impish grin. “I really do need someone to wash my back for me.”
Fargo’s carnal hunger mounted. She was lovely. Although smaller than Melissa Starr and not as amply endowed, Gwen was perfectly proportioned and beautiful in her own right. Her small but firm breasts were naturally upthrust in enticing invitation. Her large nipples were erect with desire. She was tanned from being outdoors so much, and her muscles were finely toned from hard work. A flat stomach flared into nicely curved hips, while water dripped from the pale thatch at the junction of her creamy thighs.
“Something wrong?” Gwen asked when he neither moved nor spoke.
“I can’t make up my mind whether to kiss you or spank you.”
Gwen giggled. “You’re making this hard for me. I thought the man was always supposed to make the first move.”
“You want me, do you?” Fargo bluntly asked, still not moving. He was challenging her, taunting her, paying her back for her little prank.
“Damn you.” Gwen smiled when she said it. “Is this some sort of game? Do you want me to come right out and admit it? Would that make you happy?”
Fargo did not say a word.
“I hate you more than ever,” Gwen declared. Then she stepped even closer and craned her neck so she could kiss him warmly on the chin, on the cheek, on the edge of his mouth. Her breath was warm, her touch velvet. “Yes, I want you,” she said hungrily. “I think I’ve wanted you since the moment I laid eyes on you. But I’m not the kind of woman who throws herself at a man. It’s taken me a while to build up the nerve.”
“Why here? Why now?”
“I thought of waiting until we got to Tucson, but then I remembered you’re going east, not west. This might be my last chance. Ever.” Gwen’s throat bobbed. “I’m scared the Apaches will catch us. Scared I’ll never get to touch you or any other man ever again, never get to—”
Fargo silenced her by pressing his mouth to hers. She responded by melting into his arms, her small figure fitting snugly against him as if their two bodies were but two parts of a whole. Her lips were downy soft yet firm with passion. Almost timidly, they parted to allow his tongue to gain entrance. Her tongue was small, delicate, yet silken. It met his, exploring, then entwined in an erotic dance.
Fargo’s hands rose up the backs of her thighs. Her legs trembled as he ran his fingertips to her firm buttocks and cupped them, feeling the heat she radiated. She mewed deep in her throat as he kneaded her. Then he slid his hands higher, his palms rubbing across her lower back, rising on either side of her curved spine to her shoulders. She was still wet, her skin wonderfully cool. Fargo massaged her shoulders, then ran a hand through her damp hair.
Gwen broke to take a breath. “Ohhhhh, I’m in heaven.”
“You’re not halfway there yet,” Fargo said, and kissed her brow, her cheeks, her ear. She was sensitive there, and when his tongue flicked her earlobe, she gasped and arched against him. He sucked on it, feeling her quiver, her legs rubbing against one another to heighten her pleasure.
Fargo pulled back. He removed his hat, peeled off his dirty shirt, his gunbelt, his pants, and his boots. That tiny voice at the back of his mind came to life. It railed at him for letting down his guard in the middle of Apache country.
“You’re being stupid!” the voice screamed. Fargo didn’t care. The past two days had been a living hell. He would like a short time to relax, to forget the problems he faced.
Gwen stared at him as she might at a steak she was about to devour. “You’re magnificent,” she husked, her small hands rising to his superbly muscled chest. Her palms rubbed in tiny circles, working their way to his broad shoulders, then down his arms. She drank in the sight of him, breathing heavier and heavier.
Fargo elicited a sharp gasp by suddenly cupping her breasts. They fit his hands like large apples, the nipples full and taut. He gently squeezed, then with more force. Gwen gazed skyward, her rosy lips parted as if to cry out, but she uttered no sound other than panting. Fargo stroked her, from the base of her cones outward. He pulled on her nipples and tweaked them, and she groaned so long and loud that he started to worry about the Apaches again.
To quiet her, Fargo smothered her mouth with his own. Her kiss this time was fiery hot, her tongue a dervish that never stopped encircling his. He continued to grope her mounds and pinch her nipples until her chest heaved with passion.
“Please,” Gwen said. “Please, please, please.”
Fargo did not know exactly what she wanted. Bending, he clamped his lips onto a pert breast and inhaled it. She rose onto her toes, her nails raking his shoulders.
“Like that, like that!”
Her breasts swelled under his manipulating fingers. Fargo lathered them with his tongue, then licked lower to her navel. The musky scent that rose from her nether region tingled his nostrils. He slowly straightened, kissing her belly, kissing between her breasts, her lower neck, her mouth. She glued herself to him, her hips pumping.
Fargo shocked her by taking her hand and placing it on his pole. At the contact, Gwen stiffened, then began to stroke him from top to bottom. Relaxing, she drew back to admire his manliness, and for a few seconds Fargo thought she might dip lower but she didn’t. Closing his eyes, he thrilled to her tender touch. Then he opened them, clasped her, and plunged his right hand between her legs.
Gwen cried out. As well she might. Fargo’s fingers were enveloped in moist heat that became hotter the deeper he went. His index finger found her slick tunnel and he thrust it in to the knuckle.
“Ohhhhh! Skye!”
Her bottom heaved as Fargo pumped in and out, the friction adding to the already considerable heat, to say nothing of her pleasure. Gwen bit his shoulder. Her greedy mouth rose to his and fused. She cooed like a dove as he brought her to the brink of release, but only to the brink. Her hips were rising up and down, her legs shaking uncontrollably, when he stopped stroking and placed both hands on her hips.
“What—?” Gwen said.
Fargo lifted her off the ground. Her small frame, her light weight, made it easy. Easy, too, to poise her over his manhood. She understood and willingly parted her legs. Then, inch by iron inch, Fargo slid her down onto himself, inserting his pole into her wet sheath. He took her standing up, his sturdy legs bracing them both. And when he was in her all the way, when she was balanced on his hips, he gripped her shoulders and thrust higher, rising onto the tips of his toes.
“Ahhhhh! Yessssss!”
Gwen threw back her head, her eyelids fluttering, golden tresses spilling over her shoulders. She gave herself
