yours.”
“Here?” Priscilla said in disbelief. “It’s safer outdoors. I know plenty of places where we can be alone and no one will find us.”
“Does anyone ever use this room at night?” Fargo asked, and kissed her lightly on the neck.
“Not this late,” Priscilla admitted. “But it’s insane! It’s too dangerous! It could get me in more trouble than I have ever been in.” She paused, and her luscious lips formed a sensual invitation. “What are we waiting for?”
Fargo fused his mouth to hers and was unprepared for her reaction. A low moan issued from the depths of her being and she flung her arms and one leg around him and clasped him to her as if she were trying to climb inside his skin. Her tongue darted into his mouth and met his in satiny swirls. He felt her fingernails dig into his arms and back.
Fargo’s hands roved over her hips and her flat belly to the swelling curves of her breasts. He covered them, and Priscilla shivered as if she were cold, when actually her body temperature seemed to jump ten degrees. Her nipples were like tacks straining to pierce her dress. He pinched one and then the other and then both at the same time, eliciting whimpers of joy.
“You do things to me no man ever has,” Priscilla whispered huskily when she broke for breath.
Fargo doubted that. He ran the tip of his tongue along her chin to her neck and fastened his lips to an earlobe. She sighed and arched her back.
“I’m sensitive there.”
In Fargo’s estimation she was sensitive everywhere. But he lingered, sucking on the lobe and rimming her ear with his tongue. Her knee rose between his legs, sliding up his inner thighs, causing his manhood to become as hard as iron and to bulge against his buckskin pants. She rubbed her knee over him.
“Mmmmm,” Priscilla breathed. “I was right about you. This will be a night to remember.”
Fargo hoped she wasn’t a chatterbox. To forestall her from talking, he planted another hungry kiss on her wet mouth and kept his mouth there while his hands caressed and kneaded and molded her upper body as if she were clay and he a master sculptor.
Priscilla could not stand still. She squirmed, she wriggled, she wrapped a leg around him and unwrapped it and wrapped it around him again. Her hands roamed everywhere she could reach, from the crown of his head to below his belt. She gasped when she touched him down there.
“You
Pressing her against the wall, Fargo hiked her dress up.
“Standing up?” Priscilla said. “I love it! I just love it! Do with me what you will.”
Fargo intended to. Once again he covered her mouth with his. He had her dress midway up her legs, and it only took a few seconds to loosen the last obstacle and for his fingers to find her core. She was moist for him. At the contact, she rose up onto the tips of her toes and exhaled all the breath in her lungs.
“Ohhhhhhhh!”
Her cotton drawers slid down around her knees. Fargo glided his finger along her slit, and when he touched her knob, she threw her head back and bit her lower lip to stifle a carnal outcry. He slowly inserted his finger, immersing it in molten lava, and felt her inner walls ripple.
“Yes! Do me! I can’t wait!”
She would have to. Fargo was not quite ready. He added a second finger. Her sheath clung to them, sparking a deluge of hot, hungry kisses lavished on his face and throat.
Fargo commenced pumping his fingers, over and over, slightly faster as he went. Priscilla ground against his hand, her thighs clamped tight to imprison it. But that did not stop him from stroking on and on until she abruptly sank her teeth into his shoulder and moaned. She came, her bottom bucking wildly, threatening to snap his hand from his wrist. He waited, and when she subsided, temporarily spent, he slid his fingers out and brought both hands up to her bosom. He had not yet freed her breasts, but now he remedied that oversight and was rewarded when her glorious globes inflated to twice their previous size. Her nipples were irresistible. He inhaled one, switched to the other, then back again.
“I want you,” Priscilla breathed. “I want you inside of me.”
Her fingers enfolded Fargo’s member. She guided him between her legs, raised her chemise higher, and had him where she desired him. Eagerly, she ran his dripping knob across her nether lips. Then, rising up, she fed his pole into her, inch by inch by inch. She made no sound until he was all the way in. Then she leaned back, closed her eyes, and groaned.
To Fargo’s amazement, tears formed. “Are you all right?”
“I am in heaven,” Priscilla cooed. “I could do this every hour of every day.” She looked at him. “You don’t know how good this feels. You don’t know what it’s like, being denied for so long. I would shoot my mother if I didn’t love her so much.”
In one respect she was wrong; Fargo
“I wish—” Priscilla began, and suddenly stopped and stiffened. “Did you hear something?”
Fargo shook his head.
“Are you sure?” Priscilla whispered. “I thought I heard a footstep out in the hall. Maybe Avril came back.”
Fargo leaned as far toward the door as he could, but it was not quite far enough. “Wrap your legs around me,” he directed, and when she had complied, he slid along the wall and peeked out. A maid was moving down the hall away from them.
“What if she heard us?” Priscilla asked, aghast.
“Unlikely,” Fargo said.
They watched until the maid was gone. The woman did not glance back or in any way betray that she knew they were there.
“Thank goodness!” Priscilla said. “Now where were we?”
Fargo eased the door shut and braced both legs. He gripped her hips, tucked at the knees, and thrust, the first of many. He did not count them, so he could not say if it was the fortieth or the sixty-first when Priscilla bucked in a wanton frenzy of release. His own explosion was not long after.
Breathless, they sagged against one another. Eventually Fargo stirred and began to peel himself from her.
“What do you think you’re doing, handsome?” Priscilla asked, wearing an impish expression. “That was only the main course. I haven’t had dessert yet. Are you up for it?”
Was he ever.
9
Much to Fargo’s annoyance, they did not leave the Mayfair farm until ten the next morning. He was up before daybreak, as was his habit, and ready to head out as a golden crown blazed the eastern sky. But Arthur Draypool wanted to have breakfast with their hosts, and breakfast for the Mayfairs was an affair almost as elaborate as supper. The family gathered around the big table and were waited on by the servants. The fare was worthy of a restaurant: coffee, tea, milk, or juice; ham, bacon, beef, or venison; eggs, flapjacks, johnnycakes, and cracklin’ bread.
Fargo had no intention of eating a big meal, but once he sipped some orange juice and nibbled at a johnnycake, his stomach imitated an earthquake, prompting him to heap food high on his plate. He blamed Priscilla. She had been insatiable. They had stayed in the sewing room until nearly two in the morning.
Now she sat across from him, as demure and prim and proper as a true lady was expected to be. She would glance at him every now and then, when she thought no one else was looking, and smile a quick secret smile that only the two of them understood.
Toward the end of the feast, after Fargo had pushed his plate back and patted his overfull stomach, Clyde Mayfair tapped a glass with a spoon to get everyone’s attention and declared, “We wish you all the best in your hunt for the Sangamon River Monster, Mr. Fargo. It is a dangerous enterprise, and I trust you will not take it lightly.”
