High Country Horror

“God, I want you.”

For Fargo it was mutual.

“One thing, though,” Helsa said, and gripped the front of his shirt. “You’re never to tell a soul, you hear? This is between you and me.”

“You and me,” Fargo repeated.

“I mean it. I pray to God you’re not one of those braggarts who boasts of his conquests. No one must ever know.”

“If I ever tell anyone,” Fargo said, taking her hand, “you can cut this off.” He placed her hand on his rigid pole.

Helsa gasped. She glanced down and breathed, “Oh my God! You’re so big.”

“Like it?” Fargo said, and ran her hand up and down. She didn’t draw away. To the contrary, she fondled and stroked him and her breathing became heavier and heavier. She offered no resistance when he eased her onto her back and slid his arm under her legs and lifted them onto the bed. Stretching out beside her, he unbuckled his gun belt and dropped it to the floor.

Helsa kept one hand between his legs and with her other she cupped his chin.

“You’re magnificent.”

“We’re just starting,” Fargo said.

She kissed him, hard, and scraped his cheek with a fingernail. “I want to forget, even if it’s only for a little while.”

Fargo placed a hand on her thigh.

“You have no notion of what it’s like,” Helsa said. “Wanting someone who isn’t there. Wanting that, but you can’t have it because you’re a lady and ladies aren’t supposed to have that unless they’re married. It’s not fair how we’re treated. Either men put us on pedestals or they treat us like whores.”

“Less jabber,” Fargo said, and to silence her, he kissed her. At the back of her dress was a row of small buttons that resisted his prying. He had half a mind to rip the dress off but that might spoil her mood so he patiently took his time and at last peeled it down her shoulders to her waist. Underneath she had on a thin cotton chemise and long cotton drawers. No petticoats, much to his delight. He loosened the chemise enough to slide his hand up and under, and cupped her breast.

“Ohhhh,” Helsa said.

Fargo massaged and tweaked first one and then the other as their tongues swirled. He sucked on hers and she sucked on his. He lathered her throat and traced the tip of his tongue to her cleavage. The chemise thwarted him. Quickly, he stripped off her dress and her undergarments and tossed them to the floor.

In repose, her face wreathed by her lustrous hair, Helsa Chatterly was breathtaking. Her ample breasts curved to twin peaks, her nipples erect with raw desire. She had a golden thatch to match her golden hair, and winsome legs that seemed to go on forever. Her red lips, puckered in delight, were two cherries waiting to be tasted. “Don’t stare at me like that.”

“Like what?” Fargo had been momentarily distracted by her beauty.

“It embarrasses me.”

“You should be used to it.”

“I’m not a saloon tart. You’re only the second man in my entire life to see me without any clothes on.”

Fargo hadn’t realized. He was so accustomed to tarts, as she’d called them, he tended to forget that some women treated their bodies as a rare treasure only a privileged few were allowed to admire.

“I mean it. Stop staring, consarn you, and do something.”

“Happy to oblige,” Fargo said, and hurriedly shed his boots and pants. Stretching out beside her, he ran his fingertips from her knee to her navel and down the other leg.

Helsa was doing some staring of her own. “You have a lot more muscles than James did. Your stomach in particular.” She pressed her palm to his abdomen. “It’s like a washboard.”

Fargo inhaled her left breast and flicked her nipple. It elicited a loud moan, and she ground her hips against his. Sliding a finger between her legs, he stroked her core; she was wet from wanting him. He went on stroking and she went on grinding until finally he moved between her legs and rose onto his knees. Her eyes hooded with lust, Susannah delicately wrapped her fingers around his member.

“A stallion,” she said huskily.

Inserting the tip, Fargo penetrated her. He thrust, and she mewed. He went on thrusting, ever harder and ever faster, and she met each with a push of her hips. She had been so long without it that she was an inferno between her legs. Gripping her buttocks, he rammed more forcefully.

“Yes!” Helsa said, her nails raking his back. “Like that. Do me. Do me hard.”

Gradually they rose to the summit. The climax came when Helsa arched her back and cried out; it sent Fargo hurtling over the brink. Together they coasted on tides of release. Afterward, Fargo lay by her side, drifting in and out. By the clock it was past ten when he rose on an elbow and drank in the vista of her charms. She was asleep, her breasts rising and falling in rhythm to her breathing.

A faint sound downstairs didn’t gain Fargo’s interest. But a louder sound, the scrape of wood on wood, as of a chair being moved, did. Sitting up, he shook Helsa’s hip. She mumbled something and went on sleeping. He shook again and her eyelids cracked in dreamy contentment.

“What?”

“I thought you said your other boarder wasn’t coming back tonight.”

“He’s not.” Helsa closed her eyes and went to roll over but stopped when he gripped her shoulder.

“Do you have a dog?”

“No. James and I had one when we were first married but it was run over by a wagon.”

“A cat, maybe?”

“Cat fur make me sneeze, so no.”

Fargo shook her some more but she pushed his hand away.

“Let me sleep, will you?”

“Listen,” Fargo said.

“To what?”

In a few moments the scraping was repeated.

Startled, Helsa sat up and covered her breasts with her arms. “What on earth was that?”

“It’s not your dog or your cat.”

“You are not at all funny.”

“It sounds as if you have another visitor,” Fargo suggested.

“Do you honestly think I would come up here with you without bolting both the front and back doors? I couldn’t risk someone like the marshal happening by and walking in on us.”

From downstairs came a creak.

“My God,” Helsa whispered. “Someone is down there. That was the door to the pantry. It always makes that noise.”

“I’ll have a look-see,” Fargo offered. He tugged into his buckskin pants and slipped the Colt from its holster and moved toward the door.

“What in heaven’s name do you think you’re doing?”

“Going downstairs.”

“Not like that you’re not.”

“Not like what?”

“Not half naked. What if it’s a friend of mine? Finish getting dressed and then you can go.” Helsa slid from the bed and gathered up her dress. “I’ll put myself together and be right down.”

To Fargo it was foolish. But he pulled on his shirt and slid his feet into his boots and jammed his hat onto his head, and with the Colt in one hand and his gun belt in the other, he cat-footed to the head of the stairs.

From somewhere below came a scritch-scritch-scritch.

After the clashes he’d had with the three jackasses, Fargo thought it best to be cautious. He was almost to the bottom when he discerned that the sounds were coming from the kitchen. He rounded the banister and took a step into the hall.