Longarm Giant #30: Longarm and the Ambush at Holy Defiance (17 page)

She walked over and retrieved his brown frock coat, brought it back, and spread it on the ground in front of him. She knelt on the coat, so that her head was a foot away from his cock, and then she wrapped her arms around his legs, and placed her hands on his buttocks.

He heard a very faint wet crackling when she parted her lips and moved her head forward. It was dark between them so he couldn’t see well down past his belly, and he sucked a sharp breath when he felt her tongue touch the head of his cock. He held his breath when she slid her tongue up over the orifice and across the top of the swollen, throbbing head.

Swirling her tongue slowly, she licked every inch of the head of his cock, bathing it in her hot saliva.

After several minutes of this harrowing torture, which he endured with his fists clenched at his sides, heels grinding into the sandy ground under his bare feet, she closed her mouth over the head. Soft warmth engulfed him. He tightened his jaws. Moving her head toward his crotch, she slid her mouth with excruciating slowness down the length of him toward his balls.

When he could feel his cock in the tightness of her throat, she stopped, gagged, jerking her head and shoulders slightly, but held him there taut against her tonsils. He could feel her saliva trickling down from her mouth and warming nearly ever inch of him lodged in her throat.

She squirmed and groaned and then slid her mouth back and off him, drawing a deep, liquid breath, gasping and pumping him with one hand while she gazed up at him.

“So big. You’re so fucking big.”

Longarm groaned.

She continued to pump him slowly with her soft, gentle hands while she gazed up at him from her knees, her eyes showing blue-green in the starlight. “I’ve thought about that night in Leadville many times. I’m going to think about it many times more before I die. You’re the most man I’ve ever had.”

She kissed his cock, caressed it with her cheek and then cupped his heavy balls in both her hands, staring up at him once more. “It was the most satisfying experience I’ve ever had with any man. The awful thing about it, though, is that it’s all I can think about now. I keep wanting to be so completely filled again. That’s why I’ve been so…moody. I haven’t meant to be, Custis. Can I call you Custis?”

She seemed to be waiting for an answer to the question.

He said, “Don’t see why not,” in a pinched voice, grinding his heels back into the sand while she hefted his balls in her hands and sucked the head of his cock with passion, groaning.

She pulled her mouth off him with a slight popping sound and smacked her lips together, drawing a breath between her wet, shiny lips. “It’s just that I’ve never had such complete pleasure, and this need for it again…and again…and again…” She shook her head as though deeply confounded. “I just don’t understand it. It frightens me!”

“No need to be afraid.”

“I think I want to finish blowing you. I want to feel your hot seed in my throat. And then will you fuck me from behind…like last time? Like a couple of back-alley curs?”

“Sure.”

“And then, let’s please not speak of this, okay?”

He frowned down at her. Every nerve was leaping inside of him, his heart beating slowly, heavily, his pulse throbbing in his temples.

Christ almighty, he’d never known a woman to talk this much!

“I’d just rather not speak of it, no matter what happens again between us in the future.” Haven ran her tongue up from the base of his cock to the tip, and then slid her mouth off of him, causing his cock to bob against her cheek. “Will that be all right, Custis?”

“Fine, fine,” he said through a moan, fearing he would pass out before she could finish him.

She smiled, slitting her eyes devilishly, and then swallowed him again, gagging on him, and then sliding her mouth back to the head of his cock.

Back down again. Back. Down.

Back.

Down.

Faster.

Longarm’s knees turned to putty. He groaned, placed his hand on the girl’s head as she rammed it back and forth against his belly. His cock seemed to grow though it couldn’t possibly get any larger without exploding.

And then he ground his molars till he thought they’d turn
to dust, arched his back, threw his hips forward, and fired off his load until he thought he could hear the Gatling gun–like reports echoing around the canyon.

She drank every drop.

She gagged on it, but she very dutifully held her mouth down as far as she could, and took every bit of his seed that he let geyser down past her tonsils. When her face turned red and she began convulsing from lack of air, she swallowed one more time. He groaned at the pleasurable feeling of her throat contracting against his nearly spent organ. Falling back on her butt, propped on her arms outstretched behind her, she drew a ragged breath, panting as she smiled up at him.

“Now, that was fun.”

Longarm’s knees buckled. He dropped in the dirt before her. He, too, panted, feeling his cock droop though there was still some desire there. That’s how special this gal was. She could drink him dry and still he was ready to take her again.

Her breasts spilled back against her chest, bulging out across her ribs, her nipples jutting. He leaned down and kissed each in turn and then he rose, picked her up in his arms, and lay her down on his bedroll, resting her head back against his saddle.

“Already?” she said, looking up at his face and then down at his cock.

“No.” Longarm shook his head. “Not yet. First…” He reached into his saddlebags and pulled out his travel flask. “First, a drink.”

He offered her the flask. To his surprise, she took it, took a pull, then another pull. She tipped her head back like a bird, swallowing, and smacked her lips. “Tastes good mixed with your come.”

Longarm’s ears fairly burned at the change in this girl from earlier in their journey. She’d become the lusty nymphomaniac he’d met back in Leadville. He liked the change in her, couldn’t imagine her being any other way now.

Chuckling, he took a long pull from the flask, offered it to her once more. When she shook her head, he hammered the cork back into the mouth with the heel of his hand, set it down against his saddle, and lay down beside her.

She crawled over him to lie between his legs, resting her back against his chest, placing his hands on her breasts.

They lay there together, snuggling against each other, exploring each other’s intimate parts gently, slowly, not saying anything. She was more intoxicating than any forty-rod that Longarm had ever drunk—more intoxicating than the explosive
tiswin
the Apaches imbibed in to work themselves up for war.

The fire had gone out.

She reached over and tossed a mesquite branch on the glowing, crackling coals, saying, “I want to see our shadows when you fuck me from behind like a dirty dog, Custis.”

“Well, this dirty dog’s ready to get to it,” he said, drawing her back onto the blankets and gentling her belly down against them. He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her up onto her knees.

“Custis?”

“What?”

“Have no mercy.”

“Never, Haven.”

Longarm shoved his cock into her gaping, waiting pussy. Soon their shadows were jouncing wildly on the ground beside the fire. Both were aware enough of where they were to not make a lot of noise beside the muffled grunts and groans of coupling coyotes, lest someone should hear.

Then they slept entangled in each other’s arms.

Longarm awoke the next morning feeling as though he’d tangled with seven bobcats in the back of a covered wagon.

He slid out from beneath Haven, who slept naked beneath the two wool blankets of his hot roll, and dressed quietly in the predawn darkness. He rummaged around in the brush for more dry wood and laid a new fire.

When he dropped a branch atop the building flames, Haven lifted her head from his saddle with a gasp, clutching her blankets to her breasts, her eyes sharp with fear between tangles of her lustrous brown hair.

“Easy,” he said, holding up one hand, palm out. “Just me.”

She did not blink but continued to stare at him as though he were a bear that had wandered into her camp. The fear was slow to fade. When it did, her pale cheeks were touched with the pink of embarrassment, and then she rose quickly, holding his blankets around her luscious body, and gathered her clothes.

When she had them all, she tramped off into the mesquites to dress in private.

Longarm got out his pot and made coffee, casting speculative glances at the mysterious creature in the mesquites beyond him. He’d never known a girl quite like her, and he
had a feeling there was plenty more to her story than what she’d shared last night.

“Looks like it’s going to be another hot day,” she said, throwing her hair out from her shirt collar when she returned from the brush, dressed and carrying his blanket roll neatly tied. She looked around and he saw that the earlier, mysterious fear was gone from her eyes, the old Haven Delacroix returned.

At least, the day one.

Very odd how she could be one person during the day, nearly the opposite one at night.

As they ate jerky and biscuits for breakfast and drank coffee, they said little, and what they did say in no way referenced the night before. They discussed the route to the dead lawmen’s graves, and they discussed the missing gold and who might have taken it, and where they might find water out here, and that was all. It was almost, Longarm thought, as though they had not coupled like wolves only a few hours ago.

As though theirs were only a cool, impersonal, professional relationship.

Which was fine with him. Odd. But fine.

He did, however, feel compelled to say later, as they finished saddling their horses with the sun nearly up, “Since we’re partnered up an’ all, Haven…I mean, Agent Delacroix…you can tell me anything you want, you know. Anything you might want to get off your chest.” He draped his saddlebags over the roan’s back and looked at her over his saddle. “Just so’s you know.”

He meant that she could tell him why she’d had such fear in her eyes when she’d first seen him this morning, after their rare, erotic intimacy of the night before.

She took her steeldust’s reins and swung into the leather, the saddle squawking beneath her, looking at him with a faint, appreciative smile, the smile of a stranger passing on the street. “Why, thank you, Marshal Long. I do appreciate that, I guess…”

She reined away and nudged her horse with her heels.

Longarm chuffed softly, curiously, and swung up onto the roan’s back. He followed Agent Delacroix to the old Indian trail they’d been following, and then she held up to allow him to take the lead. He was the one with the map, and as they rode throughout the morning, he consulted the plat frequently, looking around at the changing terrain. It was hard to tell because of the sketchiness of the map and all the various formations sliding around him, but he believed that they were in, or nearly in, the Black Puma Mountains.

They rode between two low, shelving mesas and then dropped into a broad canyon, and suddenly he reined the roan up beside a trail that curved out of the desert on his left and swept off into the desert to his right, disappearing into the humped shapes of what he took to be the Black Pumas. Off the far side of the trail about a hundred yards appeared to be a wash.

When he and Haven had ridden up to the wash, they swung east and rode along the arroyo’s sandy bottom for another hundred yards when he heard a low growling up the southern bank on his right. He put the roan up the bank, stopped the horse, cursed, and slid his Winchester out of its scabbard.

Ahead, lay five mounded graves backed with wooden crosses constructed of driftwood branches tied together with rawhide. Two of the crosses were tipped over, resting on their sides. One coyote sat a ways back from the graves, shifting its weight between its front paws and watching another that stood beside one of the rock mounds, tugging and growling at what looked like a piece of red cloth, trying to pull it out from beneath the rocks.

As Haven rode up behind him, Longarm levered a cartridge into the Winchester’s breech, and planted a bead on the coyote tugging on the cloth. He dropped the sights and fired, pluming rock dust up from in front the coyote. Both
carrion eaters wheeled and ran off through the brush, casting worried, angry looks behind them.

“Good God,” Haven said as Longarm swung down from his saddle.

There’d been no point in killing the beasts, for they were only doing what they were naturally inclined to do. As he walked up to the five graves, he saw that what the coyote had been tugging on was a red calico shirtsleeve. What appeared to be a hand protruded from above the sleeve, two of the fingers missing, leaving a thumb and the body’s ring finger on which was a gold wedding band ground deep into the swollen flesh around it. The sleeve was badly torn, held together by threads.

Longarm heaved a sigh as he inspected the graves. He wished he had a shovel with which to properly rebury the hand, but he did not. Besides, there was little point. The ground around the graves was a maze of padded footprints, and a foot-deep hole had been dug along one of the graves. There was a hungry pack of brush wolves around here, and they’d probably eventually get to the carrion slouched beneath the rocks.

The men were dead. Now they were food. Just the way it worked.

Longarm looked around at the rocky desert tufted with Spanish bayonet and greasewood, the occasional saguaro and pipestem cactus, as though probing the terrain for the ghosts of the dead men who might be able to suggest who had killed them and why. Haven reined her steeldust around the graves and stopped a few yards away.

“Where were they killed?” she asked.

“A few yards east of where they’re buried.”

As Haven dismounted, he rode over and joined her, swinging down from the roan’s back. She was down on one knee, swinging her head from left to right, scanning the scuffed ground.

There were more coyote tracks here, bird tracks, as well
as several shod hoofprints and men’s boot impressions. The men from Whip Azrael’s Double D Ranch had been here, as well as the dead men themselves…when they were still alive…and the killer or killers.