She dropped graciously to her knees, holding his saber-curved, pulsating shaft in her left hand while her right wrapped his sac. For starters her moist pink tongue began to swirl around and around the sensitive glans, immediately shooting intense pulses of tickling pleasure all the way back to Fargo’s balls and groin. As she became more and more excited, her tongue made rapid lapping sounds like a kitten drinking milk.
Next she ran her tongue up and down the underside of his length, forcing Fargo to collapse to his own knees as his legs grew rubbery and wobbly. Rebecca folded down even lower so she wouldn’t lose a mouthful, and now she took as much of him as she could into her mouth and worked erotic magic on Fargo’s rock-hard blue-veiner. He reached down and found the chamois petals of her love nest, working a finger into her hole and rapidly plunging it in and out, making sure to brush her swollen nubbin.
She didn’t moan loudly like Jessica, but a series of sharp cries marked each of her climaxes, each cry an octave higher than the one before it. Fargo took each woman as he found her and didn’t complain, but he had a special fondness for girls like Rebecca—girls who quietly but intensely enjoyed the amorous dance and didn’t shout like French Quarter touts.
By now she was eagerly taking little nips with her eyeteeth, nips that hurt just right. Fargo’s breathing grew to hoarse panting, and he felt the familiar telltale tightening of pleasure in his groin. She felt him tensing in her mouth and began to hyperventilate in her excitement.
Faster, harder, her blond head shot back and forth while her teeth raked his underside, igniting pleasure so strong that the darkling surroundings blurred to a dreamscape. Her right hand gripped the part she couldn’t fit in her mouth and began pumping so hard that Fargo could no longer stem the tide. Shuddering wildly, he exploded, collapsing to the ground.
Only gradually he surfaced to awareness. The last daylight bled from the sky and a pale wafer of full moon took over.
“Was it just like you described it to me?” she asked him, smiling and running her fingers through his hair. “The moment that you . . . achieved, I mean?”
Fargo smiled back. “Popping off,” “achieving” . . . these British gals definitely had their own vocabulary for lust. He remembered a girl from Australia who called climax “zooming up.” Maybe he’d write a book about it someday.
“Just like I described it,” he assured her. “My mind was . . . zooming up.”
“Ah! I see you’ve been with an Aussie, too. You
Fargo took a good look at her sleek, pale body. Even in the subdued light, her sapphire eyes gleamed like limpid pools. “Something else is zooming up, pretty lady, and I’d say it’s your turn now.”
He rolled into his favorite saddle and rode her hard for the next fifteen minutes or so, making her achieve nonstop in the gathering darkness. Afterward, both of them shivering as she wiggled into her dress, she asked, “Skye? Are we going to survive these Indian attacks?”
The honest answer—one he might have given a man—was “Our chances are slim to none.” But Fargo liked this young woman and her fine sister, Ericka, and sometimes honesty wasn’t the best policy.
“I’d give us an even chance,” he lied. Then he added truthfully, “We might have one good ace to play thanks to your sister.”
“My sister? Why, what an odd thing to say!”
Fargo started to reply, but just then Slappy’s rusty singing voice reached them from the trail:
“Oh, pray for the Ranger, you kindhearted stranger.
He has roamed the prairies for many a year;
He has kept the Comanches from off your ranches,
And guarded your homes o’er the far frontier.”
“Oh, to have a few of your famous Texas Rangers now,” Rebecca said wistfully.
“Just the tonic for what ails us,” Fargo agreed.
But there would be no Rangers. And Fargo knew, his heart sinking like a stone at the thought, that it didn’t matter how much he liked these three women from England—if Cheyenne victory became imminent, he would have to shoot all three of them in a bloody act of mercy.
14
By the time the Blackford party got rolling again, silver-white moonlight limned everything in a ghostly aura. Humans and horses were bone-tired, and even the Ovaro was growing ornery in the deepening cold. Fargo regretted the loss of that Platte River trading post not only for the ammo shortage—the grain, too, was depleted. Alfalfa and hay were not enough nourishment for horses being taxed to the limit as these were.
“I know there’s bad trouble on the spit,” Slappy remarked when Fargo fell back beside the fodder wagon. “But these team horses is fair done in, Fargo.”
Fargo grunted affirmation. “Don’t matter. If we have to, we’ll push ’em till they drop and then ride shank’s mare. Our only chance is Fort Laramie.”
“You think we can beat back another attack?”
