Читать книгу Purely Sexual - Delta Dupree - Страница 9

“Draw me a bath,” Challie grumbled. “I can draw my own bath, thank you very much.”

She did hurt. Warm water soothed the soreness. What in the world had provoked her to do such a thing? She was no better than Mrs. Tedesco’s friend whose giggles, moans and groans had filtered into the guest room Challie had been cleaning. In the pool house! When she’d gotten enough gumption to leave, really trying to sneak out, Fontana was kissing the woman, his eyes wide open, staring at Challie. She’d had a hard time looking away, drawn to the intensity of his gaze. He was the type to enjoy two women at once. Three, probably. A harem. The shameless devil. As she’d hurried to the door, she’d felt his penetrating gaze piercing her back. Unnerved, she’d sprinted to the mansion.

Hattie had called loose women “tramps.” So now, she was loose too, Challie decided. Twice. One black, one white. Well, no more. This was it. This “screwing” was a mistake. Both times.

She leaned back in the tub, rested her head on the rim, checking her surroundings. The faucet and mirror shined. The floor was beige rather than dirt brown. Tile around the tub sparkled. Fontana had done an excellent job cleaning.

Fontana. She didn’t know the man’s first name. Lord. She was a tramp. He’d go back to Arizona, bragging how he’d laid the maid working at the Tedesco mansion. If Hattie heard, she’d have a heart attack. If Mrs. Tedesco caught wind of it, Challie figured she’d lose her job.

She slid down into the tub until the bubbles reached her chin. What was she going to do now? No job. No money. No life. Sent back home. And the thought made her want to throw up.

Donnie finished what Challie had started. Even mopped the floor. It was the least he could do.

If he weren’t so damn big, she wouldn’t be sore right now. If she hadn’t demanded all of him, she wouldn’t need to soak in the tub. If she hadn’t fucked his brains out…Crap.

He looked down at the gold watch on his wrist. How long did baths take anyway? What the hell was she doing in there, drowning?

He hurried down the hall and banged on the door. “Challie!”

“What?”

“Oh,” he said dryly. At least she hadn’t drowned. “What’s taking you so long?”

“Can’t a woman bathe privately? I like to soak. Go away. Leave me alone.”

Then, Donnie heard a suspicious sniffle. “What’s wrong now?”

“Nothing. Go away.”

“I’m coming in.” The door was unlocked since he’d busted the jamb earlier.

“Get out! Get out!” She heaved the bar of soap.

Donnie ducked. The soap hit the wall behind him, cracked in half. Pieces ricocheted into the sink. The washcloth followed. Water went everywhere, splashed across the mirror and, damn it, on his clean floor.

What the fuck? Drawing himself upright to his full six-foot height, he settled both fists on his hips. “That’s enough.”

She had the nerve to fish through the water and pitch a sponge.

He ducked again, just not in time. The sponge smacked the side of his head, spraying him down. “I’ll take a paddle to your ass if you throw one more thing.” He wasn’t beyond giving her a good spanking. Women needed them at times.

Her eyes turned glassy, then narrowed to thin slits. “You go ahead and try.”

Luckily, she had nothing left to throw, except the mean look on her face spoke volumes. Were those tears dripping down her cheeks? Challie yanked the shower curtain closed.

What the hell was he supposed to do now? He despised tears, hated seeing a weepy woman. They used them to control a man. Donnie let no one control him. Except Tedesco on occasion. He should leave the bathroom. Go about his business. Ignore it, he thought while picking up the soap pieces, sponge and washcloth, which he used to wipe the floor. Yep. Close the door and find a magazine to read. Or a book. There were lots of books on the shelves: mysteries, westerns, nonfiction…all sorts of dull, outdated reading material, including several stupid romance novels. Somebody had dragged their old lady here.

Donnie pulled the shower curtain back. “Challie, I didn’t mean to hurt you. Don’t—” Shit. What the hell was he supposed to say? He didn’t know how to stop a woman from bawling. “Weep.”

“I don’t ever cry.”

Her back was straight as a steel beam. Kneeling beside the tub, Donnie ran his finger down her spine. “Yes, you were. I saw tears.”

“Tub water.”

“Prove it. Turn around and look at me.”

Another sniffle escaped. “I want you to leave me alone.”

Like hell. He grabbed another washcloth from the rack, dipped it into soapy water, squeezed some of the moisture down her spine and lathered her rigid body. She finally relaxed; her shoulders weren’t bunched any longer, hiding her neck. Knotted muscle had smoothed out. He forced her to turn toward him, but not without a hassle. Challie fought him every step of the way, splashing water everywhere. As wet as his clothes had gotten, he should’ve stripped and climbed into the tub with her.

She’d tied up her hair in a cute ponytail. A few locks had escaped the thick bundle. Damp, they stuck to her neck and shoulders. When he set them free, the strands curled into bouncy, loose waves. He liked seeing a woman’s hair hanging free, but Challie wasn’t just any woman. She was going to be his wife, if only for a little while.

They never spoke, not even when he parted her legs and gently ran the washcloth between them, wishing to feel her silkiness with unencumbered fingers.

Once the water had cooled, the bath lost its bubbles. Donnie pulled the plug from the drain. He grabbed the oversized blue-striped towel, shook it out and held it up. With satin-smooth skin drizzling with water, didn’t Challie realize how much she turned him on? Shit, he wanted to fuck her again. Duke was ready, manufacturing process complete.

Once he dried her body, he planned to take her to bed. No full penetration this time. No matter how much he wanted to fuck her brains out. With a condom. Damned thing better hold every drop of cum he’d stored after the last eruption.

“I need to shower to rinse completely off.”

Hell. “What about the bath? Didn’t soaking do the job?”

“Baths are only for soaking. After a while, it’s like sitting in your own filth. Hate filth.”

She hated a lot of things. Did she hate him for hurting her?

“I need privacy.”

Well, shit. He’d fucked her. He’d bathed her. Now, she wanted privacy? He wanted some ass. In the shower, if necessary. Did a rinse job for two fit into the equation?

Standing naked without showing the least bit of embarrassment, Challie tipped her head to one side and attached her hands to her hips in a familiar pose.

He got the picture. Donnie’s shoulders sagged. Guess what he wanted didn’t fit into her linear reasoning. Sighing noisily, he handed her the towel.

She took long showers.

Tapping his fingers in a four-note tune, Donnie waited. The old Sports Illustrated was as boring as reading an encyclopedia. When reading didn’t take his mind off sex, Donnie just sat there, stroking his cock, keeping Duke in readied condition.

By the time Challie finished doing whatever the hell she had to do that took so damn long, all the hot water would be gone. He’d have to wash himself with cold water, in the sink. Then take her to bed.

She finally emerged. Fully dressed: jeans, long-sleeve shirt, tennis shoes. How the hell could he fuck her in all those clothes? It’d take him too long to peel off the damn jeans; he’d blow his wad before they reached her ankles.

“I’m going to take a walk. I’ll make you a snack when I get back.” She sauntered out the front door.

What the hell? All this damn time he’d sat here horny and she decided to take a damn walk. Did she even notice he had a hard-on? Did she even care? Oh, no. “I’m going to take a goddamn walk,” he mimicked badly. No woman walked away from him. All chased him. All wanted what he had to give.

Except this one.

Fine. She’ll be begging for my meat to fill her pussy. Meanwhile, what the devil am I supposed to do with Duke?

Donnie huffed. He got up, wandered into the kitchen and looked out the window.

Challie had never seen such beautiful country.

The sky was endlessly clear. The prairie’s cool breeze was refreshing, unpolluted. Animals grazed in the distance. Quiet. Complete silence.

She’d better enjoy the scene while she had the chance. Her homeland was nothing like this place. In South Africa, many tribes lived in rundown shacks. Some owned tents. Unfortunate others survived in the open. But the land and view were never as spectacular as Montana.

She spun circles, arms spread wide, grin on her face, inhaling the sweet scent of Montana. Odds were this visit was her last to the state. Mrs. Tedesco had said they’d probably spend a week or so and Fontana’s guests would arrive in a few days. Having visitors would keep her mind off leaving and off what had happened earlier. Every time she thought about Fontana, she sizzled inside. She couldn’t think about sex again. For gosh sakes, she didn’t know his first name! Of course, he didn’t know her real last name either.

But he’d taught her the best of sex and what it’s really like when it’s really good. She’d keep the memories tucked away in her mind forever.

Yawning noisily, she swatted at a buzzing fly. Challie started down the dirt road toward the hills. A variety of huge trees and fences divided the property. Up ahead, she caught sight of a big, brown cow jumping the pen. She’d never seen one this large before. Or this close.

What was she doing? Flinging her arms around, spinning, Challie looked like a nymph. He’d like her better as a nymphomaniac right about now, tearing off his clothes in a rush to enjoy Duke’s manhandling.

Donnie braced his hands against the window frame as he watched Challie. None of the women he’d messed with would want to be here. None would be happy anywhere away from the city. None would ever consider visiting Montana or cow country or find satisfaction on an open prairie unless a prime-time shopping center was nearby.

Filling a glass with the only source of water on the ranch, a well, he decided there were things he liked about Challie. She didn’t complain about the hodgepodge of bullcrap other women bitched about: her hair mussed after rough sex, sweating, or nails, or smudged makeup, which she didn’t wear. Her face was scrubbed clean and bright, free of enhancements she wouldn’t need anyway. She only complained about filth. And, of course, mice.

He had to get a cat, find one while she was on her frigging walk. So much for blistering sex in the next few minutes.

Peering out the window again, he saw Challie running toward the cabin. What the devil?

Donnie met her at the screen door. Across the way, someone had penned the dogs. They were barking their asses off, which usually meant ranch workers had arrived after a long day in the fields. Was a truck full of guys the reason Challie had run? Or maybe the dogs had caught the scent of something in their territory. Ranch dogs ran in packs, working together as well as wolves.

Panting, Challie said, “A cow is loose!”

Hell, he thought it was an important issue. “No big deal. The foreman’ll rope her and lead her back to the pasture. They’re branded. He’ll know it belongs here.” He had her here now.

“But there’s no one around. We can put her back where she belongs ourselves. Otherwise, she might get hurt. Please? I don’t want her to get hurt.”

A frigging cow jacking up my game plan. “All right. All right.”

Following close behind Challie, long strides to her trotting, Donnie grabbed a rope hanging from the hook outside the main barn as if he knew what to do. Lassoing took talent Donnie didn’t have. But a cow, which was probably a calf, cake.

He’d spent several days one colder-than-a-bitch February with Paul and Ray during calving season. He’d damn near frozen his ass off at four o’clock in the morning while the foreman pulled a calf. What a mess.

“You need a bigger rope,” Challie said, throwing her arms out wide.

Paul said Ray had purchased several Texas longhorns to breed with a select group of cattle. Donnie hoped he hadn’t picked up Brahma bulls. They were way more than he was willing to mess with on a good day, even with backup cowboys who knew what they were doing.

“She was coming up the road,” Challie said.

They rounded the corner of the barn and came damn near face-to-face with an effing moose! A huge bull with a rack the size of frigging Montana.

Donnie grabbed the back of Challie’s shirt, stopped her cold. “Don’t move a muscle,” he whispered. “Not cow. Moose. Tramplers, but their eyesight is—”

Challie bolted.

“Bad.” Fucking A.

She darted across the road, leaving Donnie in a lousy situation. He had two choices. Make a fast dash back into the barn to save his own ass, knowing the narrow doorway would prevent the moose from entering with a rack this size or…

Bullwinkle made his call of the angry wild and charged.

Donnie sprinted. He dove under the rail fence where Challie hid in a shallow ditch filled with weeds, hay, mounds of loose dirt. Bullwinkle stomped, grunting, generally pissed. Hunters claimed humans frightened these animals.

Latching onto Challie’s shirt, Donnie dug in and crawled, dragging her with him under the corral’s intricate wood design. Ranch hands used it to load steers onto transport trucks. They were protected here.

Until Bullwinkle tried to crash through the wood.

Challie’s hair-raising scream raised mega-sized goose bumps, which sprouted down Donnie’s body to the bottoms of his feet. He clamped his hand over her mouth and hauled her into his arms, then covered her body with his own, protecting her the best way he knew how. He didn’t know which was worse, Challie’s clawing, attempting to skitter away, or Bullwinkle bent on splintering every rotting piece of goddamn wood surrounding them.

He and his future wife were going to die today because he’d failed to keep his cock inside his pants.

Donnie squeezed his eyes shut and closed his ears to the bona fide wail of an angry creature. For the first time in years, he prayed, begging for forgiveness, vowing to change his ways if the man upstairs would let them live another day.

All at once, silence.

Opening his eyes, he spied four brown legs lumbering away. Donnie let out the breath he’d been holding in one long whoosh. Maybe, just maybe, the rumbling noise of a distant vehicle had Bullwinkle galloping off into the sunset.

Nestled between Challie’s legs, their breathing rapid, their hearts thumping in unison, he uncovered her mouth.

Terror shined in her eyes. She whispered, “Is it gone?”

“Yeah, I think so.” He rolled to his side, taking Challie with him, tightening his arms around her as a shiver sprinted through her body and transferred into his. “Hey, it’s okay now.”

An old lumber truck roared past the corral, rumbled down the road, gravel clattering against the undercarriage, raising a dense cloud of dust. Several seconds later, the driver tooted his horn—probably at Bullwinkle. Come autumn, during rutting season, big daddy moose might decide to challenge the log hauler’s vehicle in a territorial attack. He just might win the match against the antique.

Donnie cupped Challie’s chin. “Your face is smudged with dirt.” He smoothed his thumb over her cheek where his fingerprints had temporarily branded her soft skin.

“Bath,” she said breathlessly.

Fuck a bath. He’d shower her insides with his fresh, scalding juice. Donnie pressed his lips to hers, teasing them apart. She went pliant under his exploration as he delved deeper in a dance as old as Adam and Eve’s sexy samba. The moan he heard was his own. When she sighed, the erotic sound kicked his pulse up a notch, popped the clutch on Duke, jerking his gears into overdrive. Slowly, he glided one hand up and down her midriff. He grazed the side of her breast, covered it, found her nipple budded and squeezed the tightness. She arched toward him in offering or wanting more. She wore no bra to hinder his advances.

Donnie unfastened every single button down her shirt and spread the fabric open. Her breathing rapid, her chest heaved. He latched onto her nipple with his teeth, gnawed, suckled, gnawed again. Her legs restless and moving, he slipped his hand down to the juncture between her thighs. The territory was hot, damp. Pressing the heel of his hand to her mound dragged a deep moan from her throat. Challie’s legs spread wider, her hips rising to meet the pressure.

In a rush on her wordless call for more, Donnie got his jeans open with one desperate yank. Duke sprang free like an over-stretched wire. Thick. Hard. Needy of this woman’s stimulating currents. He shoved his baggies down, peeled her hand from his shirt, wrapped it around his cock and forced her to squeeze.

“Tighter,” he rasped, hissing out a harsh breath from the sweet torture. “Stroke him.” He guided her hand down and up his throbbing length in the same rhythm that his tongue stroked inside her mouth.

“So hard,” she said against his cheek. “So big. So hot.”

“For you. Just you.”

He moved her hand farther down to clasp the family jewels. They were stretched tight, aching. “Keep working me. Touch me everywhere. Do it.”

She compressed gently then caressed his shaft from base to tip in a teasing slide. His blood erupted into flaming liquid. She wasn’t a newbie, but not a pro.

Donnie jammed his hand inside her jeans, quickly shoved his middle finger into her hot snatch, careful not to hurt her again. When her breath hitched, he began their slow samba.

A shortie. When she fastened her fingers around Duke’s bulging head, Donnie cruised on the verge of bursting on the next breath. Way too soon. He shoved two fingers inside her slickness, then added a third to match what should be his cock, pumping hard, fast. She hovered on the fine edge of coming apart.

Watching her climax rise to the surface, he did burst. “Goddamn it!”

His body shaking, he came in her hand, on her clothes, her belly and the dirt ground like a geyser after a long dormant season. Weak, but far from empty, Donnie crawled over her body. Automatically, her legs wrapped snugly around his waist. He skimmed his hardness over her sensitivity, feeling her quiver as her hips lifted. That stout little clit wanted this bad. Donnie gave her everything he could possibly give under the current conditions. Dry fucks were a bitch in any circumstance.

Shoving his cock at the denim, working to get a better feel, the first snap occurred. She shrieked, clutching his body with those strong legs when he wished to be inside her feeling the powerful bite. It had stunned him silly earlier, as had all the quick nips afterward in rapid succession. She let loose so freely. Heated dampness teasingly spread over Duke’s sensitive head.

Rocking against her, the scent of her potent sex filling his nostrils, jarring him again, he spurted, releasing the last milligram of juice and final ounce of energy. But when Challie’s legs sagged, something licked Donnie’s bare ass. What the fuck?

He jerked his head around, banged it against the slat above them and grimaced. Frigging Ike. The dog’s erect nub of a tail wiggled a mile a second.

“Get the hell out of here!”

Wary, Ike’s ears laid back. His tail ceased wagging.

“Don’t be mean to him.” In his weakened condition, Challie shoved him easily to the side. “Come here, Ike,” she cooed. “He’s so mean.”

When Ike backed away, she crawled toward the ugly hound, butt tooted toward Donnie’s face and, evidently, him totally forgotten.

A damn Heinz 57 wins her complete devotion over me and Duke.

Getting his boxers and jeans readjusted was a feat in confinement. He needed to shower. Dirt, pebbles and hay had gotten inside his clothes.

Challie sat on her heels, dusted her hands on her pants while buttoning her shirt. She looked over her shoulder. “I’m taking a bath. Hate filth.”

“Together.” Perfect for a slick interlude of some serious…

“Alone. I don’t bathe in other people’s filth.”

Son of a bitch. No way would he wait another hour, scratching worse than flea-ridden hounds. The bunkhouse was equipped with a small lavatory.