Demanding Satisfaction [Bride Train 9] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) (21 page)

No more.

Josh tenderly brushed the hair off her face. Once this was over he would marry her. He’d spend his life making sure she was never hungry or frightened again. She’d be tired, especially if they were blessed by children, but she’d never be alone. She would have him at her back no matter what.

He kissed her cheek. She snuggled back against him and sighed. A small smile twitched up one corner of her mouth. Her nipples crinkled.

“I’ll be at your back, little one,” he whispered.

He wasn’t a fool. What he’d done—playing the way she wanted and giving her a massive orgasm—was the easy part. Now he had to convince her that she belonged to him as much as he belonged to her.

Josh flipped the covers over them and relaxed. He slid his hand under her upper arm and over her lower breast. It fit in his palm as if he was made for her. He released a shuddering breath.

He was home, for the first time in his life.

“Where’s Sophie?” demanded Max as soon as Sam entered their hotel room.

He sent Max a scathing look and shut the window. “Sleeping in Josh’s arms, I expect.”

Max should be glad that Sophie’s plan was working. But he didn’t want to think about her lying with Josh rather than himself. Nor about Sam and Josh seeing her naked body, tasting her, and giving her orgasms before he could.

He was the oldest and therefore had to be the most responsible. If she wanted he’d have his turn, eventually. The fact that his cock hardened every time he thought of her was a nuisance, something he would have to overcome. And just like every other problem in his life, he would triumph.

“Josh won’t be giving her up now,” added Sam. “Word is they were awful quiet for a bit after he took her upstairs. They think Josh was keeping her mouth full, but I figure they were talking.” He sighed dramatically. “There was some kerfuffle as he put her across his lap. Then he spanked her. That’s when she started screaming.” He stuck his finger in his ear and wiggled it. “Woman’s loud enough to wake the dead. I expect we’ll be getting used to that noise.” His grin proved he liked the idea of making Sophie scream.

So did Max. Too much. The thought of keeping away from Sophie until they caught Isaac, while his brothers enjoyed her many charms, was beginning to rub him the wrong way. His skin felt all prickly because of it, like a cat fluffed up from the tail to the head.

But he had better things to think about. There were plans to be made. Decisions taken. Possibilities explored.

Like the possibility of Sophie’s thighs clamped either side of your head as you lick her sweet cream—

“No!”

Sam raised an eyebrow at Max’s outburst. His lip curled into a knowing hint of a smile. “No, you agree Josh will be keeping Sophie? Or no, you want her for yourself?”

“Neither. Both.” Sam’s eyes lit up at getting a reaction. Max scowled. “No,” he explained with exaggerated patience, “Josh has to keep Sophie nearby, safe, until we’ve completed this assignment.” He cleared his throat. “Both assignments. Then we can discuss the next steps.”

“But you know our little brother.” Sam stuck his thumbs in his pants pockets and leaned back, hips thrust forward. It was obvious from the strain against his pants that he was as hard, and eager, as Max. “Josh has been looking for a good woman a long time. If he decides Sophie’s the one, there ain’t a snowball’s chance in Hades he’ll change his mind.” Sam’s smile widened. “Luckily, we’ve always shared the chores and the benefits of working together. A woman’s the same. One like Sophie in my bed is a benefit I can live with.”

“For the rest of your life? How do you know she’d be a good mother?”

Max heard the words before he realized he’d said them. Blasted them, actually. He swallowed, realizing his hands were cold and his heart beat like all get-out. He’d felt this way before, but it was only when facing down a man who didn’t want to go to jail. A large, raging, armed man. Why would he feel it about a small, feisty woman?

Sam slowly straightened. He pulled his hands out of his pockets. He crossed them over his chest in an arrogant display of superiority. The same green eyes and sandy hair stared back at Max. It was as if he was glaring at himself in the mirror.

“The woman who birthed us never deserved the word ‘mother.’” Sam used a cold, deadly voice that Max rarely heard. “Long ago we agreed we’d go without a wife unless we could find women who’d be good for our children.” Sam’s glare morphed into a smug smile. “We just never figgered on finding one good one to share between the three of us.”

“Not me,” replied Max, shaking his head. “I’ve got my attention on my work. You should be doing the same.”

“I can do more than one thing at a time.” Sam looked at Max’s belt and widened his eyes at the cock straining Max’s buttons. “Well, look at that. Max can talk about work and think of bedding a hot woman at the same time. Two things at once. Will wonders never cease?”

“You’re just as hard,” snarled Max.

Sam nodded in response to the comment. Max realized it was more suited to a sixteen-year-old.

“Yep, I am. But unlike you, I intend to have my woman take care of it for me.”

“
Your
woman? You said she belonged to Josh!”

Sam shot him a disgusted look. Max felt pretty disgusted with his comments as well, but for some reason he couldn’t stop. Sophie affected him too strongly. That was another point against her. He was the one in charge, of himself and every situation.

“Sophie belongs to herself,” said Sam. His expression lightened. “But she wants to share with both me and Josh. She might also choose you one day. But not unless you prove that you value her.” He lifted his hat from the hook by the door. “She’s far more than a sweet body with an ability in the kitchen, Max. The woman has a brain.”

“What are you saying?”

“The plan to catch Isaac is better than yours, and that burns your britches.”

“It puts her in danger!”

Sam poked Max in the chest, right over his heart. Hard. “It’s her choice, Max. And it’ll be her choice whether she marries Josh, or me.” His lips twitched. “
And
me. So you’d better treat her like she has a brain inside that beautiful body.”

“Or what?”

Sam settled his hat on his head. He adjusted the brim at a rakish angle. “Or you’ll be left alone in the cold while Josh and I keep Sophie warm at night.”

“You’d choose a woman over your twin?” he asked to Sam’s back.

Sam hesitated, half out the door with one hand on the doorknob. “Don’t make me choose, Max. I want both of you. Think of that and use your heart instead of your head for once.”

“What the bloody hell are those ranchers doing in my saloon?”

Buford Hames calmly stood his ground as Frederick Smythe stomped across the small office, waving his arms and yelling. In his old life Buford would never have tolerated such lack of manners. He was a Southerner, and a true gentleman. He’d been raised properly with a sense of decorum. While the Englishman had a decent tailor and provided a good cigar and brandy, he was foulmouthed, uncouth, and a boor. He wore gaudy diamond rings, flashing his wealth with a total lack of subtlety.

Buford would let the vulgar social climber rant and rail. He was the one who would triumph. Men such as this didn’t deserve to rule. He wouldn’t act against Smythe yet, but the time was coming, and soon.

“Well? Answer me, man!”

Buford made him wait a moment, just on principle.

“Trace and Ranger Elliott, along with Ross MacDougal and Charles Statham, are spending gold in your saloon. Is that not the purpose of the Golden Nugget?”

Buford kept his tone mild, his true feelings hidden. He prided himself on being like a chameleon, able to hide his true self for a greater purpose. He’d done that often growing up, showing whatever face Mother wanted even if he hated it. But a poker face was an extremely effective tool in his guise as a newspaperman. He knew he was handsome with an honest face and a ready smile. Buying a few rounds of drinks loosened the lips of the men. A few minutes of smiling and praise did the same to most women.

“Don’t you start with me!” hollered Smythe. A drop of spittle landed on his chin. “I can have you fired from that damned newspaper with one word.” He held up his index finger and shook it. “One!”

Buford nodded, dropping his head as if abashed. He was one of the few erudite men in this antithesis of paradise. Yet he was not given the respect he deserved. He realized his fingers had curled into fists. Luckily, Smythe was too concerned with himself, as usual, to notice anyone else. He took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and then released it.

Smythe cleared his throat with a loud harrumph and pulled down his embroidered silk vest with both manicured hands. He acted like an outraged rooster fluffing out its feathers after an altercation with another bird. But Buford was a wily fox, not a squawking creature with a wobbling red coxcomb on its head. There was no trace of Smythe’s practiced politician’s smile on his face now. Buford would have shot the puling excuse for a man if he didn’t pay well for information. At the moment he was a bit short on ready cash. The August fire that destroyed a good portion of Helena was still affecting of the city’s businesses, including the newspaper.

“Winter’s coming. Perhaps the Tanner’s Ford men are here for supplies,” said Buford mildly.

“All of them?” Smythe’s bushy eyebrows met in the middle like a dark caterpillar.

“I hear their wives are rather demanding. Ross MacDougal hasn’t left town since those brats of his were born. Same with Charles Statham.” He brushed a piece of dust off his bright coat. His tailor would have apoplexy if he ever learned that such a disgustingly colored suit had touched his body. But the man was long dead, like so many others, their places of honor taken over by carpetbaggers. The bright plaid made him noticeable, which was required of a reporter. Everyone knew who he was and could find him easily. But when he took the suit off, he was invisible. “Those ranchers travel in packs, like coyotes. I expect others will arrive as well.”

“Others?” Smythe’s hand touched the gold watch tucked in his vest pocket. “How many of the blighters are coming?”

“Likely the head of each family. Ben Elliott, because he’s a lawyer and would have a say on any business. I expect Jed Adams of the J Bar C, Luke Frost of the Circle C, Cole Taylor of the Flying X, and Zach McInnes of the Running W.”

Smythe’s red face turned closer to crimson. He ground his teeth.

“If Adams as much as looks sideways, my men have orders to kill him. That will show him who’s the better man!”

Buford winced at the sudden donkey’s bray that came out of the fool’s mouth. It broke off with the sharp knock at the door. He stepped sideways, turning his back to the wall. He trusted Smythe as much as he did any man. Not one whit.

“Expecting someone?” he asked.

Lines formed around Smythe’s mouth. It was clear that a sneer was his favorite expression. “You’re not my only source of news, Hames. Enter!”

A man opened the door and gave a quick look around. Their eyes met before the other man’s slid past as if Buford was of no danger whatsoever. He reminded himself that it was the job of a chameleon to hide well and to strike only when invisible. Though he seethed at the injustice, he could bide his time a while longer.

“Any news?”

Buford had seen Nathanial Potts slinking around town. He considered him a has-been tugging on the coattails of those fighting for the edges of power.

After adjusting the lapels of his coat, Potts strutted into the room. He had the practiced charm of a gambler or politician, but his hands trembled. He’d once had muscle, but his chest had sunk to his belly. He could no longer do up his coat.

Buford would never let himself fall apart like that. A man was judged by his cigar, his tailor, and the company he kept. As a newspaper reporter he had to meet with all types. Their dirt didn’t sully him because he had a greater purpose in life.

“Sure you don’t want Gibson killed?” asked Potts. “Haven’t bagged a Pink yet.”

“Those Pinkerton agents are like fleas on a dog,” snarled Smythe. “Kill one and a dozen rush to take their place.” He swept his hand through the air. “One agent isn’t going to harm me. Didn’t you say he’s being watched?”

Potts nodded. “He met with that newspaperman. Even went up to his room.” His eyes slid over Buford as if they were greased.

“Gibson’s investigating a man I’ve never met,” said Buford. “Someone who calls himself Mr. Isaac. I told him the rumors we’ve all heard and nothing more.”

Smythe grunted and motioned for Potts to continue.

“Gibson’s been sticking his nose around town. Had a bit of a dustup with those Tanner’s Ford ranchers.”

“What about?”

“Something to do with a new dancer at Ruby’s, name of Queenie. Suits her, too.” Potts licked his rubbery lips. “She’s a widder woman, real purty. Wears a blue dress and holds herself like she was having tea with the Queen a England. She took a notion at Black George and slapped his face. Them ranchers held Gibson from jumping in with both feet. He’s one of those what don’t hold with keeping wimmen in their place.” The sneer suggested it was a failing. Buford agreed.