Lesbian Cowboys (13 page)

“Did you miss me?” She punctuated the question with a sharp nip, followed by a slow, sensuous lick along the length of my ear.

Did she want me to answer? How could I, with her hands gliding up my legs, under my skirt, smoothing around to cup my ass? So strong, her hands, the flex of her biceps as she lifted me and then roughly set me on the table. She pushed between my knees, and my uniform hiked up, gathering around my waist.

“Answer me, Bryn.” Her voice was hard, bridging the gap between love and demand, jarring my vocal chords into action.

“Yes.” I'd forgotten the question, but it didn't matter. Whatever she wanted, wherever she wanted it, I wanted to give it to her.

With a half growl, half moan, Lauren looped her fingers around my panties and started their painfully slow journey to the floor. “I thought about you, about the arch of your back.” She traced a wet, scorching trail from my neck to the open vee of my uniform collar, dipping her tongue as deep in my cleavage as it would go. The slick glide of my satin panties and
her work-worn hands passed my knees and stretched to my calves. “I thought about you, the way you shiver when I kiss you here.” She knelt and placed a small, fleeting kiss on the inside of my thigh. The light pressure traveled through my body in a flash of nerves and excitement.

I gripped her head with both hands and tried to pull her closer. God, I wanted her mouth on me, her tongue, liquid smooth and determined, wrapped around my clit.

Lauren's hands flew to mine—panties forgotten, dangling around my ankles—gripping me hard around the wrists. “Careful, Bryn.” Her eyes, dark and lust-filled, warned me. She didn't like to be rushed in her seduction.

Something in the set of my jaw, the rise and fall of my chest, the quiver traveling across the exposed skin of my legs, told her I was not ready to lie back and take it. I wanted—no,
needed
—to grind my hips against her face, to force that beautiful mouth of hers where it belonged. My fingers twitched beneath Lauren's grip, and she tightened her hold.

“My rope is in the truck. Do I need to get it?” The slight flare of her nostrils was the only indication that she wanted to do just that as she guided my hands to the edge of the table on either side of my body.

Lauren didn't say “Don't move,” but the message was loud and clear. The one time I'd dared to push too far, she'd tied me, face down and spread wide, to the long banquet-style table running the length of the dining room. Unable to move, I'd begged for her merciful touch as she stroked and fucked me to the explosive brink over and over again, only to stop before I could tumble into star-blind oblivion. Then Lauren sent me soaring. The orgasm had ripped through me, drowning reality in a pulsing black sea of “Oh, God” amazement.

When the room had flooded back in a hail of pinpoint
awareness, she had dragged me off the table and pushed me to my knees. In a frenzy, Lauren had crushed me to her even as she fumbled with the zipper on her Wranglers. With her jeans bunched just below her hips, legs straining against the restricting fabric, I sucked her clit, tracing its length with my tongue. Her fingers had gripped my head, pulling my hair in her sharp, rapid rise to orgasmic release. And when she came, exploding in my mouth, Lauren had slumped over me, her body convulsing and quivering as she regained her control.

The memory rippled through me, flooding me with desire. God, I wanted her. But I held tight to the table, knowing she would take me where I needed to go. The promise was in her dark eyes, in her crooked, teasing smile as she moved a chair into position and sat. Her mouth was inches from my aching cunt, her warm breath whispering across my skin, teasing my clit each time she exhaled.

Lauren placed my feet on the arms of the chair, opening me to the cool air and her demanding gaze. “God, I love the smell of you.”

I felt wanton and worshipped as she gripped my ass and lifted me off the table, leaving my pussy suspended in front of her face. She didn't suck or lick; she just spread her lips and took me in, holding me in the warmth of her mouth, her tongue spread flat against my clit. Slowly, so very slowly, she circled my singing bundle of nerves, making me quiver with the soft, gentle torture.

“Please,” I begged, knowing I shouldn't. Asking for more, begging Lauren to go faster, would only make her slow her pace. I knew it, but I couldn't hold back the whimpering plea.

She pulled back slightly, her mouth gliding away, her lips coming to a light, puckered kiss against my clit as she straightened in her chair. “What do you want, Bryn?” Lauren's lips were
swollen, dark like cherry wine, and I was drunk in the moment.

I swallowed hard against the rising tide of anticipation. How long would she make me wait?

“You,” I whispered. “God, Lauren, I want you. Please.” I held my hips off the table, exactly as she left me when she pulled away. My muscles burned and shook and I needed her.

“What do you want me to do?” She loosened her grip on my ass and drew her index finger between my cheeks, circling with a teasing rhythm against my clenched anus. Pure fire shot through my belly, burning her into me on a cellular level.

“Make me come,” I panted, desperate for her.

She pushed into me, the tip of her finger stretching the tight ring of muscle and wrenching a gasp from deep inside me. “How?” she asked with a wicked smile as she wiggled her finger.

I wanted to lower myself, sink onto that wayward, deviant finger, beg her to fuck me until I screamed. If I tried, I knew she'd remove it, stop the delicious, teasing dance inside me. So I held myself rigid, my thighs trembling with the strain, my cunt quivering with warning tremors. She could do that to me, make me come with a look, a carefully placed word, an exhaled breath against my clit. The circling pressure against my puckered opening, stretching me, readying me for more, but denying the promise, was going to make me explode at any moment.

“Do you like this?” Lauren asked as she added a second finger.

“God, yes,” I gasped. “Yes, please. More.” I eased closer—barely, imperceptibly, uncontrollably closer to her, to the promise of heaven in her touch.

“I should make you wait.” She eased out, then in, fucking my ass. “Make you beg.” The warm glide of her tongue over the length of my pussy, teasing my clit in time with her thrusts, made
me throb, pressure radiating from her invading touch to every pulsing, sobbing part of me. “But I've missed you so much. The taste of you, the sound of you coming in my hand.”

My world narrowed to the beautiful, relentless climb toward orgasm. With every word, every touch, she drew me closer. My body screamed, muscles gathering tighter and tighter, clenching and begging. As I sobbed for release, loving her, praising her touch, she thrust into my pussy, filling me beyond anything I'd known before, and sucked my clit between her teeth, flicking her tongue against me in a pounding tempo of sex and need.

The orgasm tore through me, erupting from somewhere deep inside and radiating outward in waves as I collapsed against the hard surface of the table. I languished there, gasping for breath, reconstructing myself fiber by fiber as she stretched over me, kissing me sweetly. First my forehead, then my eyes, then my cheeks, and finally my mouth—a flurry of tender, soft kisses seasoned with her low murmurs of love and devotion.

As I lay there, the room seeping into my consciousness, I ran my hands over her body, the smooth work-worn denim soft beneath my touch. She stayed there holding me longer than usual, long enough to alarm me. Normally she twitched with pent up energy, restless and ready to move on. I struggled out of her embrace and hopped off the table, wiggling my uniform back into place.

“How long are you in town for this time?” I tried to keep my voice casual, like the answer didn't matter. But, of course, it did.

“That depends on you, Bryn.” She watched as I straightened my hair and smoothed my skirt over my legs.

“What do you mean?” The low-grade throb in my pussy told me that no matter what the answer, it wouldn't be long enough.

Lauren kept herself stiffly apart from me but took my hand in hers. “I'm tired of the road. Every morning I wake up and I'm alone. You're here and I go crazy wishing I was with you. I'm tired of wishing.” There was a slight quaver in her voice as she finished speaking, and she took a deep breath. “I want to stay here. With you.”

My knees shook and my head buzzed. “What are you saying, Lauren, exactly?”

She pressed a soft, sweet kiss to my lips. “I'm saying, take me home.”

I laughed, a quiet release of the tension and dread that always preceded her departure. She wanted me. More than the rodeo. “Come on, cowboy. Let me show you the way.”

She wrapped her arm around my waist, low and possessive, and I led her out the door and into the rest of our lives.

 

 

 

 

 

L
ucille had
some
choices. Either sell the small dairy farm she had struggled to manage on her own or hire a stranger to help her keep it up and running. Either way the dream she'd shared with her husband before he shipped off to war would never come to fruition.

“Mornin', ma'am,” he said, tipping his cowboy hat. “Name's Del Mather and I'm here on account of your notice at Crowley's Market.” He smiled brightly, his baby face a beacon atop a slender lighthouse dressed in a checkered shirt and dusty Levis.

“I just put that ad up no more than a half hour ago,” she said.

“I know. I watched you do it and then followed you here, Mrs. Lucille Grady.”

Lucille examined him from the weathered, felted wool of his Stetson down to the worn-out boots with shiny spurs that jingled as he fidgeted. “This is a dairy farm. A very small dairy farm.”

“Yes, ma'am,” he said, still smiling.

“Forgive me, but you look like you belong breaking horses on a sprawling ranch somewhere in Texas.”

He hiccupped in a childlike laugh. “Well, ma'am, I do hail from Amarilla and did work the rodeo circuit for a spell, but these days I'm lookin' for any work what I can do outside and with my hands. A very small dairy farm'll do just fine.”

Lucille smiled. “I have a fresh batch of blueberry muffins cooling. Have you eaten breakfast yet?”

He looked at the tip of his boots. “No, ma'am.”

She watched Del with fascination as he scoffed down his third muffin and polished off a second cup of black coffee. “Would you like a peach, Mr. Mather? I just picked a basket of enormous ones yesterday.”

“No Mister—just call me Del, and yes, I'd love a peach.”

Lucille selected the largest one from the basket on the windowsill and wondered when this poor fellow last enjoyed a meal. “Here you go.”

“Thank you kindly, Mrs. Grady. I better take this with me. Looks like there's a lot of work to be done out yonder. What do you want done first?”

“The milk needs to be bottled and the eggs crated and taken to Mr. Crowley's. I'm already two hours late on delivery again, but he's been understanding.”

“Then I better hop to it.” Del sprang from his chair, his hat in one hand and the peach in the other.

“Del,” Lucille said, tossing him another peach. “A snack for later.”

His sweet grin and the ensuing flutter in her stomach unsettled her. Her stomach hadn't fluttered like that since the day she stood at the Altar of Saint Sebastian Church over four years ago and said “I do” to Henry Grady, Jr.

She quickly grabbed a cloth and occupied herself washing the
breakfast dishes. No sense wasting any more time wondering about Mr. Del Mather when there were a dozen peach cobblers to make and deliver to Mr. Crowley's before suppertime.

 

By late afternoon, Lucille looked out the window for Del. He was by the barn hacking overgrown grass, a job Lucille hadn't assigned, but he'd already completed every task she had given him. He wiped the sweat from his brow and then from his neck with a gray handkerchief Lucille assumed was once white. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, an unusual sight since most young men in New England were shirtless by this time of day in early August—not that Lucille was hoping to see him shirtless.

She walked out onto the back porch. “Del, would you make another delivery to Mr. Crowley for me?”

He trotted over to her, blotting sweat from his upper lip with his forearm. He held out his hands to receive the stack of boxed cobblers. “Mmm-mmm,” he said, taking a deep whiff. “I know what I'm buyin' when I get my first paycheck.”

When he looked up, Lucille nearly lost her footing on the wooden step from the impact of his placid blue eyes. She stepped down to the ground to get a closer look at them.

“You don't have to wait until payday, Del. I saved one for after supper.”

A flush lit his sweaty cheeks. “Supper? Oh, no ma'am, uh, Mrs. Grady, I couldn't impose on you for another meal. You been generous enough what with breakfast and lunch.”

“Del, three meals are included in your salary. Quite honestly, I can't afford to pay you that much. It's been a bit of a struggle since Henry…” She stopped herself. “So, there you go.” She pointed at the boxes in his hands. “Mr. Crowley's customers are waiting for those, and supper is at six sharp.”

Hurrying up the steps and into the house, she was surprised
to find a film of sweat glistening on her own forehead. Well, it was awfully hot out.

She busied herself cutting beef into small pieces so her stew would appear meatier than it really was, a trick Henry caught onto after only a few months. Henry—he'd been dead just about eight months now, and she still missed him so. A respectable widow, she was loyal to her husband's memory. The strokes of her knife came harder and faster. Then how come every time she glanced at this Del character she had to force her eyes away from him?