Lesbian Cowboys (2 page)

“You won't get in any sort of trouble, will you?” she asked.

“No,” I said. Not the kind of trouble she was thinking of. I was already in far more trouble than I'd ever imagined. I unlocked the trailer and pulled the shades on the small windows on either side of the door before turning on the light. “It's back this way.”

I led her down the narrow aisle between the lockers holding our emergency supplies to the compartment at the rear that housed a sink and shower stall. There was barely room for two people to turn around in it. I stepped in first and set the temperature gauge on the thermal unit that heated the water. “It will only take a few minutes for this to warm. Why don't you get undressed…”

When I turned back, the words died in my throat. She was bare-chested again and her jeans were open and halfway down her hips. The golden triangle between her thighs was visible in the open fly of her dusty blue jeans. “Oh, God.”

“I was hoping you would stay,” she said softly, and her bravery undid me.

“What makes a woman want to be a cowboy?” I whispered, skimming my fingers through her hair. If I leaned forward just a little, my breasts would touch hers. At the thought, my nipples tightened painfully.

“I didn't know I wanted to be a cowboy, not at first.” She kicked off her boots and pushed her jeans down. When she stepped out of them, she was naked. “I only knew I wanted to be free.”

“Are you?”

“Mostly.” She cupped my jaw and kissed me.

The palm of her hand was rough in places, incredibly soft in others. Her mouth tasted like an endless summer afternoon, shimmering with heat and sultry air. She teased inside my mouth with the tip of her tongue and I sucked on it, wanting more. Wanting her deeper. I slid my fingers into her hair and pressed closer.

“I don't want to hurt your face,” I gasped. “Your back.”

She laughed. “I've been run down, kicked, and trampled and climbed back into the saddle. I'm just fine.”

As if to prove it to me, she wrapped her arms around my waist, lifted me up, and took two steps forward. I yelped when warm water cascaded over me, clothes and all. She reached behind her and pulled the narrow glass door closed, and then pressed me against the nearest wall. Her lips danced along my jaw, her teeth scraping lightly down my neck. I arched my back, tilting my pelvis into hers.

“God, I've got to get these clothes off,” I gasped. “I want your skin.”

She made a noise deep in her throat, more a growl than a groan, and then she was tugging at my scrub shirt and I was fumbling with the zipper on my jeans. With the bottom of my shirt bunched in her hands, she tugged it up and I raised my arms so she could get it off. Desperately, I shimmied my hips and forced the heavy wet denim down my thighs. I toed off my sneakers and kicked everything away from me. In a flash her thigh was between mine and her weight was against me, pinning me to the shower wall. I dug my fingers into her back, low down above the hard rise of her ass, and rode her thigh, rolling my sex over the hard muscle until I was open and my bare clitoris rubbed along her skin. She sucked on my neck just below my ear, her hands kneading my breasts and squeezing my nipples. With each pluck of her fingers on my nipples she pumped her
crotch into me. My clit tightened and twitched. Fire scorched my belly, a red-hot blaze sending sparks into the midnight sky.

“I am going to come all over you,” I warned breathlessly.

“Yes, you are,” she murmured, her lips roaming over my ear. “You're gonna spill all that sweetness just for me.” Shifting a little, she slid her hand between us and gripped my whole sex in her hand, forcing my clit back beneath the hood, holding off my orgasm. Then her tongue was in my mouth again and she was massaging me, rhythmically squeezing the length of my clitoris between the folds of my own swollen flesh.

Aching to come, I gripped her ass and attacked her tongue, sucking and tugging on it. Her thighs trembled against mine and a rush of hot slickness coated my leg. She was close to coming. I whimpered as her thumb pressed the base of my clitoris and worked the distended shaft in short hard circles against my pubic bone. Still she kept my sex clamped in her fist. I jerked my mouth away from hers.

“Let me come, damn you.”

Her eyes were nearly closed, her chest heaving as her hips pistoned, grinding her sex into me. Out of nowhere, I pictured her riding onto the grounds again, her thighs clenching and relaxing, her pelvis lifting and falling. So strong, so proud, so utterly beautiful.

“Wait,” I exclaimed, pushing her away with more strength than I thought I had. I dropped to my knees. “I want you to ride my face until you come in my mouth.”

She thrust her arms straight out against the wall and spread her legs, pushing herself toward my mouth. “Hurry. Suck my clit. Hurry.”

I spread her open with my thumbs, and the water streamed down the hard planes of her belly around the up-thrust prominence of her deep red clit. She was so swollen the hood had
retracted, and I closed my lips around the smooth, firm head and sucked. She cried out and her hips heaved. I kept her open with one hand and wrapped the other arm around her, holding her against my mouth. Her clit was already pulsing with the first surge of orgasm, but I wasn't going to let her off with a short ride. She was going to go until the buzzer. I felt her come against my lips and never stopped swirling my tongue around her, sucking her, shaking my head from side to side with her clit in my mouth.

“You're gonna make me come again,” she muttered, her voice barbed-wire tight.

I murmured
yes
and milked her clit with my lips and she came on me, in me. I spread my legs as she slumped to her knees; then I was straddling her, my clit against her stomach, rubbing, rubbing, working myself over those hard abs. Oh, so close.

“I want to come so bad,” I whimpered, barely remembering not to clutch onto her injured shoulder. I cupped my own breasts instead, twisting my nipples to make my clit tingle and go off. Pressure built in my clit and spread into my belly and down my legs. Not long now. Not long. I grabbed for my clit to finish it, and she brushed my hand aside. Her fingers closed on me and I looked down, my vision blurring, and saw her long, work-roughened fingers rolling and pulling my clit. Then her other hand was there, filling me. Too much. Too good. I came all over her hands.

“Sweet,” she murmured. “So fucking sweet.”

I didn't say anything, I couldn't. I just curled up in her arms while the warm water rolled over us. After a few minutes, we staggered out and I found a towel and gently dried her face.

“I need to put some more ointment on these scrapes,” I said, my voice sounding huskier than normal. “I want you to know I've never done anything quite like this, and I don't believe I've ever come so hard.”

“I like the sounds of the last part.” She grinned and kissed me.

“Turn around. I want to see your back.” As I carefully blotted the skin around the large abrasion, I said as casually as I could, “You'll be moving on to the next town on the circuit soon, won't you.”

She looked over her shoulder at me, her eyes going midnight again. “One of the best parts about being free is you don't have to leave to prove it.”

“Well,” I said, trailing my fingers over her mouth, “I hope you feel free to come back anytime then.”

When she kissed me, I knew she'd be back, and I finally understood what was so damn sexy about cowboys. When they came to you, for you, the ride was like no other.

 

 

 

 

 

I
t was my daddy who taught me to play poker.

He was a good father as fathers go, I suppose, especially considering my mother died when I was four and he had his hands full raising me. He was also a very good teacher, and I was hustling the ranch hands before some of them realized the ragged moppet who dogged their heels was not, in fact, of the male persuasion. Took them a right long while, too, considering how I'd been so modest about peeing in front of 'em.

I tended toward wearing men's clothes even as I grew older, because it was much easier roping cattle in breeches than a skirt, and skirts were just nuisances anyway, not to mention stockings and petticoats, and besides, there was no one around to properly lace me into a corset.

Even my childhood playmate Margaret Compton didn't know when we were children. Which is why when we grew older things grew a mite complicated, because I had a crush on her.

In the end, though, it worked out fine, because sweet Margaret
Compton wasn't about to go getting any crushes on men, either, and when she found out my secret, well, we then had a delicious secret to share, just between us two.

But I was talking about my daddy.

For all he was a good man at heart, the problem was simple. There was one other thing that he was good at, and that was drinking. So, for all his good teaching of the cards, my father wasn't a very good poker
player
at all.

Which is how he came to lose our family's ranch to one Mister Samuel Owens.

By the time this happened, I'd been running the ranch for years, not that anyone outside knew that. Wasn't proper for a woman to be making such decisions—what did a pretty thing know about cattle and budgets and weather patterns and ordering men around? So my daddy was the figurehead, the one who went to the bank and the auctions (on mornings after I'd hidden his bottles so his head would be clear). Me, I balanced the books and wrote up orders for supplies and, yes, bossed the men around, but by that time they knew I was capable and cared enough about the ranch to keep our secret safe.

God took pity on me the next morning when Samuel came out to the ranch to take a good, long look at his new ownings (not that I knew the reason for his visit as yet).

I wasn't riding out on the back forty or forking hay off a wagon that day. Instead, I was inside catching up on some business correspondence for my daddy to sign when he woke up from last night's binge, and Margaret had time to run in and let me know company was approaching.

I'd have to play hostess while someone roused Daddy and stuck his head under the pump to shock some soberness into him.

Margaret was more versed in the intricacies of women's clothing than I, so she rushed about gathering skirts and boots with tiny buttons and whatever else I'd need to shoehorn myself into.

At that point in our relationship, we had to keep things pretty quiet, so Margaret slept in the servants' quarters and our trysts were rare, stolen moments. Her own daddy had died coming up on two years ago, and I'd promised him that we'd take care of Margaret as if she were one of my own. And she was my own—she had my heart, and I hers. By outside appearances, she was our maid and cook, and when the occasional hand took a fancy to courting her, she smiled and gently eased his attentions aside.

My point being, when I looked up from shucking my shirt and trousers, I shouldn't have been surprised by the look in her eyes.

Hunger. Need. Lust.

The same sensations flared through me, ignited a fire in my belly—and below.

Aware of my own foolishness, I still couldn't help but step toward her, take her face in my hands, kiss her.

Every time I kissed her was heaven, but it had been far too long since we'd been able to be together, and so the sweet heat of her mouth was a desperate homecoming. I wanted to devour her, be devoured by her. Her tongue danced with mine, and all I could think of was how that tongue felt in the hollow of my shoulder, on the hard peak of my breast, at the juncture between my thighs.

I moaned, and she answered. I wound my fingers into the honey-colored upsweep of her soft hair and kissed her as if I were making love to her. Right now this was the only moment I had, and if I didn't have time to strip her and lay her down
beside me and love her properly, I could at least do this.

But it couldn't be that way, and it couldn't go on forever.

Her whimper as I pulled away almost drove me to my knees, because her desperation and desire mirrored my own. I was hot and wet and quivering on the edge, and all I'd done was kiss her.

If her hands hadn't been full of my dress and petticoats and stockings—if she'd stroked between my legs—I would have known the oblivion I craved.

No time. I kissed her on the tip of her pert nose and whispered my love and apologies. One reason I love her is that she understands the tightrope I must walk.

It was excruciating to feel her hands on me and have them putting clothes on me, not stripping them off. Every tug that tightened my corset lacings was like a step closer to the gallows. How I ached to be naked in her arms, breasts pressed to breasts, fingertips chasing over skin and raising gooseflesh and desire.

Later. I promised us both that.

My father was being fetched, and Samuel Owens awaited me in the parlor.

“Why, Miss Josephine, you are quite a sight today,” Samuel said, rising with his hat in his hand to greet me. Oh, he might have said the right words, acted all solicitous and proper, but his eyes revealed his true thoughts. His gaze raked over me, greedy and lascivious, a disgusting parody of the way Margaret had stared in awe at my figure just a few moments ago.

Oily
, I thought. Oily Owens, that's what they called him behind his back, and I could see why.

“And a good day to you, Mr. Owens,” I said, my smile as sweet as I could manage, and him no wiser for it. “What brings you out here this fine day?”

His eyebrows shot up. “Your daddy didn't tell you?”

Now I felt like
I'd
been sitting under the water pump. Oh, Daddy, what have you done?