Authors: Robin Gideon
He started slowly, but his hips moved steadily faster and faster, pumping his cock deep into her mouth. Pamela wondered if he wanted to climax in her mouth. She was willing to swallow his passion, willing to do anything that would give him the ultimate in satisfaction.
“Up,” Garrett said.
Pamela felt the hairs tugging against her scalp. She stood, and Garrett bodily turned her toward the kitchen table and once again bent her over it. Pamela shivered when her erect, tingling nipples came in contact with the flat wooden surface.
“I think I’ll tie you up more often.”
Pamela pressed her cheek against the table, her senses reeling at the words and the certainty that he would back up his statement with action, and that she would once again experience the forbidden pleasure of being tied up and helpless against his lust.
His cock slid between the lips of her pussy in one long, slow thrust. Pamela felt precisely every inch of his flesh as he penetrated her, filling her so completely she knew she couldn’t accept any more.
A myriad of erotic delights tantalized her perceptions. The table against her breasts, and particularly against her nipples, was rough, not nearly as polished smooth as she’d always thought it to be. Having her trousers around her ankles made it difficult to keep her balance, but Garrett’s hands on her hips were like steel. She heard her own panting exhalations of breath each time she was impaled by Garrett’s unyielding cock, and the submissive arousal she heard in those pants spoke of her acceptance. She felt a thin trickle of her own cream dribble down the inside of one thigh.
She came twice more before Garrett finally withdrew and released his desire. Pamela felt his seed hit her hair and back and splash over the hands bound behind her back. It seemed to her an incredible amount of cum to be released in a single climax, and she took a silent satisfaction in knowing she had thoroughly pleased Garrett.
As she felt him unknotting the bandana from around her wrists, with her cheek still against the table, Pamela asked, “Can a woman die from this?”
“No. That won’t happen. And don’t for a second think we’re done for tonight.” With his bandana, he began cleaning Pamela’s back and bottom. “Sorry. I got some in your hair.”
“Making love with you can be a messy proposition.” She rose unsteadily, turning slowly to face Garrett. She looked into his eyes then down at his erection, which had lost only a little of its rigidity. “There’s more?”
“Let me show you, my love.”
* * * *
“You don’t really have to leave,” Pamela said, lacing her
fingers together behind Garrett’s neck, leaning into him so
that much of her naked body was
pressed against his clothed form.
“I have to,” Garrett replied.
He placed his hands on Pamela’s hips to push her pelvis
away. Her passion was intoxicating, addictive, and just a
little greedy at times. Although his desire had been satisfied, he knew he’d stay if she persisted. When Pamela was
near, it was hard to remember he was a man with
many responsibilities.
And much as he didn’t want to leave her, Garrett knew
that to stay the entire night would cause trouble for Pamela.
Then, too, if he arrived in the morning at the gates of
Randolph Ranch, at least one of the ranch hands would
see him. Other than tending horses and cattle, ranch hands
were good at drinking, playing cards, wenching, and gos
siping about what the Randolphs were doing.
“I’ve got to go,” Garrett said, his voice a husky whisper. He cupped Pamela’s face in his palms, knowing that to touch
her anywhere else was dangerous in the extreme. “I’ll be
back though, I promise. Just as soon as I possibly can.”
Pamela pouted, pushing out her lower lip, her hands
resting lightly on Garrett’s trim hips. She knew why he had
to leave. Though she would not be sharing her bed this
night with him, she accepted that—at least for now—they
could not live idyllically.
“When will you come back?” she asked, standing at
the open doorway, strangely unselfconscious about not
having a stitch of clothing on.
“Soon.”
A little voice inside Pamela warned her that she should
leave it at that, that she shouldn’t try to pin Garrett down
to anything more definite. But another voice, the one of that less secure woman who had just shared her passion
in a most uninhibited manner with Garrett, spoke up and demanded, “When, Garrett? Don’t just say ‘soon.’ I deserve
more than that.”
He bent to plant a light kiss on her forehead. “You
deserve everything. I’ll be back very soon. Tomorrow. If not tomorrow, then the day after. And if I’m not back by then, I want you to ride to the ranch and de
mand to see me. Make a scene. Shout and scream.
Threaten to burn the place down.”
Under normal circumstances, Garrett was not a man
given to hyperbole, so his statement had special meaning
for Pamela. She could not help but smile.
“And won’t you be surprised if I do just that?” she said
at last.
“Not at all,” Garrett replied.
She pushed his hands away from her face and stepped
into the circle of his arms once again to press her cheek
against his chest. “Tonight was special for me,” she said
softly.
“It was special for me, too.”
Pamela wanted to say she was in love with him, but she just didn’t dare. Not when he was about to leave. And despite the words he’d just spoken, there really was no guarantee he would ever return. In fact, if he wanted to bar her from the ranch, she’d never get past the high-arched stone gates.
“Yes, special,” Pamela said at last, her cheek against the fine fabric of Garrett’s shirt, her ear picking up the smooth,
even beating of his heart. She loved the feel of her sensitive nipples against his shirtfront.
Garrett wondered if his feelings for her were what love
really was. If so, what could he do about it? Despite the
contempt he occasionally professed for politics, he could not ignore Pamela’s family history, which would get plenty of print in
the newspapers. He couldn’t protect her from those headlines. And he couldn’t pretend he wasn’t bothered because she wasn’t the type of woman the voters expected at the side of their next mayor—or territorial governor.
He thought of many good reasons why this affair with
Pamela wasn’t fundamentally different from any other he’d had, with the exception of Pamela’s lower social status.
But the others
had
been different. Pamela
wasn’t fatuous and frivolous. She was vibrant, forceful, a little angry, wildly passionate, daring to a fault.
“I have to leave now,” Garrett said firmly, as much to
himself as to Pamela, extricating himself from her arms. He
turned away from her. “I’ll see you as soon as I can.”
“Turn around and you can see me one last time,” she said.
The impish quality in her tone, the flirtatiousness she
was beginning to master, made it impossible for Garrett to
do anything other than what she said.
He turned slowly, standing just outside on the narrow
porch. Pamela was leaning against the doorjamb in what, had
she been dressed, would have been a most casual pose. Legs crossed at the ankles and arms folded just beneath
her breasts, her hair disheveled from hours of lovemaking
that at times had been frantic, at times tender, she looked
miraculously innocent.
Except that she was naked. Had she been a wildly insatiable princess from some obscure country, a woman
with countless virile young slaves to see to her every de
sire, she would have looked perfectly natural.
Garrett admired those magnificent pink-tipped breasts,
the sweeping curve of her hips, the smallish triangular thatch of pubic hair above the delicate lips of her pussy, and those long, strong legs that could hold so tightly on to him.
“I just wanted to give you one last reminder as to why
you shouldn’t stay away too long,” Pamela said, a kittenish curl to her lips.
In a soft voice, Garrett said, “I’m doomed.”
“Haven’t got a prayer.”
Closing the door, Pamela had no idea that she’d managed
to do what no other woman had—she’d had the last word.
For her it had been a little teasing, for him, it was the
breakdown of resistance. What difference did background
and status make?
* * * *
Exhausted from lack of sleep, from lovemaking, from
the emotional turnaround of believing she’d lost Garrett and
then her helping him to attack the business of
Jonathon Darwell, Pamela nonetheless knew that she wouldn’t
soon be able to sleep.
Thank goodness Jedediah was gone. What would have
happened if her brother, still employed by Jonathon Darwell,
had been around?
She wasn’t as frightened as she originally had been. Though Jedediah was an extraordinarily skilled bounty
hunter, Garrett now knew he was after him. Fortunately, Jedediah didn’t know who the Midnight Phantom was. This
was an advantage that Garrett could use to his advantage.
A pleased smile curled Pamela’s lips. She and Garrett had
shared that tiny bed.
Neither had complained about lack of space. The feel of his warm, naked body against her had made the little bed just right.
Remembering her chores put a momentary frown on her face. At night, she’d been riding with mask and cape
to thwart Jonathon Darwell, but during the day, she still had
to feed the cattle and the six hogs. There was time for everything except sleep, it seemed.
About to go to her bedroom, she heard a horse ap
proaching. The hoofbeats were slow and uneven. In her mind, Pamela pictured Garrett tapping his heels to his horse’s
ribs, then reining back to turn around. He didn’t
want
to return to her, but he had to.
“I knew you couldn’t leave me,” she said, her grin broadening triumphantly.
Still completely naked, she wondered how to appear for
Garrett at the door. Perhaps the nice white nightgown? No,
he’d already seen her in that. Her meager wardrobe provided her with limited options, so she would greet him exactly as he’d left her—with a smile on her face and open arms.
She went to the door and took off the locking bar so
Garrett could let himself into the cabin. For at least a little
while, she would pretend to be surprised that he’d returned
to her. Outside, the horses—Garrett’s horse and the trail horse he’d brought for her to use—had stopped.
Pamela waited, standing near the door. The seconds ticked
by, and still no knock came, nor did Garrett burst into her cabin
to sweep her into his arms and carry her to the bedroom.
What was taking him so long?
Perhaps he lingered outside, angry with himself for lacking the willpower to leave, yet wanting to kick the door down.
Then, at last, boots thumped across the porch, the crude
latch on the door was raised, and without a knock, the door
was opened.