Apache Ambush

‘‘We do not have all night,’’ Fargo said. He was thinking of Cranmeyer, and Jefferson Grind, and the Mimbres Apaches, and God knew who else was out there.

‘‘Do you have somewhere you need to be?’’ Myrtle ran her foot higher. ‘‘Or is it you are scared of the dark?’’

‘‘Keep it up,’’ Fargo said, ‘‘and I will take you over my knee and spank you until you beg me to stop.’’

‘‘Promises, promises,’’ Myrtle taunted. ‘‘That I would like to see.’’

By then Fargo had all his clothes off. ‘‘In that case,’’ he said, and swung his legs behind hers. Before Myrtle could think to skip aside, he hooked his feet around her ankles and swept her legs out from under her. It brought her down on top of him and he caught her as she fell. Squealing in delight, she sought to push free, but she did not try too hard. In a twinkling he had her on her belly. ‘‘You asked for this,’’ he said, and brought his hand down on her fanny with a loud smack.

Arching her back, Myrtle dug her fingers into his leg. ‘‘Oh, my! Do that again!’’

‘‘Happy to oblige.’’ Fargo smacked her other cheek and she wriggled and opened and closed her legs.

‘‘Again! Please, again!’’

Grinning, Fargo smacked her bottom so many times, he lost count. She gasped and shivered and tossed her head from side to side, and when, after a while, he stopped and rolled her onto her back, she flung herself at him as if she were attacking him.

Her fingernails raked his shoulders and biceps. She bit his lower lip and then his upper and then nibbled from his chin to his ear and back again. She did not nibble lightly, either.

‘‘Oh, yes,’’ she moaned. ‘‘Like that.’’

Making love to her was like wrestling a mountain lion. She was never still, not for a second. Her hands, and her mouth, were everywhere, and at no time was she what could be called gentle. She liked it rough. The rougher, the better.

Fargo felt a drop of wetness trickle down his chin. He touched it and his finger came away deep scarlet at the tip. ‘‘You bit me so hard you drew blood,’’ he declared.

Myrtle did not respond. She was too involved with kissing and licking and biting. A fingernail dug deep into his wrist and he almost yelped. Her teeth raked his neck, virtually scraping him raw.

‘‘Damn, woman,’’ Fargo groused. ‘‘Slow down.’’ But his request fell on deaf ears.

Suddenly Myrtle gripped him down low, and squeezed, and Fargo nearly cried out.

Her fierce antics were working; she had him hard, good and hard, and raring to bury himself in her. But when Fargo rolled her onto her back and went to part her legs, she sank her teeth into his shoulder and gripped his manhood to where he thought it would rupture. Pushing her back, he snapped, ‘‘It isn’t a broom handle!’’

Lust hooding her eyes, Myrtle Frazier chuckled. ‘‘What’s wrong? Don’t tell me the big, tough man can’t take it. Cry if you want. I won’t mind.’’

‘‘Bitch,’’ Fargo said.

Myrtle laughed. ‘‘If you want me, you must work for it.’’ She gave his member a yank that he swore nearly tore it off. ‘‘Some men can’t take it. They are too weak. How about you? I took you for tough but maybe I was mistaken. Maybe you are mush inside.’’

‘‘Here is your mush,’’ Fargo said, and slamming her onto her back, he pressed her legs wide with his knees, quickly aligned the tip of his throbbing lance with her moist slit, and rammed up into her.

‘‘Ohhhhhhh!’’ Myrtle bucked like a mustang, nearly heaving him off. ‘‘This is how I like it!’’

‘‘Good,’’ Fargo said, and gave it to her again. Rarely was he this rough with a woman. Most preferred tamer lovemaking.

Myrtle gripped his shoulders and churned her hips in wild release. ‘‘Yes! Yes! Oh, yes!’’

Fargo glanced toward the wagons. They were far enough away that no one should hear her, or so he hoped. ‘‘Keep it down?’’

Bucking in a frenzy, Myrtle tossed her head from side to side. Her back was a bow, her hips rising into the air with each violent thrust.

Fargo had to hand it to her. He had lain with some wildcats in his travels but seldom one as wholeheartedly lustful as she was about sharing herself. As if to demonstrate, she left bloody furrows in his back from his shoulder blades to his hips.

‘‘Do that one more time,’’ Fargo growled. In his estimation she was getting carried away.

‘‘Do you like it, big man?’’ Myrtle husked. ‘‘Does it make you want to throw back your head and howl?’’

Holding her down, Fargo drove up into her. The night dissolved into a blur, the wind seemed to have died, the ground did not exist. There was him and there was her and that was all there was. For her part, Myrtle flung her arms around his shoulders and clung to him as if she were drowning and he was a log that would keep her afloat.

‘‘Harder!’’ Myrtle enthusiastically urged. ‘‘I want it harder!’’

Fargo did it harder and harder, but she still wasn’t satisfied. Sliding her legs over his shoulders, he bent her in half. On each inward thrust he rose onto the tips of his toes, driving into her with all his weight.