Flathead Fury by Jon Sharpe Read Free Book Online Page A

and for you I am willing to do that which he would forbid.”
    Fargo kissed her again while running his hand up over her thigh to her flat belly, and from there to her breasts. He cupped one, then the other, and pinched her nipples through the dress.
    Cooing softly in her throat, Birds Landing ground her bottom against his hardening manhood. She was not timid when it came to lovemaking, as she demonstrated by reaching down and placing her hand on top of his swelling bulge. “You are a stallion,” she breathed in his ear.
    Fargo couldn’t respond, not with the constriction in his throat. He covered her luscious mouth with his and her lips parted to admit his tongue. Hers and his entwined in a silken swirl as her hand commenced to stroke him.
    Fargo had to be careful. It would not do to explode before he was ready. He willed himself to ignore her hand and got her dress up around her waist. He caressed each of her thighs in turn, running his fingers from her knees to her nether mound and down again. Her legs were exquisitely smooth to the touch. She arched her back, then pried at his belt to release his member. He nearly gasped when her fingers enfolded him.
    Fargo had always been partial to women who liked to do what came naturally to a man and a woman. His appreciation of Birds Landing rose as she cupped him, low down.
    Time drifted on a tide of mutual lust. For long minutes there was touching and kissing and the press of hot flesh to hot flesh.
    Fargo drowned himself in the feel and the taste of her. When he stroked her slit, she shivered and came up off the blanket as if seeking to take wing. He parted her nether lips, brushed her tiny knob. A few flicks were all it took to drive her into paroxysms of release.
    Birds Landing cried out in the Salish tongue. Her fingernails seared his shoulders. Suddenly she clamped her mouth to his neck and bit him so hard, he thought she would draw blood.
    â€œLike it rough, do you?” Fargo said, and plunged the rigid first two fingers of his right hand up into her.
    Her mouth parted in a soundless O, and Birds Landing bucked wildly. It was all Fargo could do to keep his fingers inside her. He pumped fast and hard, clear in to the knuckles. Her eyes closed and she clung to him, rhythmically thrusting her bottom to match the tempo of his fingers. It was not long before she crested. Then, spent, she sagged against him.
    â€œIt is not over yet,” Fargo whispered in her ear. He parted her legs wide, knelt between them, and aligned his throbbing sword with her moist sheath. Her eyes met his, and he rammed into her.
    Once again Fargo lost all sense of time. He was aware of his body, of pulsing with pleasure, of Birds Landing squirming and grinding and lavishing wet kisses on every square inch of him her mouth could reach. She reached the pinnacle yet again, her inner walls contracting.
    Fargo could no longer hold back. He impaled her, over and over. Her coos and cries became louder, but not so loud that they could be heard far off.
    Afterward, Fargo lay on his back, spent but content, and listened for sign of their enemies. All appeared to be tranquil. He started to drift when the crunch of a twig snapped him awake.
    Fargo groped for his Colt. Something was out there, and it was stalking them.

6
    As quietly as he could, Fargo put himself together. No sounds came out of the encircling cottonwoods but he could not shake the feeling that unseen eyes were watching them. Fully dressed and lying on his side, he bent toward Birds Landing to warn her.
    Suddenly a figure in buckskins glided into view, cat-footing stealthily toward them.
    Fargo froze, hoping the man would think he was asleep. Then he saw that the stalker had a bow, and spied what could be the top of a quiver poking above the man’s right shoulder.
    It was an Indian, not a white man.
    Since they were in Flathead country, odds were the warrior was a Flathead, or Salish, a member of Birds Landing’s tribe.