The Last Trail Drive by J. Roberts Read Free Book Online Page B

taking it in both hands and then dropping to her knees.
    â€œDamn,” she murmured, “so pretty . . .”
    She stroked it, took his testicles in one hand, then licked the fingers of her right hand and used it to wet the head of his penis. Her tongue came out, then, and wet it some more. She was going slowly, because this was something she only did for men when they asked for it, and then with no enthusiasm. Most of them came to her smelling like the trail, and when they removed their pants the odor got even worse. But they expected her to gobble their smelly cocks with pleasure.
    Clint’s cock was clean, and she was sure it wasn’t just because he had just come from a bath. He struck her as a man who kept himself clean, even on the trail. And if he came off the trail and was going to see a woman, she was sure he’d clean himself up first.
    He was simply like no man she’d ever met or been with before.
    Â 
    Clint filled his hands with Debra’s breasts, enjoying the feel of them—smooth skin, but heavy and solid in his palms. He lifted her to her feet, turned her, and deposited her onto the bed. For a moment she was afraid he was just going to spread her legs and thrust himself in. Instead, he lowered himself onto the bed with her and lovingly began to kiss her body—her breasts, her nipples, her belly, down and down until he was nestled between her legs, his face pressed into that golden bush, tongue seeking her out.
    When his tongue touched her she jumped. As a whore, no man had ever seen to her pleasure—and certainly not before his own.
    His tongue lapped at her, made her wet and sensitive, while his hands moved up and cupped her breasts again, pinching her nipples. The combination of sensations drove her over the edge to her first orgasm in years.
    But not the first of the night.
    Â 
    â€œWho’s there?” someone yelled.
    â€œTake it easy,” Spud said. “My name’s Spud Johnson. I’m the new cook.”
    â€œWho’s that with you?”
    â€œYour boss, Mr. Flood.”
    A man with a rifle stepped out into the open from behind a stand of junipers.
    â€œWhat’s wrong with him?”
    â€œDrunk.”
    The man peered at Spud suspiciously.
    â€œHow do I know he hired you?”
    â€œWake him up and ask him,” Spud suggested.
    â€œWhere’s Jack?”
    â€œWell, that’s kinda why Mr. Flood is drunk,” Spud said.
    Suddenly, the man stepped back and pointed his rifle at Spud.
    â€œAin’t that Jack Trevor’s horse yer ridin’?” he demanded.
    â€œHold on, hold on,” Spud said. “Yeah, it was Trevor’s horse, but he’s dead.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œSomebody killed him.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    The man with the rifle looked at Henry Flood again.
    â€œIs Mr. Flood alive?”
    â€œYeah, he’s alive,” Spud said. “I told you, he’s drunk.”
    â€œAnd was he drunk when he hired you?”
    â€œNo,” Spud said. “He got drunk after Trevor was killed.”
    â€œHow was Jack killed?”
    â€œSomebody stabbed him in the back.”
    â€œJeez!”
    Spud sniffed the air.
    â€œSomethin’s burnin’,” he said.
    â€œYeah, one of the boys decided to try to make somethin’ ta eat.”
    â€œDoesn’t smell like he’s doin’ a very good job,” Spud said.
    â€œYeah, well, the boys are hungry.”
    â€œWell, I can fix somethin’,” Spud said, “but maybe you wanna make sure Mr. Flood is alive first?”
    The man studied on that for a minute, then put up his rifle.
    â€œHell, no,” he said. “If you can cook, then get to it!”

EIGHTEEN
    Debra Moore was lying across the bed, still naked, in a daze. Her pale, smooth skin was dappled with perspiration, her golden hair a wild, exotic tangle around her head.
    â€œOh my God,” she