My hands cupped her taut ass and so it was easy to press a thumb against her slick back entrance. “Here?”
“Yes, there. That’s not… you shouldn’t—”
“I should. Trust me. You’re going to love it.”
Lowering my head, I flicked her clit with the tip of my tongue as I kept my gaze on hers. I did it again and her eyes fell closed. Once more and she dropped back onto the grass, giving up.
I rolled my hips into the hard ground, trying to ease the ache. Her pussy was wet, open and eager for a cock. She’d be tight, completely untried. I needed it.
Glancing up at Hank who stood above, watching, I knew it wasn’t the time. We’d get her so sated with orgasms she’d have no eagerness to be without us. We’d fuck her, but we’d get a ring on her finger first. It was obvious some fucker had hurt her. We wouldn’t be like him. Like that. We’d give her pleasure, but we’d only take ours when she was ours. We wouldn’t take that pussy until then.
But I could lap up all her honey and make her call out my name. And so I did. From asshole to clit, I worked her, fingers and tongue, taking her to the brink and stopping. Again and again until she was a sweaty, writhing, begging mess.
“You like it when I play with your little asshole, don’t you, doll?”
“Charlie, please!” she cried, her hands tangled in my hair and trying to push my face back between her thighs.
I chuckled. “Say it.”
“I like it!”
“Good girl. Now you can come.”
One flick of my tongue on her clit and she screamed, gushed all over my chin. If this was how she was from just a little oral play, I didn’t think I’d be able to survive when I got my cock into her. Or when both of us took her at the same time.
7
G RACE
“IF THEY’VE BROUGHT you here, they’ve claimed you,” Emma said, with a sly turn of her mouth. She was a beautiful woman with black hair and striking blue eyes that were only accentuated by the similar color of her dress.
I paused in my folding of napkins, which I’d never done in my life. The task seemed silly since everyone was going to place them in their laps anyways, but I lived with men with manners no better than wild dogs. Perhaps she took one look at me in the clean pants and shirt I’d taken from Travis and figured I needed a simple task. I could cook quite well actually, since I’d been the one expected to do it, but Father and Travis certainly weren’t worthy of folded napkins.
I looked to her down the long table. She was slicing strawberries and adding them to a bowl for dessert. Around us were a few women who lived at Bridgewater. Ann, Laurel and Olivia, who were busy with various meal tasks. The scent of roasted chicken made my mouth water.
After the creek, I’d put on my clean clothes from my saddle bag, pants and shirt I’d stolen from Travis, but not the binding over my breasts. Hank and Charlie had taken one look at the long strip of old fabric and had refused me that. We’d walked the ten minutes to another house, this one belonging to Emma. I’d met her husbands—yes, she had two, Kane and Ian—and the husbands of the other women. They’d gone off with the children, a mix of toddlers and babies yet to walk, to play outside.
In the hour since we’d arrived to help prepare for dinner, I’d learned quite a bit about Bridgewater. It wasn’t Hank and Charlie’s ranch, but a number of them, everyone working together as a community. The land they owned as a group was vast, and growing. So were the families. With each woman having two men, and Olivia having three, it was no wonder they were having lots of babies. This arrangement was something they’d discovered in some far off country called Mohamir. I hadn’t been out of the Montana Territory, so I’d never heard of it. But most of the men were British military who’d been stationed there, including Charlie. That was why he had a funny accent. He was from England, like Kane and a few of the other husbands I’d met. Laurel’s Mason and Brody and Olivia’s Rhys and Simon.
What was I doing here? This morning, I’d been taken to Barton Finch and left, as payment. I remembered the feel of his groping hands, the fetid scent of his breath. I knew what real men were like, how they treated women. Oh, Charlie and Hank were bold ones, taking liberties with me. But while I was skittish, they’d had my consent. Barton Finch had not.
Since then, I’d shot my only living family and left them for the law. I was in a strange place with people who were… nice. I was talking with women who treated me as a friend—a strange situation in itself—about two men who had not only said they’d claimed me, but had touched me carnally and in ways that had brought me amazing pleasure.
I knew nothing about Charlie. Or much about Hank, for that matter. And yet they’d seen me naked. Touched me naked. Hell, Charlie’d had his head between my thighs and his mouth—
I closed my eyes. They made me feel like they were truly interested in me. Perhaps it was naïve to consider that, for I knew men to be shallow and only want a woman for one thing. I had no doubt Hank and Charlie wanted me for that one thing, but they hadn’t done it. They hadn’t fucked me. They talked about it. I saw their hard cocks pressed against their pants, but they hadn’t even tried. They’d touched me. Given me pleasure while they’d found no relief.
It made no sense. I cleared my throat, realized Emma was waiting for me to reply to her comment. “That was a word they used. Claimed.”
All four of them smiled at me as if it were a good thing, this claiming.
They were polite, genteel ladies. They were married. Had children. Wore dresses. What these ladies must think of me, how they must wonder how I, a woman dressed like a man, could snag the interest of two handsome, rich men like Hank and Charlie.
Ann laughed, turning my attention her way. She held up a potato masher and had a firm grip on a large, steaming bowl. “They’re a bossy bunch, the men of Bridgewater. When they see the woman they want, they claim.”
“Why don’t they just use the right word? I mean, it’s fucking, right?”
They stared at me wide-eyed, then Emma shook her head. “Well, there is fucking. Definitely, but a whole lot more.”