Purely Sexual. Delta Dupree
careful not to hurt her again. When her breath hitched, he began their slow samba.
A shortie. When she fastened her fingers around Duke’s bulging head, Donnie cruised on the verge of bursting on the next breath. Way too soon. He shoved two fingers inside her slickness, then added a third to match what should be his cock, pumping hard, fast. She hovered on the fine edge of coming apart.
Watching her climax rise to the surface, he did burst. “Goddamn it!”
His body shaking, he came in her hand, on her clothes, her belly and the dirt ground like a geyser after a long dormant season. Weak, but far from empty, Donnie crawled over her body. Automatically, her legs wrapped snugly around his waist. He skimmed his hardness over her sensitivity, feeling her quiver as her hips lifted. That stout little clit wanted this bad. Donnie gave her everything he could possibly give under the current conditions. Dry fucks were a bitch in any circumstance.
Shoving his cock at the denim, working to get a better feel, the first snap occurred. She shrieked, clutching his body with those strong legs when he wished to be inside her feeling the powerful bite. It had stunned him silly earlier, as had all the quick nips afterward in rapid succession. She let loose so freely. Heated dampness teasingly spread over Duke’s sensitive head.
Rocking against her, the scent of her potent sex filling his nostrils, jarring him again, he spurted, releasing the last milligram of juice and final ounce of energy. But when Challie’s legs sagged, something licked Donnie’s bare ass. What the fuck?
He jerked his head around, banged it against the slat above them and grimaced. Frigging Ike. The dog’s erect nub of a tail wiggled a mile a second.
“Get the hell out of here!”
Wary, Ike’s ears laid back. His tail ceased wagging.
“Don’t be mean to him.” In his weakened condition, Challie shoved him easily to the side. “Come here, Ike,” she cooed. “He’s so mean.”
When Ike backed away, she crawled toward the ugly hound, butt tooted toward Donnie’s face and, evidently, him totally forgotten.
A damn Heinz 57 wins her complete devotion over me and Duke.
Getting his boxers and jeans readjusted was a feat in confinement. He needed to shower. Dirt, pebbles and hay had gotten inside his clothes.
Challie sat on her heels, dusted her hands on her pants while buttoning her shirt. She looked over her shoulder. “I’m taking a bath. Hate filth.”
“Together.” Perfect for a slick interlude of some serious…
“Alone. I don’t bathe in other people’s filth.”
Son of a bitch. No way would he wait another hour, scratching worse than flea-ridden hounds. The bunkhouse was equipped with a small lavatory.
5
Ten minutes later, Donnie bumped into the foreman outside the bunkhouse’s front door.
“Thought I saw me a new SUV out back,” Charlie Lawson said. The man had a hell of a grip shaking hands, tight enough to make a grown man drop to his knees. “How ya doin’, hombre? Ray said you were vacationin’ up here.”
Lawson sported the thickest mustache on the planet magnified by a square jaw. His eyes were darker than the cheap whiskey he drank—not yet bloodshot today—but Donnie smelled liquor on the foreman’s breath, even with a smoldering cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. The paunch belly had grown.
“Can’t complain,” Donnie replied. “How about you? Tamed any broncs lately? Still doing the rodeo circuit?”
Lawson sucked hard off the cigarette butt. He flicked the burning remains to the ground, stubbed it out under the heel of his dusty boot. One long, steady stream of hazy gray blasted from his nostrils. “Not so much no more. Steer caught the leg durin’ the rodeo last year.”
Labor Day was advertised as “Montana’s Biggest Weekend.” Technically, it was the Beaverhead County Fair and the Dillon Rodeo. The auction was officially 4-H. Ray bought one or two animals from local kids annually.
When they started across the gravel, Donnie noticed the cowboy favored his right leg.
“What brings you this far north? Fishin’? Bloody Dick’s runnin’ high this year. So’s Trail Crick. Caught a mess of brookies the other day. Thinkin’ about an overnight up there by Dad’s Lake. You up for it?”
This guy had caught the largest trout on the prairie. Hell of a fly fisherman. Funny thing was he never ate his catch. Whenever Paul was on site planning fish fries for parties, he called Lawson—the meat and potatoes man of Horse Prairie.
“I’ll think about.” Donnie wondered whether Challie had ever fished. “Couple of Paul’s friends coming in.”
Lawson grunted. He pulled the pack of Marlboros from his shirt pocket, lit another cigarette. Smoked like a chimney, drank like a whale.
“Where’s Ray? We haven’t seen him since we got in.”
Eyebrows lifting, Lawson stared at their cabin, squinting, then back at Donnie. “S’pose he’s pickin’ up supplies and shit, pissin’ aroun’ town.”
Ray and Lawson weren’t the best of friends. Both had issues Donnie would just as soon avoid rather than ask questions. “Anybody around who might have a spare cat? Rodents are trying to take over in there.”
“Mice thick as flies on cowshit this season. Think they scared off the black and whites.” As in skunk. Those and badgers were fierce creatures. “But all them damn cats we had, I…Check deaf Ross. That pretty little filly of his keeps a few.”
Just then, someone honked. “Vamonos, amigo!”
“Eduardo,” Lawson said. “Good, hard worker. Guess it’s time to git along, little doggie.” He’d have swaggered if he hadn’t screwed up his leg.
Since Challie was bathing and sure to use all the hot water during another shower, Donnie made a quick trip to the neighbors living a few miles downwind.
Lawson was right.
“Thanks, Mr. Ross,” Donnie yelled. The old codger couldn’t hear a bomb detonate across the road.
“Anytime. Damn cats multiply worse than rabbits. Good mouser, that one. She’ll clear ’em out for ya if you keep her inside.” Ross had more wrinkles than prunes. A roadmap of blue veins stretched across translucent skin. He’d lived on this ranch most of his life. “Gonna be up here a while? The kitty litter oughta hold you a few weeks.”
“Maybe. Got time off for good behavior.” And all depended on his proposal, the wedding plans, plus all other stupid shit associated with the supposed big day.
“Well, if ya need anything else, just you holler. And feed the furball table scraps when she run outta mice. The granddaughter don’t feed ’em no store-bought food. Keeps ’em healthy.”
As the screen door closed, Donnie held the Manx mix in the air. Challie was going to like the tuxedo it wore. Tuxedo. Good name if her new mistress thought so. He tossed the “furball” on the backseat.
By the time he reached the curve leading to the foreman’s house, he knew something was wrong. Way wrong.
Donnie sped beyond the graveled lane, slammed on the brakes, filling the air thick with dust, but the gentle breeze whisked it downwind. He swaggered back toward Challie. Marching, suitcase in hand, she ignored him.
He caught hold of her wildly swinging arm, drew her back to face him. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Leaving.” She was headed straight into the mountains. Toward Idaho.
“Why?”
With shaded eyes of a raging storm, she said, “You left me alone in that place. Mice everywhere. Hate mice.”
God,