DangerousPassion (21 page)

“Now you,” Derek said to Sarah as he disengaged his seemingly indefatigable cock from Susan’s vaginal embrace. His entire body glistened with perspiration; small rivulets of sweat dribbled down from his chest to his stomach. He combed his fingers through his ebony black hair, smoothing damp strands away from his face. Amanda reached for his erection, but Derek impatiently batted her hand away. She was not the woman he wanted. Susan and Amanda had been merely hor dourves to be enjoyed but merely consumed prior to Sarah, who was Derek’s entrée for this and all other evenings to come.

Fortunately for Sarah, she had divested herself of her clothes some time earlier. Had she not, Derek quite likely would have ripped them off her body in his haste to embed himself within her loving, silken embrace. It wouldn’t have been the first time Derek had ripped Sarah’s clothes off in his haste for access to her voluptuous body. As it was, when Derek had grabbed Sarah and tossed her bodily onto the sofa, her head landed in Susan’s lap—and that’s where it stayed while Derek stretched his lanky physique out over her, sliding his lean hips between lovingly parted thighs.

“Yesss!” Sarah gasped when the delicate tissue of her labia were forced to accommodate Derek’s thrusting, impaling cock.

Derek was frantic in his need, and Sarah realized that even with her lover’s amazing orgasmic discipline, he simply couldn’t continue much longer without having a climax of his own. Sarah wrapped her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly, her breasts pressed snuggly against his naked, sweaty chest, the mounds compressing, expanding, her nipples tingling as Derek began moving above her, driving into her with shocking force, the sound of his wet flesh striking hers echoing off the bare walls of the small country home, mingling with Sarah’s gasps.

Sarah was aware of the warmth and firmness of Susan’s thigh beneath her head, just as she was aware of the faint aroma of feminine passion just inches away. As she felt her own orgasm approaching with tantalizing speed, Sarah wondered if her own lips still tasted of Susan’s pussy, and whether this excited Derek as much as he had said it did. Again and again and again he thrust downward with every ounce of lust and strength he possessed, stabbing himself hilt-deep in Sarah’s sleek warmth. The ancient sofa creaked in protest of the burden it now carried, though even if the well-worn furniture had turned to kindling, it was doubtful whether either of the main actors in the erotic drama being played out before the audience of Susan and Amanda would have noticed.

Having made love to Derek a sufficient number of times to hear the change in his breathing and understand what it meant, Sarah hugged him tightly and with her lips close to his ear urged, “Come, my darling! Come for me!” But then—quite unexpectedly--it was she who came, her orgasm hitting with both shocking swiftness and ferocity, causing six harsh contractions within Sarah that afterward left her momentarily speechless, nearly breathless, and teetering on the brink of unconsciousness.

An awareness of something other than her own body—and that part of Derek’s body that was pistoning into her with ever-increasing speed—eventually returned to Sarah, and when it did, she sensed that he was moments away from culmination. Unlike all their earlier times together, Sarah looped her naked legs around Derek’s, locking his body to hers.

“Come for me, darling,” she whispered, her body still tingling with the afterglow of a powerful orgasm. “Come inside me.”

His answering growl and the bucking contractions of his magnificently proportioned body let her know that her lover was releasing his semen deep inside her.

“Yes, my darling,” she purred, stroking Derek’s hair as he continued to thrash above her, though now with rather swiftly decreasing vigor and violence. “So precious…so deep inside me.”

Sarah’s head was still in Susan’s naked lap. The spinster, who had minutes earlier enjoyed the most powerful orgasm of her life thanks to the two people currently on the sofa with her, was shaking her head slowly in amazement and whispering, “Divine…the man really is divine, just like Ellie Mae said. Absolutely divine.”

* * * *

Tookie Smithers and two other men arrived shortly before
midnight
at the home shared by Susan and Amanda. The men had been drinking, but they were not particularly drunk. They’d had just enough whiskey to dull what little sense of decency still remained within their souls
¾
because on this night, they intended to rape Susan and Amanda. Their orders had been to “put the fear of Patterson” into the women, but Edgar Patterson had not been entirely specific on what they were to do to instill that fear. As they sat in the saloon, watching the hands of the clock moving slowly, they drained one bottle of whiskey and contemplated their options. Tookie admitted that he hadn’t had sex in quite a while. His comrades teased him before both admitting to similar celibacy.

It was suggested that perhaps they could beat the women up. The man who called himself Eddie had said he hadn’t beaten a woman—beaten her properly, so that she would remember the beating for at least a month—in nearly a year. His tone of voice suggested he missed the experience with a certain sense of yearning that was nearly sexual in nature.

Tookie, the leader of the trio, dashed any hopes Eddie might have had of using his fists and boots on the lovely poultry ranchers, saying that it made no sense to “damage the goods” prior to raping them. Why ugly the women up before fucking them? inquired Tookie with the disorienting logic that savage men sometimes have.

Eddie grumbled and looked morose. Wanting to keep morale high, Tookie ordered another bottle of whiskey, filled up the glasses, then smiled at Eddie and explained that there might be a possibility of Eddie breaking a woman’s nose or arm—but it had to happen after Tookie had fucked them both.

Eddie appeared quite pleased with the compromise.

They had barged their way into the home, kicking in the front door. But their arrival had not been quiet. Derek had heard them when they were nearly a hundred yards from the homestead, and he’d seen them even farther away when they made no effort to hide their silhouettes as they crested the hill in the road leading to the house.

Tookie stood now near the door, with Eddie and the other gunman behind him. Susan and Amanda were near the fireplace, their eyes defiant, their shoulders held squarely.

“You bitches need to learn yourselves a lesson,” Tookie said, “and we’ve come to do the teachin’!”

Derek stepped out of the bedroom with his Colt already in hand. He had heard what Tookie’s boasting when he and the others were riding slowly toward the homestead, and he had heard the venomous misogyny in his tone. And, now that he could see Tookie in candlelight, he could also see that the black Stetson on his head was the one Derek had lost the first night he’d met Sarah and they’d run from the gang of outlaws.

“Walk away from this,” Derek said as the three men wheeled to face him.

Tookie was the first to react, raising the pistol he already had in his hand. He was, therefore, the first to die. The other two died seconds later. Eddie, who liked to call himself Fast Eddie, was able to get his pistol unholstered and even managed to cock the hammer and fire off a shot in the general direction of Derek. But his bullet had gone wide of the mark, and Derek’s did not.

Four gunshots inside the confines of a single room create a deafening noise, and Derek’s ears were ringing as he turned to look at Susan and Amanda. Amanda appeared horrified; Susan was smiling.

“They would have killed both of you,” Derek said, as though needing to explain his actions.

Susan nodded and replied, “Or worse. I’ve seen those men around Deadwood. Good people walk out of their way to avoid them.”

Amanda’s expression of horror evolved slowly into one of relief. “Well, now that they’re not going to hurt us or anyone else ever again, what do we do with the bodies?”

Sarah stepped out of the bedroom. She pointed at Tookie’s corpse and said, “Derek, isn’t that man wearing the hat you had on the night I met you?”

Chapter Fifteen

“You stupid bastard! Have you any idea how much damage you’ve done?”

Edgar had seen his father angry before, but he could never remember seeing him quite this angry. His face had gone from pink to an unhealthy shade of red, and when he hissed out his venomous words through clenched teeth, spittle flew from his lips.

“Dad—“

“Shut up! Just shut your dumb fucking mouth!” Jerome shot back, his voice rising despite the fact that he was at the bank, in Edgar’s office, and there were employees and patrons just outside the door.

Edgar started to defend himself, but before a single syllable was spoken, Jerome shot him a withering look that threatened immediate execution if he heard another word.

Jerome inhaled deeply to compose his jangled nerves. He walked over to the map on the wall, the map that he had used to plan his takeover of all the most valuable property in and around Deadwood. He put his hands to his hips and shook his head slowly, just the way he always did whenever he was thoroughly disappointed with his son—which was often.

“So, you burned your own fiancée’s house to the ground, and the whole town knows about it. You sent men out to beat up the Averly brothers, but instead of just beating them up, one of the Averly brothers is dead now, and the other is still unconscious over at Doc Borden’s office. You sent three men to some damned little chicken ranch and all three are right now as dead as Julius Caeser.” He turned slowly to face his son. The complexion of his face had evolved from ruddy red to pasty white as the full magnitude of his public relations nightmare sank in. “Amanda Nichols and Susan Murchison are two of the most respected women in Deadwood. They are also good friends with a small woman with a very big mouth named Ellie Mae.” He closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. “That cunt must have told every person in Deadwood what you’ve done. Goddamn, what a colossal idiot you are!”

Edgar put a hand up, seeing a chance to redeem himself. “Don’t worry about Ellie Mae. She works for me and I’ll let her know that if she says a word against us, I’ll fire her ass.”

Edgar hadn’t thought it possible for his father’s respect to sink any lower, but after his last comment, he saw that it could—and had.

“You’re too dumb for words. Ellie Mae is the worst gossip in Deadwood. There isn’t a soul in Deadwood with any clout at all who hasn’t heard at least some of the stories of what happened. And everyone knows that we’re behind it all.” He turned to the map, appearing unable to look at his son without feeling physically ill. “Derek must have been at that chicken ranch when your men showed up. That’s the only way those two women could have pulled the trigger on three hard men. The only way.” He put his fingertips to his temples and rubbed softly, issuing a long, slow, exhaling sigh of utter disgust. “I’m going to ride out immediately to see the territorial governor. If there’s going to be any calls for an investigation, I want him on our side. He’s a man who understands business. A five thousand dollar golden handshake will make him see things our way.”

“What do you want me to do while you’re gone?” Edgar hated the tone of his own voice. He loathed his father, but he nevertheless desperately wanted his blessings and respect.

Jerome Patterson looked at his son for a full thirty seconds before finally saying with quiet honesty, “Die. Do you think you can do that for me?”

He left the office without another word.

* * * *

Edgar locked up the bank with a sense of relief. It had been a difficult day, to say the very least. No less than a two dozen people had come to the bank to withdrawal all of their money, closing out their accounts because they refused to do business with scoundrels like the Pattersons. A couple times Edgar had tried to dissuade the people from closing their accounts—particularly with Michael Duerson, who owned several profitable mines, and was financing the new stage line between Deadwood and Fargo—but Duerson’s mind was made up and wouldn’t be changed. He told Edgar, in a voice loud enough to be heard by everyone at the bank, that he’d rather throw his money away than leave it in any bank owned by the Pattersons.

These activities meant that whenever Jerome got back from his expensive meeting with the territorial governor, there would be more bad news waiting for him. It was bad news that Edgar would have to deliver, and for which Edgar would be blamed. Of that, the younger Patterson had no doubt.

As he headed away from the bank, walking slowly down the boardwalk with his hands stuffed deep into his pockets, Edgar began wondering what the odds were of his father getting robbed on his way to seeing the governor. Robbed…and maybe killed? Such things happened all the time in and around Deadwood.

A faint smile tickled Edgar’s mouth. Was he asking too much to have his father die from a thief’s bullet? Was it a sin to hope for such an occurrence?

With vague thoughts of patricide lightening his emotional burden, Edgar walked with a bit more spring to his step as he headed for Pamela G’s, his favorite restaurant in Deadwood. Though much of town’s business was geared toward mining and cattle (and to the hardscrabble lives and low incomes that those occupations tended to create) there were still a few establishments who catered to the small-in-numbers, well-heeled, polite society of Deadwood. Jerome’s wealth had been the ticket of invitation for Edgar to enter that society, and he was never more comfortable than when seated at a table in a leather chair at Pamela G’s, enjoying a beefsteak entree and the scrumptious dessert pies that could be found nowhere else.

He reached Pamela G’s as the sun was setting. Stepping through the front door, the aroma of beef on the grill in the kitchen tickled his olfactory senses. He sighed. There was pleasure in the world, after all. He didn’t give a damn if his father hated him, just as he didn’t give a rat’s ass if some poor miners decided to pull their pitiful savings out of his bank. He knew what mattered: power, money, and the delicious food that could be found at Pamela G’s. Everything else, Edgar decided as he stood waiting for the hostess to seat him, was bullshit. Complete bullshit.

The hostess’ back was to him, so Edgar touched her on the shoulder, saying, “Is my table ready, Emily?”

He saw her expression change, and he knew instantly that she had heard the rumors. Damn. He’d always liked Emily, enjoying her smile whenever he walked into the restaurant, and the way she always made a point of telling him that the table he preferred was his personal table that other people sometimes used. Emily always made Edgar feel welcome, feel special. Until now.

Emily nibbled on her lower lip for a moment before replying, “Actually…um…there’s someone at it right now. You could wait or I could seat you somewhere else.”

Edgar saw her face go slightly pale, and felt a small twinge of sympathy for the young woman. He said, “Any table will do for tonight. I’ve had a dreadful day, and I can think of no better way of putting that day behind me than to sit here, have a couple whiskeys, eat a magnificent meal, and then finish it all off with one of your stupendous pies.”

Usually Emily thanked him whenever he complimented the food and service at Pamela G’s, but she didn’t this time. Edgar took notice of the error, thought briefly of telling Pamela G herself that the girl had been something less than cordial, then decided against it. With an unusual sense of forgiveness, Edgar decided that just because he’d just suffered through a hellacious day, that didn’t mean little Emily should have a hellacious night.

A prickle of concern touched Edgar’s psyche when he was escorted past three empty tables, and shown the table nearest the back doors where the waiters were always hurrying back and forth in and out of the kitchen. It was another insult from Emily, Edgar decided, and this time he wouldn’t be so forgiving. He spent a small fortune nearly every week at Pamela G’s, so he had the right to have the owner summoned to him so he could make his displeasure known.

Edgar sat, his fleshy fingers laced together on the tablecloth in front of him, already mentally savoring the sound of the ice in the cut crystal cocktail glass that would hold his sour mash whiskey. There weren’t a handful of places in all of Deadwood that could afford to have ice brought in during the summer months, but Pamela G’s was one of them—and she changed a small fortune for the drinks because of it, too. But Edgar didn’t care. Some pleasures were worth the price, no matter what the cost. Some things--like good sour mash whiskey over ice. And warm, fresh apple pie with vanilla ice cream on the side. Or beefsteaks cooked to perfection, topped with butter and garlic and served sizzling hot from the grill.

Those were the things that really made life worthwhile.

The click of heels against the brightly polished oak floor caught his attention. Edgar looked up to find Pamela G striding toward him, weaving her way between the tables of patrons. She did not look pleased, but this didn’t concern Edgar. The money he spent at the restaurant on a yearly basis amounted to the combined gross income of a half dozen moderately successful miners. He decided she needed to be taught that he was a man to be treated with respect, and he intended on telling her that in a voice loud enough for the other customers to hear. Edgar Patterson wasn’t a man who had to take insults from anyone.

“You fat runt, get out of my restaurant, and don’t ever come back!”

The vehemence of the assault from Pamela G, delivered from a distance of at least twenty feet and at such a volume that there couldn’t possibly be a single person in the restaurant who hadn’t heard what she’d said, made the breath catch in Edgar’s chest. Though he looked only at the proprietress, he could tell that all eyes were now trained on him. In a blinding flash of awareness, he realized that being seated at the worst table in restaurant had not been an accident or oversight.

For several seconds he merely looked into Pamela’s G’s blazing eyes, his mind in a whirl, searching for something to say. Words failed him…but not Pamela G.

“Get out of my restaurant and don’t ever come back,” Pamela G continued, her tone high-pitched and shrill with moral indignation. She extended an arm, pointing a finger at the front doors of the establishment. “You are a swine and I want you out of my restaurant this instant! Ellie Mae told me all about what you’ve done! Go! Leave! Leave and don’t ever come back! I don’t ever want to see your fat, ugly face again!”

There was a high-pitched ringing in Edgar’s ears as he got unsteadily to his feet. For a moment he thought he might actually get sick right there in the restaurant in front of all the people who were staring at him. He squared his shoulders, determined to be dignified even if Pamela G was not, and began walking toward the front doors.

As Edgar walked, Pamela G added a final insult. “And tell your father he’s not welcome, too! You tell him I said that!”

Edgar had thought the worst was over, but it was not. As the last of Pamela G’s insults echoed off the restaurant walls…the patrons began clapping their hands, applauding their proprietress, cheering the courage of her convictions. Thirty people were smiling at his agony, clapping their hands in public approval of his humiliation, utterly without fear of his retaliation.

The room began to spin. Edgar hurried his stride. He had to get outside. There suddenly wasn’t any air in Pamela G’s, it seemed.

Good Christ, could it be that his one true sanctuary, the one blissful refuge in all of Deadwood was now forbidden to him?

Ellie Mae. It was all her fault. Pamela G had said so. And Sarah, now homeless, was staying with Ellie Mae.

Edgar started back toward the bank, a plan beginning to take shape in the convoluted recesses of his fevered brain. There were people who needed punishment, among them Ellie Mae and Sarah…and this time Edgar was determined to administer the punishment personally!

* * * *

“What do you think will happen now?” Ellie Mae asked, sitting by the fireplace in the one overstuffed chair in her home.