Susan Johnson (16 page)

Her thighs were slippery with sperm, sliding against each other sleekly when she walked. “It’s very decadent,” she breathed, wanting him to feel what she was feeling, wanting him to understand the intensity, and when he turned slightly to wonder at her statement, she pointed down to the lustrous glaze spread now with the movement of her legs to a glossy satin.

“Is decadence pleasant?” he asked, soft and knowing.

When she nodded, he said, “I can give you more.… I can fill you with … decadence.” Pulling her close, he ran his hands leisurely up her body from the damp juncture of her thighs, up her trim stomach, slowly lingering a moment later to caress gently the round softness of her breasts, sliding at last to the graceful curve of her throat. Heat had risen in Empress’s body like the temperature of a desert afternoon as Trey’s hands traveled upward. She closed her eyes, drowning in the rising flame, luxuriating in the delicious bliss, until he softly ordered, “Look at me.”

Her heavily lashed lids lifted languidly as she returned to reality from her own private enchantment.

“I’ll fill you,” he said in a low, husky murmur, “saturate, gorge you”—one finger slid softly across her throat—“to here.”

For a body throbbing with unfulfilled desire, for a passion only incompletely assuaged, it was an irresistible promise.
“How nice,” Empress whispered, reaching up on tiptoe to lick a warm, wet path up his throat.

It was enormously more than nice, Empress thought a moment later, lying on the chaise, Trey’s tongue unhurriedly licking the sleek flesh of her thighs, moving upward with a piquant slowness that prolonged the building ecstasy; beyond words; so near paradise, she forgot momentarily who and where she was. She slid her fingers through the heavy, dark waves of his hair, scented with an elusive, exotic fragrance that brought to mind caravans under great open skies, accommodatingly eased her legs apart when Trey’s palms pressed outward, and shivered as his tongue slipped over her dewy wetness.

He licked and nibbled and sucked until she begged. It was beyond her comprehension at first.
I won’t
, she thought.
I’ll wait.
But she was running wet with desire, adding her own passionate fluids to the residue of Trey’s, and her heart was beating now with an intensity that sent her heated blood racing to every peaked nerve in her body.

But then Trey raised his head and effortlessly lifted her upward, settling her slightly higher against the chaise back so that she was half reclining, her thighs spread like a trained and obedient houri. He settled comfortably between her welcoming thighs, but casually, as though she weren’t dying, weren’t mad with desire. And he stroked her stimulated, sensitive breasts with gentle fingers, smoothly circling each nipple, cupping the heaviness in his large palms, lifting them until she felt a streaking, stabbing desire race downward to the throbbing center of her being. With her breasts raised high and mounded in his hands, he touched the nipples teasingly with his mouth, little tugging bites; soft, light sucks; brushing his cheek against the elevated, swelling prominence of her large breasts until she capitulated and begged, “It’s torture,” she whispered.

His dark-lashed eyes lifted in mild inquiry.

“Please,” she breathed.

“Wait,” he whispered.

“No!” It was a sharp, emphatic demand.

“No?” His tone was softly blasé.

“Damn you,” she threatened, low and heated, “I’ll give you poison.”

“That sounds serious,” he responded in mock alarm. But then his expression changed, as well as his voice. “Maybe,” he said evenly, “you’d like to tell me about the many men.”

She hesitated for a moment at the blatant blackmail but was stretched so taut with longing, her resistance crumbled. “There aren’t any.”

“Then why the comment?”

“My cousin, damn you. I was talking about my cousin and his friends. I’d grown up with them and knew how they acted.”

“Sure?” Trey slowly rubbed her nipple, a trembling need shuddering through her with each leisurely stroke.

“Poison,” she whispered threateningly.

He scrutinized her for one brief moment more and, satisfied, said, “That won’t be necessary, fierce kitten. I’ll be glad to accommodate you.”

When he entered her swift seconds later, she began to climax before he had fully penetrated, and as he drove in deeply, he felt the little fluttering convulsions along his entire length, heard her soft cry of release, held her in his strong arms until with a small sob, she lay replete. “Thank you,” she breathed, her cheek resting on his solid shoulder.

Trey looked down at her, warm and satiated in his embrace, and murmured, “Thank me later”—his grin was sudden and boyish—“when I deserve it.” He was rigid inside her and had every intention of seeing that the lady was satisfied in a much greater and more lengthy variety of ways. He smiled to himself. He was alive, he gratefully reflected, and moved then just a fraction to gauge the extent of blissful living. He was on the mend, his pain at very manageable levels. It was a beautiful, sunny winter morning—his eyes came up to check the bureau clock—and he had another hour and a half before lunch. Empress was soft beneath him, her body warmly welcoming. Smiling down at her, he said gently, “Now tell me, darling, can you feel me better here”— he moved up into her hot, slippery interior and was gratified to hear her hushed little moan—“or does the feeling peak more intensely when I do this?” His hand slid under her bottom, and he lifted her to meet the full, hard length of his arousal.

“Oh, God!” She gasped, the violent intoxication too mercilessly fierce, and when he rotated his hips slightly to touch all
the quivering surfaces of her pulsing lushness, she groaned. “Not yet … it’s too soon … I can’t.” She pressed against his bandaged chest, her hands trembling.

He wouldn’t listen. “It’s never too soon,” he whispered low, and moved inside her with a gentleness that soothed, a slow, lazy, tactile movement that before too long caused her hands to relinquish their pressure and slide up his chest. Her hand caught briefly on his gold pendant, suspended between them, but in a swift, clean motion he tucked it away under his bandage, and her hands continued upward to rest docilely on his shoulders. “See,” he said as her slender hips arched up slightly, “you can … after all.”

She screamed that time when she climaxed, a long, low, irrepressible cry that echoed around the small room and justified Trey Braddock-Black’s reputation for finesse.

The following hour or so was both extravagant and excessive, exciting in the newness of sensation, lush with playfulness, embellished by vivid, mirrored images of carnal lust and teasing dalliance. Empress’s initial astonishment at Trey’s stamina gave way to an ingenuous acceptance, and finally to an unreserved, eager demand that he found artlessly charming.

He was, however, not in the peak of health and pleasantly exhausted, sprawled on the floor, his head pillowed on Empress’s legs. He placidly reminded her that he could stand a short rest.

Empress was instantly contrite, then shamefaced and apologetic.

At which point he smiled at her and said, “Sweetheart, if I had more energy, I’d roll over and kiss your toes. Do not even
consider
apologizing.” And then, teasingly, he did just that, causing Empress to cry sharply in alarm, “Trey, my God, your back’s bleeding!”

“It’s nothing,” he replied, feeling deliciously content. But she wouldn’t be satisfied until she had him soaking in the tub, filled high with steaming hot water.

He lay with his head back against the travertine marble, considering himself an extremely lucky man, blissfully satiated, anticipating the next time his beautiful companion nurse would wrap her sweet arms around him.

“Are you sure you feel all right?” Empress inquired nervously.

“Great,” he murmured.

“No pain?”

His eyes opened, half-lidded and amused. “Are you kidding? I’ve never felt better.”

“It does look as though the bleeding is only superficial,” she hastily assured him.

“Good,” he replied blandly, unconcerned with the bleeding, worry-free in his utter contentment, and he slid deeper into the water.

“I think it would be therapeutic”—the syllables were softly pronounced with Gallic emphasis—“if you soaked in the tub every day now that you’re feeling better.”

He looked at her cheerfully, his dark hair clinging silkily to his shoulders. “I’ll consider it.”

“Don’t be obstructive.” It was the nurse tone of command, accompanied by a stubborn pout of her lush bottom lip.

“On one condition,” he replied casually, undeterred by commanding tones.

“I won’t respond,” she said a bit huffily, knowing what he was about to say.

“In another few days I’ll be able to carry you, and then what can you do?”

“Think what your parents will say.”

“They’re leaving for Helena tomorrow. The legislative session began yesterday, and the only reason they stayed home this long was because they were worried about me. So what do you say to that? I’d say, you lose.”

A sudden, stupefying flare of excitement raced through her senses. No, losing was not exactly the word to describe her sensations. Heaven on earth, rain after a five-year drought. That was closer to the feeling. Trey’s gentle hands on her body, his mouth soft and warm on hers, the excruciatingly glorious pleasure when their bodies joined. But all transient, she abruptly recalled. A rich young man’s momentary bauble. So she replied in a composed reasonable way, “I don’t suppose I could realistically fight you off.”

“Extremely sensible, since I outweigh you by several score.”

“You’re a bully.”

“You should talk. Who’s been cramming vile concoctions down my throat for days now?”

“It’s for your own good.”

“So is what I have in mind.” There was a smile in his voice.

She reached down to splash him in retaliation, but his hand caught hers in midair, gave it a quick tug, and tumbled her into the water.

They discussed the relative merits of water therapy at close range and in increasingly murmured cryptic phrases.

He was most convincing.

H
azard and Blaze left the next morning for their home in Helena. The territorial legislature was a hotbed of selfish manipulation, the lobbying blatant and crudely mercenary. Hazard brought a good supply of money to influence those who could help his cause.
⁵

For years attempts had been made to diminish the Indian reservations, and last year the Blackfoot reservation in northern Montana had been reduced from 21,651,200 acres to 4,073,600 acres, because the cattle interests were desperate for more grazing land.
⁶

A bill was being introduced again that year to reduce the Absarokee reservation, and Hazard was committed to staving off passage. In 1879, 1882, and 1884, similar bills had been introduced and, through dint of tremendous pressure and money, had been defeated, thanks very much to Hazard’s personal fortune and influence. He was on familiar terms with congressmen in Washington, as well as bureaucrats in the Department of the Interior. When necessary, he and Blaze opened their Washington home and actively
worked to defeat those bills detrimental to his tribe’s interests.

Until now the Absarokee reservation had remained untouched, but each year the pressures mounted by cattlemen, railroads, lumber interests, and this year the lobbying efforts were intense. The Braddock-Black acreage and mineral holdings were extensive and more than sufficient for their clan, which had prospered in the last twenty years. But the other clans on the reservation had need of additional support, and Hazard and Blaze generally spent the months of the legislative session in Helena.

There was nothing democratic about Montana politics; the men with the most money and influence had their legislation approved. The only restraint was the occasional repudiation by Congress in Washington, the final judge of territorial government. But federal interference in territorial politics was rare and relegated to other than local issues. So the legislative sessions in Helena were nepotistic, venal, and rife with monopolistic intent.

This mercenary attitude toward government was not unique to Montana but practiced with cavalier shamelessness by every robber baron of American industry. These were the decades of J. P. Morgan, Carnegie, Rockefeller, Forbes, a time of unregulated industrial growth and a Social Darwinist policy of “the ends justifies the means.” These capitalists would mouth platitudinous phrases on the marvels of laissez-faire free enterprise while signing a monopolization agreement negating these very principles. And Standard Oil was beginning to buy up all of Butte, Montana, so they could set prices worldwide on copper.

So in the broad context of capitalism’s theory of “the public be damned,” Hazard’s fight in Montana to save what he could for the Absarokee was just one very small battle in an enormous losing campaign. But decidedly, it was still money that mattered. Money bought votes, money bought land to protect one’s borders, money bought stock in companies and, with that stock, influence. So they left on their private train, promising to be back at the end of the week.