Clint turned over in bed and found himself staring at a woman’s naked back. She had short black hair, looked slender, although he seemed to remember breasts that more than filled his hands.
He rolled onto his back and gazed at the ceiling. Slowly, it started to come back to him. He was finishing his second beer in the Crazy Bull when a woman approached him. She was a saloon girl, said her name was Jesse. They talked awhile until she was called away to serve some customers.
“Don’t go away,” she told him, putting her index finger on his chest. “We’re not done.”
“We’re not?”
“No.”
She was in her twenties, had a very pretty face with a wide mouth and bright blue eyes.
“Okay,” he agreed. “I’ll wait.”
“Good.”
She turned to go and he said, “Wait.”
“Yes?”
“You’re not going to give me a tip on a horse, are you?”
“Not me,” she said. “What I have in mind has nothing to do with horses.”
“Oh . . . good.”
She nodded, took a tray of drinks from the bartender, and disappeared into the crowd.
“Another beer?” the bartender asked. “While you’re waitin’?”
“Sure,” he said, “why not . . .”
* * *
The woman moaned, brought him back to the present. She rolled onto her back, and he saw that her breasts were indeed a handful or more, even though the rest of her was quite slender.
She stretched, making her breasts go taut, and then she looked over at him.
“Do you need an engraved invitation?” she asked.
He smiled, leaned over her, and began to kiss her neck, her shoulders, her breasts, her nipples . . . she caressed his head, held him there for a while before allowing him to travel lower.
He kissed her pale, smooth skin down to her navel, inhaled the fragrance of her flesh, which—since she had come with him right after work—included some of the smells of the saloon, but mostly the special blend of her own perspiration and skin.
And then lower, and her smells became more intense, headier. He pressed his nose to her pubic hair, then let his tongue party it until he tasted her wetness . . . and she jumped.
“Yes,” she said.
He probed her with his tongue, causing her to writhe and moan. The more he licked, the wetter she became—a combination of his saliva and her juices.
Finally, she began to tremble, and then she was doing more than writhing and moaning. She was jumping and yelling, all the while reaching for him, raking his back, and laughing.
He mounted her finally, pressed his hard cock to her wetness, and pushed. The night before they had joined violently, but this morning he entered her slowly until he was fully in, then began to move, in and out, while she found his rhythm and rocked with him. They were both able to resist the urge to move faster and their movements became languid, fluid, almost like a dance, and then he was the one trembling and then gasping as he emptied into her . . .
* * *
“Why me?” he asked as he watched her get dressed. She sheathed her lovely body in the same dress she’d worn last night, green and low cut.
“Why not you?” she asked. “You’re good-looking, almost handsome, clean . . . and a stranger. Will you be staying in town long?”
“For the race,” he said, “but I won’t be staying in town. I’ll be staying on my friend’s ranch.”
“Which ranch is that?”
“The Canby.”
“He’s got a horse in the Derby, doesn’t he?”
“He does,” Clint said, “but I don’t know the name.”
“Neither do I,” she said. “So I guess I haven’t heard anybody talking about it.”
“I’ve gotten five or six tips since I arrived,” Clint said.
“Well then,” Jesse said, “you have five or six horses not to bet on. Cuts down the field.”
She slipped on her shoes and then looked at him.
“Thank you for a lovely night.”
“It was lovely,” he said. “Thank you for picking me out.”
“If you come by the casino tonight,” she said, “I might just pick you out again.”
“Maybe I will.”
She started for the door, then turned and said, “I think I was so anxious to get your pants off that I never asked you your name.”
He hesitated, then said, “Clint. My name is Clint.”
“I’ll see you again, Clint.”
“Jesse,” he said.
She smiled, and slipped out the door.
* * *
Outside, Jesse crossed the street and stopped next to a man wearing black, who seemed to be staring into a hardware store window.
“Was I right?” he asked.
“Well,” she said, “his name is Clint.”
“But is he Clint Adams?”
“He didn’t say.”
“You were supposed to find out.”
She looked at him.
“We got . . . involved in something else,” she said.
“Yes, well . . . all right.”
“My money?” she asked.
He took his hand from his pocket and handed her a few bills.
“Thank you.”
“Thank you, Jesse,” he said, and watched her as she walked away.