FOURTEEN
Eve held the back of Clint’s head while he worked over her breasts with his mouth, tongue, and teeth. She wiggled her butt, enjoying how hard his cock felt in his pants.
“Oooh, God,” she said, “I want to get that thing out of your pants.”
She stood up, pulled her dress down, and stepped out of it. When she was naked—the hair between her legs plentiful and even blonder than the hair on her head—she undid his belt and unbuttoned his trousers. He lifted his hips so she could slide his pants off and toss them away. Since he’d been reading on the bed, he’d already removed his boots.
When his penis came into view—rigid, red, ready, willing, and able—she said, “Oh, my God.”
“Maybe not as big as the Irishman’s,” he said.
“Oh, his was so ugly,” she said, “all veiny and . . . crooked. Yours is . . . it’s . . . beautiful.”
She took it in her right hand, slid her hand up and down.
“It’s so smooth,” she said, getting down on her knees between his legs. She rubbed his column of flesh against her cheeks, then licked until it was good and wet. That done, she opened wide and took him in her mouth. Clint caught his breath and let it out slowly as she started to suck him noisily.
He watched as her head bobbed up and down. She sucked with her mouth, stroked with her hand, and before long he had to pull her off him or it would have all been over much too soon.
He put her on her back on the bed—mindful to do it gently—then lowered himself between her legs to go at her avidly with his mouth. When she was gasping and heaving about on the bed, he slid up onto her and into her and began to ride her. She dug her nails into his ass and tried to pull him into her more tightly.
“I know what I said before,” she said into his ear, “but I’m not gonna break, Clint. I promise. Come on . . . harder!”
From that point on he stopped treating her like some sort of porcelain doll that might shatter and by the end they were both whooping and hollering and having a good time. . . .
Clint and Eve lay there together, catching their breath, her hand on his thigh.
“Oh, my,” she said. “I never thought I’d come across a real man. Not in this town.”
“Glad to oblige,” he told her.
“You know,” she said, “when I came up here I didn’t expect this.”
“Neither did I.”
She propped herself up on an elbow. He stared at her big breasts.
“Did I tell you anything helpful?”
“Did you talk to the Irishman who was here last week?” he asked.
“I did,” she said. “I told him about the first Irish man—the big mean one. But I couldn’t tell him anything about where he and his friends were going.”
“Were they his friends,” Clint asked, “or his men?”
“One—a Mexican—he acted like they were friends,” she said. “They sat together, but the others sat at another table. I guess they were just working for the Irishman.”
“And did anyone else talk to the nice Irishman last week?” he asked.
“Jean did.”
“Jean?”
“The dark-haired girl you saw me with.”
“Ah.”
“He didn’t go upstairs with her, though,” she said. “Kind of got her mad.” She giggled. “Actually, I didn’t mind seein’ that. She thinks she can get any man she wants.”
“So he proved her wrong.”
“Yes.”
“But they did talk?”
“Oh, yes, for a little while,” she said. “Made her madder that she actually spent time workin’ on him.”
“She doesn’t strike me as the pleasant type.”
“She’s only nice until she gets what she wants,” Eve said, “and then she’s back to bein’ a bitch.”
“Well, I guess I’ll have to talk to her tomorrow before I leave.”
“You’re leavin’ town tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“That soon?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Why are you tryin’ to catch up to this man?” she asked. “Is he a friend of yours?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then why?”
“He’s a visitor to our country,” Clint said. “I’m just trying to keep him from getting killed.”
“Well,” she said, sliding her hand down over his belly, “before you go and help him, could you show me a little more hospitality?”
He smiled as she closed her hand over him.
“It would be my pleasure, ma’am.”