Longarm 397 : Longarm and the Doomed Beauty (9781101545973) Read Free

his back and the back of his neck and behind his ears, and then his backside—even the bottoms of his feet. It must have taken her nearly a half hour, though to Longarm—with that hickory knot hardening in his throat—it seemed even longer. While her slow, damp caresses were infinitely soothing, his body hungered for her, his hard-on throbbing against the bed beneath him.
    Finally, there was the soft plunk of the sponge being dropped into the bowl. She touched his shoulder, and he rolled over onto his back in time to see her rise from the bed and dump the water from the bowl into the chamber pot beside the night table.
    Another nice view of her black snatch opening pinkly beneath the round, pale globe of her delightful bottom.
    â€œCynthia, Christ,” he rasped, curling his toes in desperation.
    â€œJust you wait, mister.” She smiled at him over her shoulder as she splashed more water into the bowl. Then she returned to the bed, sat down on its edge once more, dipped the sponge in the bowl, and touched the sponge to the head of his hard-on. Longarm drew a short, quick breath. She ran the sponge down the iron-hard organ’s underside to his balls.
    He drew another fast, shallow breath.
    She lowered her head, so her hair slithered across his thigh, tickling him, and touched her tongue to the underside of her upper lip as she slowly, deftly, torturously ran the sponge up and down and all around his throbbing dong.
    Longarm’s heart turned somersaults.
    When she was finished, she returned the sponge to the bowl. She dumped the bowl out in the chamber pot and returned the bowl to the washstand. Longarm’s cock was both hot from the blood coursing through it and cool and damp from the water Cynthia had washed it with. He lay there as though tied down, his heart thumping slowly now in his chest, distant bells of excruciating desire tolling in his ears.
    â€œNow, then,” Cynthia said.
    She stood beside the bed, lifted the fishnet shift up and over her head, and let it fall to the floor at her feet. Her hair fluttered like black feathers around her shoulders and the swollen globes of her breasts.
    Longarm swallowed against the hard knot in his throat.
    He stared up at her—his buxom, beguiling, cobalt-eyed executioner.
    Slowly, she sank back down on the edge of the bed, crossed her fine legs, twisted her torso around and lowered her warm, soft breasts to his thighs. She wrapped both her hands around the base of his waiting member, and closed her hot, wet mouth of the swollen mushroom head.
    â€œOh, boy.” Longarm flexed his toes and ground his shoulders into the sheets as she swallowed him. “Oh . . . oh, boy . . . ”

Chapter 2
    Longarm awoke at dawn, only an hour or so after she finally let him sleep, and only long enough to glimpse her dressing in the shadowy room, clothing that magnificent long-legged, round-hipped, full-bosomed body, tossing her long black hair.
    The wind kicked up by her movements smelled like spring roses.
    He’d drifted off for a time, exhausted from the long train ride from Kansas and the near-savage coupling with the delectable and tireless Miss Larimer—three times after her initial French lesson!—and was pulled up from his slumber once more when she kissed him lingeringly on the mouth, then giggled as she squeezed his already sore and chafed old member.
    Just as the stalwart beast between his legs started to come alive—like a grumpy, sleepy bear stirring instinctively to head back out on the hunt—she pecked his cheek, laughed raspily, nibbled his ear, told him she’d see him again in a month or two, when she returned from Paris or wherever the hell she was off to with her sketches of him in the buff, and left.
    Her sketches of him in the buff . . .
    â€œCynthia!” he cried, jerking up in the bed and shooting his anxious gaze at the door.
    He gulped. He was too late. She’d left when it was still almost dark, at