Lightning and Thunder
The saloon was dingy, the dirt from countless boots smudging the floors, despite the best sweeping efforts of the owner, the wind of the approaching storm kicking up small dust devils. The piano in the corner sat silent for once, the usual local maestro in bed with a fever and nobody willing to venture out into the storm. The barman, his glasses glinting in the low light of the scattered lanterns, washed a large mug with a rag that had seen better days.
There weren’t many high-roller patrons in the saloon these days, and the few that were had no interest in doing anything but play cards. Times were tough, and while the country made hard men, it was harder than usual to make a living. The cattle barons were not inclined to hire men who had so recently tried to unionize, and the local mines were falling on hard times, the mother lode always out of reach, and many veins of silver running dry.
The barman sighed as he set the mug down and picked up another, the mumblings in the corners of the saloon the only sound other than the loose shingles rattling in the wind. The storm would be a big one, hopefully it’d bring some of the much-needed rain the ranchers were hoping for. He saw them all in his saloon; ranchers, miners, cattlemen and carpetbaggers; city slickers, country bumpkins, gamblers, and the occasional lawman. Every now and then, there was some drifter with no name, likely on the run from those same lawmen, but he didn’t mind, so long as they didn’t cause any trouble and paid their tab.
The doors creaked open, and illuminated by a flash of lightning in the distance, a figure entered the saloon. The jingle of his spurs was crisp and clear in the stillness, and every eye in the room was, for the moment, drawn to him. He cut a lean figure, wiry and long-legged, though he seemed no taller than the average man around these parts. A wide-brimmed hat shielded his face, though the dim lights of the saloon were able to cast into relief the barest of stubble across his chin.
Without a word he strode up to the bar, most of the other patrons going back to their cards without a second glance.
“Welcome, sir,” the barman said. “What can I get for you?”
“Partner and I have been riding for three days now, and we’re mighty thirsty,” the man replied, his voice carrying the familiar twang of a local, yet with a peculiar pitch that suggested time away from town. One of those mountain men, perhaps? “I’ll take a shot of shine if you’ve any left, my partner, water’ll do.”
“Partner?” the barman asked, raising an eyebrow as thunder rumbled overhead.
“Yes,” the man replied, as a shadow moved alongside him. “Partner.”
His glasses nearly slipping off his nose in shock, the barman did a double-take. The figure beside the gentleman had entered with nary a sound, and judging from the blank stares of a few other patrons, none had noticed them enter either. Taller than anyone else in the saloon, with fairly broad shoulders, and a lock of hair braided down to the middle of their back, one would think this man were an Indian likely of the Buffalo tribe.
Well, they’d be half right. Indian, no doubt of that local tribe; man, on the other hand…
“Water?” she asked, tipping her hat back. A stony face, reddish olive skin, and a fire in her eyes that could have scorched a stack of firewood. She was as exotic as she was intimidating, and despite living in these parts his whole life, the barkeep felt fear in his belly.
This was no simple pair of meandering travelers, much like the prospectors, fur trappers and occasional salesmen that came through. This was a pair on a mission, a dangerous one by the looks of it.
That meant trouble.
The bartender passed the man a shot of shine, homebrewed and potent, who threw it back with nary another word.
Removing his hat and tussling his curls, and with a smack of his lips, he smiled. “Thanks, needed that. Was getting’ a bit dry from the road, comin’ storm been kickin’ up a lot o’ dust.”
“Long trip?”
“You might say that.”
“Name, stranger?” the bartender asked.
He brushed some dust from his hat onto the floor. “Go by Braeburn to most.”
The bartender held back a snort, while the gentlemen in the corner snickered. “That some kind of nickname?”
“Cousin used ta call me that when we were younger, and I took a shinin’ to it. Why?”
The older man shrugged. “Just never heard of a name like that before is all. What about yer partner here?”
“The tall, dark and charming one?”
“The Indian.”
“My name is Strongheart,” she replied.
“Use ta be called Little, not so anymore,” Braeburn added. “She doesn’t like her nickname like I do mine.”
“Where y’all from?”
“Strongheart and I are from a ways from here, around Appaloosa. Haven’t been back there in three years, far as I can remember. Time on the plains kinda slips by fast, ya know?”
“What brings you here to Santa Rio?” Silver was what brought most people to Santa Rio, though some… for them, the bartender tended to stick to his own business. So long as they didn’t cause trouble, he didn’t ask stupid questions.
A rumble of thunder echoed the throaty chuckle of the blonde man. “Might say we’re lookin’ fer a friend of ours. Goes by the name of William Thatcher.”
The three men in the corner stopped chuckling. One slowly tipped back the brim of his hat, his beady eyes on the blonde man.
“Whatcha lookin’ fer Bill for?” the bartender asked. “You with the law?”
“I ain’t sayin’ he’s in trouble,” Braeburn said, glancing at the seated trio. “I only got a few questions for him.”
“You with the law?” the bartender repeated, tensing.
“I ain’t workin’ fer the princesses, if that’s what yer asking,” was the reply. “See, an old business partner o’ his was rottin’ in jail a couple months ago, convicted of arson, fraud, and a whole lot o’ collateral damage caused by that fire up in Dredger’s Gorge. Half the town up there burned, and he was standin’ to collect a whole lot of insurance money from the town.”
“So I heard, terrible thing, thankfully no one was hurt,” the bartender asked. Word tended to get around quickly whenever something bad happened out here.
“See now,” Braeburn continued. “Up until then, Thatcher was a business partner o’ this scoundrel, man by the name of Walch. Now, Mr. Walch needed ta be convicted of his crimes before he could hang, you see, as there wasn’t much evidence out there provin’ he did what he’s bein’ held fer.”
“Bill is a part of this… how, exactly?”
“Bill’s the only witness to what happened, and he done skipped out of the witness stand before he could testify. Now, some might say he done got scared of his ol’ partner, or that he might have been the one who done it and just scampered before someone might, say, accuse him.” Braeburn shook his head. “Bill’s needed back in Dredger’s Gorge, as soon as possible.”
“Why’s that?” one of the seated trio asked, his beady eyes blinking rapidly in the dim saloon light.
“Because Walch was broken out of prison three days before we got here,” Braeburn replied. “If he’s not here already, he’ll be here soon, him and whatever posse he put together. They’re comin’ fer you, Bill.”
The beady-eyed man stood up suddenly, and as he reached for his gun, likely on reflex, he found himself suddenly face to face with the business end of an 8 gauge shotgun.
Strongheart gave a stony stare as she held the street sweeper as easily as she might a broom handle. She’d moved in complete silence while all eyes were on her partner, several of the other patrons slowly getting out of their seats and backing away.
“Bill, we ain’t here ta arrest you,” Braeburn said as the other two gentlemen slid out and away from the trembling man. “We’re here ta escort you back. If Walch knows where you are, you ain’t safe.”
“He’s comin’ for me? You sure?” Thatcher asked.
“Sure as we can be. Time’s a-wastin, and if we don’t leave-,”
A flash of lightning illuminated four shadows through the large window beside the door, and with the crack of thunder outside, a torrent of hot lead blew through the glass, sending twinkling shards in all directions.
Braeburn droped to the floor, his hat spinning in the air before tumbling beside him, both bouncing off a chair and drawing his gun in the same motion. Strongheart threw herself back in equal measure, skidding across the floor in her buckskin pants. Thatcher let out a cry as blood spurted in the air, falling to the floor as the two other gentlemen scrambled across the wooden floor to the rear of the building. The few other patrons dropped to the floor, scrambling behind whatever cover they could find.
The bartender dove down and disappeared behind his counter as the back door swung shut.
“You hit?” Braeburn asked in a harsh whisper as footsteps outside the saloon rumbled closer, rain just beginning to thud against the roof.
“Not yet,” Strongheart replied, reaching for her dropped shotgun and taking aim. Her buckskin jacket shifted enough to reveal a large scar across the top, a gunshot wound long since healed over. Funny that her partner had been the cause of that.
In an instant, three men burst through the door, closely followed by a fourth. All carried with them grim looks of determination from behind bandanas covering their lower faces, though they carried an air of fear as well, dust following them in small whirling devils.
Strongheart’s massive shotgun spat fire and thunder amidst the storm, and without a word the rear man crumpled to the floor in a heap, a bright splatter of blood staining the entrance.
Two others turned, one shouting and immediately earning his own round from the other barrel of Strongheart’s shotgun. The other ruffian, startled, dropped his gun, and as he reached for something else behind his back, took two rounds from Braeburn’s pistol. Strongheart’s target tumbled to the floor immediately, Braeburn’s stumbling backwards until he tripped over a chair and fell onto one of the cushioned benches, where he stopped moving, only gaping like a fish.
The last stumbled slightly as he turned around, his gun blindly firing wildly to the air, a cascade of ceiling dust and splinters falling like wooden snow. He spotted the pair as he advanced, but in his haste tripped forward over the form of one of his former comrades. He took aim at Strongheart as soon as he recovered, but the round missed, crashing through the wall above her head.
Braeburn’s next three shots hit him right in the chest, blood shooting out in quick spurts as the man slumped onto his face, coughing and spluttering as blood flecked from his lips.
Strongheart scrambled to her feet as blood pooled before them, glistening on the wooden planks in the dim light of the saloon lanterns.
“I’m going in,” she muttered, glancing at her partner. “If they move…”
“Yeah,” he replied, pulling himself up, his gun still trained on the four.
The bartender peeked over the top of his counter as the tall Indian moved towards the four men, her empty shotgun traded in for a very large, very wicked-looking knife. Kicking away the guns from their hands, she turned over the first she had shot.
“Old, three gold teeth, missing an eye,” she said, feeling his neck. “Dead.”
“Well, the teeth and the eye tell me that was old Granger,” Braeburn replied. “Thought he’d stay on the straight and narrow after that last judge pardoned him in exchange for his testimony on that cattle rustling gang.” Working with those outside of the law tended to bear ill fruit, as sometimes, even with as many breaks as were offered, some just could not escape such a life.
“Must have fallen on hard times, he used to have seven gold teeth,” his partner muttered. She moved to the next one. “Clean shaven, brown hair, broken nose, looks a bit like that snake oil salesman we met at the county fair.”
“That charming, huh? Probably one of the Yellich boys. Princesses knows they’ve got more kids than common sense.” The massive family had so many run-ins with the law that it was impossible to tell if one of them was more prone to a specific crime. Each clan under the Yellich umbrella was into something different these days, ranging from gun running and illegal distilling to smuggling, racketeering and fraud, and those were often the better of the bunch. How so many apples could get so bad was beyond the bounty hunter.
“This one’s still alive,” Strongheart muttered, tilting back the head of the one who had fallen onto the couch. “At least, he will stay so if he gets to a doctor.”
Blood leaking from his wounds, the young man moaned in response, muttering something about his momma.
“Bartender, if you’d be so kind.”
With simply a nod the man scampered off, bursting out through the back door much as the other two patrons had. The door slammed shut as the rain began to pour harder, thunder rumbling above with greater intensity, as the coughing and spluttering of the last shooter ceased with a guttural rattle.
“No idea who he is?” Braeburn asked, tucking away his revolver.
She checked the seated man over. “No, looks like a kid to boot, probably just old enough to start shaving. Way too young to be in this game. Think this’ll set him straight?”
“After he gets patched up, might need to spend some time in a cell,” Braeburn muttered. “He technically didn’t shoot at us, least I don’t think he did. Might have outside, but we don’t know. I might put a word in with a judge if he seems salvageable.”
“Always looking to get those technicalities.”
“If we can get someone outta commitin’ more crimes other than just shootin’ or hangin’ them, then so be it.”
“Then we’d be out of work.”
“Then we’d just find something else to do. We’re an adaptable pair, Little.”
“You’re lucky none of these men are alive or coherent enough to hear that,” she replied, struggling to hold back the smile tugging at her lips. She didn’t smile much, unless it was around him. It was their special little thing.
Braeburn strode over and turned over the last man. “Welp, guess we won’t need Bill’s testimony after all.”
“Walch?”
“The one and only.”
“Dead?”
“That too. A man ain’t gonna leak that much blood and get up by all accounts.”
Strongheart walked over to Mr. Thatcher. She turned him over, earning a sharp gasp from the man.
“Hit in the shoulder, maybe lower in the arm, hard to tell with all the blood,” she said, sitting him upright against the wall. “Think the doc can take a look at him after the kid.”
As if on cue, three figures burst through the front door. The sheriff, pudgy-faced and covered in muddied nightclothes, pulled his gun as he stepped forward. Behind him came the bartender, followed closely by the doctor, an older, well-dressed gentleman carrying a large bag. Likely the tools of his trade, though judging from the neckerchief still hanging from his chest, he’d just been interrupted during his dinner.
“You the two?” the sheriff asked.
“The two that stopped a murder of a key eyewitness, yes sir,” Braeburn answered.
“That they did,” the bartender agreed, fixing his askew glasses. “Well, shit, this is a fine mess you two have made. Those floors ain’t gonna be easy to clean up tonight.”
“Kid over on the cushion needs attention first, then Bill here can get some,” the bounty hunter added, ignoring the bartender. “Other three can wait, the dead don’t need savin’.”
Strongheart immediately rifled through the coat pockets of the three, ignoring the looks from the townsfolk.
“Don’t mind her,” Braeburn said. “Now, sir, if you could be so kind as to direct us to lodgings for the night…”
“Lodgings?”
“Shucks, we’ve been ridin’ hard ta get here, and after all this excitement, I’m feelin’ a bit faint,” was his reply. “Tell you what. See that first dead fella, the older one? He’s got some gold teeth. That should cover the cost of cleanin’ this mess up, as well as our rooms. We’ll take some bread and cheese too, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure, sure thing,” the bartender stuttered, before pointing at the Indian. “What about her?”
“Just checkin’ ta see if they got any identification on ‘em,” Braeburn said. As she withdrew a few silver coins, he shrugged. “Or anythin’ of value. Gotta have some way of buyin’ some more supplies when we leave with them bodies in a couple o’ days. A cart big enough ta carry them fellers ain’t fast, and they ain’t cheap.”
“The local mortician can embalm them well enough for transport,” the sheriff said as a pair of deputies, in a better state of dress, entered the saloon. “You two can go, we’ll take care of this.”
Strongheart stood up and glanced at the bartender. “Be sure to bring up some jerky, the road has been long.”
With that, the two bounty hunters retrieved their things, Strongheart her shotgun, Braeburn his hat, and walked up the stairs without so much as a backwards glance.
“Strange folks,” the sheriff muttered as he turned to the doctor. “Welp, doc, what do you need from me?”
“Hold this young man down on the table,” was the reply as he removed several tools from his bag. “I’m going to need to remove those bullets.”
The sheriff winced: there was going to be plenty of screaming, all right.
(Page break)
“Another job well done,” Braeburn muttered, looking into his whiskey as he sloshed it around, the screaming downstairs having finally stopped a short while ago. After the bread and cheese, he’d used a few silver pieces to get a bottle of the good stuff. The bruises along his ribs didn’t hurt as much now that he was properly drunk, and the news that the kid was gonna make it eased his heart. He didn’t like taking lives any more than he needed to, and every one he had was on his conscience, from now until his own was taken.
Strongheart sighed as she removed her hat. “If you call almost getting shot again being a job well done, I would hate to be there when the job is terrible to you.”
Their room didn’t quite match the luxury of the capital, where their agency originated, but on such short notice, and after such long travel, it was a welcome relief. Then again, towns like this one didn’t have the kind of cash flow needed for constant upkeep, or at least they didn’t before the arrival of the railroads. Things were changing with the steel carriages for sure, and in a short time, maybe this town too would flourish.
“Hey now, don’t get your braids in a twist,” he replied, stripping off his boots. “Walsh is dead, doc said Bill’s gonna live, as will that kid, and we’re gonna collect three bounties when we get back. All in all, a good way to end another contract. Boss is gonna be happy about that.”
“He’s not going to be pleased if we come back with three bodies and no Bill. He still needs to come back to testify whatever else Walsh did,” she added, stripping off her jacket, right down to the undershirt. She never was a fan of wearing too much clothing, it impeded her movement.
“I think after saving his life we can expect him to be a little more forthcoming,” Braeburn muttered.
“We can only hope so,” she said, sitting down on the bed beside him as he took another sip of his whiskey. “Still, I must admit, it turned out much better than it could have been.”
“Is that optimism I hear?” he snorted, cracking a smile. “Who are you, and what’ve y’all done with my partner?”
“I always thought you supposed to be the handsome, outgoing, optimistic one, and me the pessimistic, brooding, mysterious one.”
“Don’t forget beautiful. Can’t forget that part, it makes the whole ensemble work so well.”
She smiled, genuinely. It was the sort of smile only he ever saw, regardless of their company or wherever their job took them. “Laying the charm on a bit thick there, Brae?”
“Maybe,” he muttered, swirling around his whiskey some more. “Wrong time?”
“After all the action?” she asked, pulling her shirt up over her head. “I think now is as best a time as any.”
Braeburn let out a low whistle. “Ain’t never gonna get used ta that.”
Strongheart was a big woman. Not fat, not overly muscular, not some slender figure that stood heads above the others but seemed fragile enough to snap with a strong breeze. She was tall, filled out where she needed to be, and what she hadn’t been born with, she’d worked hard into forming into a lean, dense figure of a woman. She could run long after others would fall to exhaustion, ride a horse as if she were weightless upon its back, and to some, could track damn near anything that walked, crawled, or slithered across the ground.
She was fearless, bold, born of the plains, raised in a life fraught with hardship and tempered by few times of plenty. There hadn’t been much to look forward to in life that she didn’t make for herself, other than family or the ceremonies her people took part in. So, she’d focused on herself, learning all she could, picking up skill after skill and developing her body into an incredible weapon.
Yet for all her muscle, all her grace, all her innate sense of the land and the incredible control she bore over her body, she was still privy to thoughts and feelings that could bring a hard, strong women like her to her knees.
Namely, her partner.
She’d met Braeburn years ago, when her tribe had nearly gone to war with the town he’d grown up in. An uneasy peace had led to a long lasting truce between the two, and as the town saw more Indians come in for trade or work, the tribe had seen more of the townsfolk come out to their lands, seeking much the same. It didn’t take much time for her to see him a lot more than usual.
She was loathe to admit it, but as fine as she’d grown, he’d done much the same since then. That strong chin, his lean figure, those dreamy eyes, and that drawl that she was loathe to admit was sexy as hell…
It was coincidence that they’d eventually found work at the same bounty hunting agency, but it was her decision to be partnered with him. Working with a familiar face, on a task both had good experiences for, had paid itself many times over for themselves and their agency. They had one of the best records for both bounties caught and justice served at the end of their guns, though their bosses tended to complain a bit about their dual expenses.
Their partnership had not, however, done anything to dispel the attraction that’d begun to form between them. So similar of pasts, so parallel of choices and experiences, it only made sense that, one night, after a particularly troublesome bounty, they’d gotten drunk and gone… farther than they’d intended.
They’d said that’d be the first and last time they’d do something like that.
They’d been wrong.
It was unusual for them not to fall into bed with one another after a successful mission, or whenever they had downtime between contracts. Or any time they went to bed at all, save for when they had to put on a more professional appearance. Then they’d “save up” for when they were done, and oh boy, did they ever make up for it.
Was this love?
“Little? You still there?”
His stupidly sexy drawl snapped her out of her memories, memories filled with cold nights cuddled up by the fire, hot nights out under the stars, nights with hard body on hard body moving to a rhythm older than the plains themselves. “Yes, that bullet wound still hasn’t killed me yet, even if it took the doc a full hour to pull it out.”
He scoffed. “I said I was sorry! I was aimin’ fer that desperado, but you just had ta get in the way at the last second ta stick yer knife through his eye and out the back of his skull, just screaming like a banshee. You’re lucky he didn’t put a bullet in you too!”
So she had some anger issues, who didn’t? “He had threatened to kill you in front of me when we’d cornered him and I was out of ammunition,” she replied, her pants sliding easily down her long legs. “I’d do it again, save for the getting shot part.”
“Yeah, boss didn’t like that, had to write me up. Probably first time one of his hunters shot their partner on accident.”
Plenty over the years had gone bad and needed to be put down by a partner or two. Theirs was a special case indeed, seeing as she’d almost broken his arm in retaliation and he didn’t hold that against her. Besides, she’d evened the score a few months later with that rattlesnake in his boot.
Now, though, was no longer the time for reminiscing, but a time for action, and judging from how far he put the whiskey bottle away, he knew it. Yet, in a flash, she shoved him onto his back as soon as he tried to sit up. “No,” she replied, shushing his whiskey-smelling lips with a light touch of her leathery palm. “Tonight, I’m on top.”
Braeburn wasn’t one to get whiskey dick, and with a partner like Strongheart, it was a good thing. A weaker man might have given up trying to keep up with her, let alone make her put up with him, but somehow, he found a way. Maybe that was just a part of his charm.
She lay down on him, his muscles rubbing pleasantly against her as their bodies fit together, much like the pieces of a puzzle. Hard, from years of labor and a rough life, yet supple, from the care taken whenever they weren’t on a job. Braeburn might have been one of those models she’d seen in the capital, had he been born there. He’d said the same about her, usually when they’d made love.
When she arched her hips, he slipped inside easily enough. Wasn’t like he had to reach too far or face any resistance.
“Mmm, snug,” he muttered as she pecked at the corner of his mouth.
“Only for you,” she replied, her whisper husky with want as she felt him nestle inside. Always snug, never too loose, and thankfully never too tight. When it came to life, Strongheart was tough, but when it came to making love, if she wasn’t careful with Braeburn, she was putty in his hands.
“Speakin’ of which,” he muttered, his fingers interlocking with hers. “Been, what, three days since last time? Been ridin’ too hard ta get here ta stop and have some fun.”
Even with him inside her, hard as the mountains they rode down through, he still felt a need to talk. Fine, be that way. “Exactly,” she replied, beginning to move her hips. “Now, we can make up for it.”
They always started off like this. Slow, steady, not taking things for granted nor looking to finish it quickly. Braeburn and she were endurance folk, able to go for so long where others might have just called it quits. It was wanting, no, needing to go for a long time, that made them go slow, or else it’d just feel… empty.
Maybe that was just the way they both happened to prefer it.
Her hips continued their little circles, the bedsheets barely rustling as she ground herself upon him. Yes, he’d gone in easily enough, but then again, perhaps fate had molded them for one another. It wasn’t like she’d had many other lovers before Braeburn, and those had been fairly… inadequate. Oh, certainly, full of bluster and bravado, but where it counted…
None compared to her Braeburn.
Her Braeburn. Huh. That wasn’t new, but she’d been trying to keep that line of thinking tucked deep away.
“Little, you’re clearly thinkin’ when y’all outta be movin,” he muttered, her glassy stare snapping back to reality, zeroing in on his like a hawk spotting a rabbit.
She simply grunted and began to move her hips harder, willing her insides to clamp down on him firmer.
Braeburn, for his part, didn’t choke on his spit, but damn near did. How she did that would always be a mystery to him, but damn if it didn’t feel amazing. The slick heat of her insides, like the hot coals he’d bury in sand before laying his sleeping bag down, seeped a heat into his cock like a tonic through his body. It was nirvana, definitely, better than any bottle of whiskey or piece of apple pie from home. Many another man might have surrendered right then and there to that feeling, but he was a stubborn sort, born and bred to not give up when the going got tough.
He knew two could play at that game, and for him, this game was his favorite.
Who would finish first this time?
It always devolved into a contest of sorts, attempting to make the other climax first, the other usually not long behind.
So, he decided to start small. Unlinking his hands from hers, he grasped at her slim, hard waist, right above the swell of her toned ass and wide hips. Strongheart tended to be a bit ticklish, except when they did stuff like this. Then…
The Indian woman gasped softly at the light pressure on her sides. No pushing up nor pulling down, just pressure, holding her enough to know he was there and an active participant. If they were riding together and he grabbed there, she’d giggle. Now, when she was riding him, she’d gasp, her voice catching in her throat.
That was the spot. Braeburn had been riding long enough to know when a horse was going to buck, and he knew to read the signs and anticipate such an action. When being ridden, it was no different, though this time, he knew when to throw the rider for a loop.
Strongheart knew this as well, unfortunately. She placed her hands on his chest, and arcing her back just enough, began to slam her pelvis down onto him with greater force, making the bed rattle and shake.
Braeburn wheezed in a hurried breath. So, she’d taken it up a notch. He could as well.
His hands shot up and grabbed onto her wildly bouncing breasts, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh of those bountiful globes. He’d met quite a few Indians growing up, but he had to say, Strongheart’s breasts were likely the biggest in the tribe, great dark beauties with even darker, pert nipples that he knew just loved to be teased after a long day’s ride. Then again, she was likely the largest woman in the tribe as well, larger even than some of the men., so having such an enormous rack was likely inherited from somewhere down the line.
A big gal like her was a beauty to be sure, and she was all his, and he, hers.
So, his hands gripping firmly onto her jiggling mounds, the finger pressing in slightly to the dark flesh, he moved his thumbs to her dark brown nipples, tender and puffy. She never did like wearing many underclothes, or so she’d told him, and he could definitely see why. Too constrictive for what she wanted, and far too in the way whenever they wanted to have a little fun.
If he’d had a dollar for every time they’d fondled each other on a long ride, or rubbed up against the other in just the right way, only for nothing to come of it until much later, why, they’d have been able to retire years ago!
That first night, by the waterfall, under the shade of some big old oak, had been just magical. They’d washed themselves in that cold stream, refreshing as the sun dipped below the horizon. Then drying off by the fire, one thing led to another…
He’d remember that night, and every night like this, until the day he died. There was no mistaking it, though; from her little moans, and the sudden slurping noise her lubricated womanhood was making, she was getting close.
Too bad those noises and that feeling had driven him faster and harder to the finish than a thoroughbred being spurred to the finish line at the annual Canterlot Derby.
“Little,” he choked out as she closed her eyes, her nipples as hard beneath his hands as if they’d been carved of red granite. “Little, it’s comin’, ya hear?”
She made no notion that she’d heard him, and with a flex of her legs, began shoving herself down onto him harder than before, their mixed juices splashing against their toned abdomens.
“Little!” he cried, only for her to slam down onto him and silence him with a kiss. His arms weak, and his hands refusing to let go of her bountiful breasts, he felt his balls clench.
“Hnng,” they cried together, lips mashed together as Strongheart’s insides pulled at his cock, coaxing and teasing out of him a release. Oh, what a release it was too, painting her insides with every spurt, the flash of white heat making her legs tremble and body shake in unbridled delight. Thoroughly coated, she could feel the sticky heat seep deep into her, her womb hungrily slurping it up.
In a moment, or perhaps after an eternity, it was over. Both breathing heavy, and so thoroughly sated, the Indian slowly rolled over, lying next to her partner-turned-lover with a soft smile on her lips.
It was a good five minutes before Braeburn spoke.
“So, uh… um… yeah, that was-,”
“Yes?”
“Inside?”
“Mmm-hmm,” she muttered back with a nod.
“So that means, when we get back…”
“Yes. Terms of office promotion, or resignation. There will be no middle ground.”
“Boss ain’t gonna like that too much. Thinks we’re overpaid enough as it is.”
She shrugged as she snuggled next to him, the heat leaking from her a welcome sensation. Despite all of their times together, she’d never let him finish in her; either he’d always pulled out, or she’d gotten off.
This changed things, things that she hadn’t had the courage to change until tonight. It was a big step, to be sure, but one she knew they’d take together. Who knows? Perhaps she would be blessed this night, and know within a few weeks.
“Too bad. It’s safer for a family to be brought up away from this kind of work.”
A family of his own, with his partner. He’d thought about it, but never touched on the idea more than a few times, afraid he’d scare her off. “So then, fer the ceremony… mine or yours?”
“I believe the ceremony of my people would be sufficient, as my mother would have wished it,” Strongheart muttered into his shoulder. “For the after party, however… your ways tend to be more fun, especially when your family start breaking out the pies and hard cider.”
“A month out, then?”
“A month it will be. If we wait later, then some might suspect our reasons, if tonight is anything to go by.”
Breaburn kissed the top of her head. Never in his life had he suspected the way his future wife would propose to him would be to fuck him into a mattress and not let him pull out. Funny how life worked out.
“Love you, Strongheart,” he muttered, eyes heavy with weariness.
“I love you too, Braeburn,” she said, pulling closer to him.
