The Obedient Servant [Going for the Gold 6] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) (3 page)

Milo saw the gleam of a tear being squeezed from the corner of Reynaldo’s eye. “
Tu maldito desgraciado
.”
You fucking bastard
.

Milo smiled. He knew he was a fucking bastard. His eyes flickered to the sick jackasses on the embankment, who had already pumped themselves into spending. He enjoyed watching strangers squirt their ejaculate when he knew it was because they watched
him
. Milo knew he was an excellent performer, and he kept his physique in good form because that was part of the beauty of his sexual performances. Not only was he not ashamed of being naked, he was proud of his body and sought every opportunity to display it.
Tu maldito desgraciado
, indeed.

Milo positioned himself behind the dangling soldier. He took some compassion and lowered Vargas’s bound wrists enough so his shuddering shoulders didn’t carry so much weight. Vargas panted with the strain—the pain intermingled with pleasure. Milo soaped up the tight anal ring and plunged his cock up to the hilt.

Vargas groaned, one enormous shudder wracking his beautiful body.

Milo very nearly lost it. It was so exquisite to spear this athletic buck up the ass like this. The surge of lust shot through his prick and balls, and he nearly teetered over.

But he kept his grip on Vargas’s lathered dick. He paused in his fucking to gather himself and milk Vargas’s thick member. Now, although the spent spectators couldn’t hear him, it was always important to talk dirty to his partners, to assert his superiority over them. He siphoned their cocks while fucking them because he liked to see and feel their semen spurting, flowing over his fingers—or down his throat if he wasn’t in the mood for fucking. But it wouldn’t do to let men know that it was as important to pleasure them as it was to please himself—if not more so. So he distracted them from his frigging by the patter of his nasty talk.

“You like being fucked like this, reamed in and out from stem to stern, don’t you? Hanging helplessly, having another man’s fat cock up your ass? Tingles, doesn’t it? Doesn’t it send a surge of seed into your balls to be fucked like this? You’re helpless, being taken advantage of. You have no control. You can’t stop me from spanking your naughty ass. It plumps your succulent dick up to be fucked like this. Do you feel my prick rubbing against your prostate? That’s the tender, sweet spot you want me to massage. There.” Milo grunted as he diddled his cockhead against what he knew was the most tender, sweetest spot in the soldier’s rectum—the spot that would have him shooting his load so far it would splash against that rock.

“
Pendejo
,” growled the corporal as his anus clenched around Milo’s cock.

All at once, Milo was ejaculating deep inside the soldier. Vargas’s cock twitched and surged as the jism burst forth, drenching the rock six feet away. Milo tried to watch because he enjoyed it so, but the soldier’s rectum was milking his cock, milking every last drop of seed from him. Milo held his breath and remembered to keep pumping away at the spurting cock, but he was seeing clear bubbles dancing before his eyes. No blood was getting to his brain as he emptied himself into the delicious ass. He gulped in air and the bubbles cleared.

It seemed many long minutes before the shuddering ceased and Milo could withdraw. Panting heavily, he untied the soldier, who slowly lowered his arms and felt them carefully as if for broken bones. Milo walked back into the river and rinsed the sweat off his limbs, washed his cock. Milo floated on his back awhile, hoping the corporal would just leave. Milo didn’t wish to become passionate lovers or even backslapping buddies with any of the men he fucked. He rarely fucked the same fellow twice—then only if the man was exceptionally beautiful.

And this one was. So Milo had to beware.

But when he glided back to shore, the
pendejo
was still there. He’d dressed back in his haphazard uniform and was wrapping his glossy locks in the turban. Milo hoped Vargas wouldn’t speak to him, but he did.

“So are you continuing on to Vallejo’s fort in Sonoma?”

Milo glared at the corporal. He squeezed water from his shoulder-length hair and shook it free of droplets. He snatched his pantaloons from a rock and stepped into them, cinching them about his hips. “Listen, soldier. I don’t care if I never see you again. We both got off and had a pleasant time.” He grabbed his fringed leggings and stepped into those, knotting them about his thighs. “You go off with Frémont. I’m striking out with the Osos. I’ll never see you again.”

He could hear the hurt in Vargas’s voice. “I wasn’t asking for a
marriage
, Stephens. It was just courteous talk to pass the time.” Shouldering his rifle, he stalked up the embankment to rejoin the troops.

Milo watched him go, his pistols in their holsters bouncing impudently against his sinewy hips. Vargas was right. Why had he been so harsh? They had just shared a monumental fuck. Why couldn’t Milo be a bit friendlier?

He buckled on his gun belt with a snap of the wrist. Snatching up his shirt, he shook it free of sand. Where were those goddamned washing squaws with his clean shirts?

Well, he’d been correct in what he’d said. The Osos were heading for Sonoma, and he’d probably never see the corporal again. All for the best.

Sonoma, California

“You goddamned chiseler!”

Tallulah grabbed the first thing at hand, which turned out to be a clay wine decanter. She flung it at the chiseler while shrieking, “You were fucking me while you were fucking those damned hookers? You were screwing me in more ways than one!”

The decanter connected with Four-Fingered Sam’s head with a satisfying crash, smashing into at least ten pieces that ricocheted off the bodega walls. Many men here in Alta California were missing fingers due to the fancy style of lassoing wild mustangs. Four-Fingered Sam had been twisting his lasso around the high pommel of the ornate Mexican saddle while roping a wild horse, only to see his first finger torn clean off. That was before Tallulah had arrived in Sonoma a year ago, but since then she’d seen him through a hip dislocation and a thigh fracture in his job as vaquero.

One of his enemies had just informed Tallulah of Sam’s philandering ways. She should have known—Sam’s hacienda was closer to the hog ranch than to her Blue Wing Inn off Sonoma’s plaza. And all men were lazy enough to fuck the closest woman on two legs. She should’ve known. She would choose her next lover from among the Californio troops stationed at the barracks down the street. She had also seen Spanish and Indian hookers hanging around the barracks, too. It was probably impossible to move far enough from any potential rivals, and eventually she’d have to confront her disabling fear of unfaithfulness.

“Tillie!” Sam cried, not making a move to get out of her line of fire. He rubbed his forehead where the decanter had connected.

It made her nauseous that Sam would use that familiar name for her. “Shut your damned trap, you cheating chiseler! What are you trying to do—give me the French pox?”

“I can use sheaths! I would never want to give you a pox, my love!”

Sheaths? Sheaths? As though the absence of sheaths is my only complaint?
Tallulah rolled her eyes and laughed angrily. “You are absolutely loco, you damned hornswoggler. You were fucking me then running to fuck those whores, probably both in the same day. You disgust me!”

“But my love!” Sam protested earnestly. “There are so few women in California. What was I supposed to do?”

Tallulah was apoplectic with rage. Four-Fingered Sam simply insisted on continuing to pile insult upon agony. “As though you can’t refrain from screwing for an entire twenty-four hours? What are you, old man, forty years of age? And you still act like an idiotic youth? No wonder you’ve never wed. You’ve been too busy reliving your glory days when you were sixteen!”

Four-Fingered Sam dropped the earnest demeanor now. Apparently she’d really lobbed the final slander by accusing him of acting immaturely. He dared to step toward Tallulah now, fists clenched at his sides. “Prostitutes don’t count, Tillie,” he said in a low, warning tone. “It is only you that I love. And you’re a fine one to talk about age! What are you? Thirty years of age? You should be happy that I spend my time coming to see you.”

Tallulah didn’t know which taunt to take offense with first. She decided to ignore the insult about her advanced age in favor of picking up the next object within her reach, which turned out to be a liquor bottle. “You despicable worm,” she snarled. Anger actually clouded her vision, rendering Sam a blurry, cheating outline. Why had she ever agreed to be his lover? Did he even possess any good qualities? She must have been desperate for attention. “I hope those hookers gave you a discount. Your penis is so small they hardly had to put any effort into letting you enter them.”

And she lobbed the bottle at his head.

Sam was probably astounded by her poisonous accusation. He merely stood there with his jaw slack, allowing the bottle to slam into his shoulder, knocking him back toward the adobe brick wall.

Tallulah didn’t stand there to take satisfaction in the sight. She stormed to the bar and blindly felt for a bottle of spicy
aguardiente
, the last thing she had served before getting rid of the last oiled rummy around three in the morning. Now she wanted it for herself. She didn’t normally drink liquor, as normally she was around enough roostered ruffians to compensate for it. Right now, though, she chugged freely from the bottle, glad that the burning sensation going down her gullet distracted her from her anger at Sam.

“I’ve had enough of your insults!” Sam cried. “I’m going now. You need time alone to reflect on the absurdity of what you’ve said.”

Tallulah twirled around in time to catch sight of Sam’s boot. “Don’t lose any sleep waiting for me!” she shrieked after him. She touched a bowl of butter but decided against flinging that, butter being too rare in these parts. “‘The absurdity of what I’ve said,’ my ass! What a jackass. As though if I only reflected for a moment, I would see that his actions are perfectly acceptable. It’s me who is out of line!” Surprising herself, her hand reached out to grab a leftover tortilla that had been stuffed with salmon her cook had baked earlier the day before. She flung this instead of the butter, salmon being plentiful. It smacked against one of the mirrors behind the bar, exploding into a hundred bright orange pieces.

It didn’t make her feel any better, though, and she tipped the
aguardiente
bottle into her mouth once more. She choked and the spicy brandy went into her nostrils when someone who had apparently been lying down behind the bar suddenly stood up. He brushed himself off and said with amusement, “I hope I’m never on the receiving end of your vitriolic bile. Although I daresay that fellow deserved it, what with sticking his miniscule penis into every pox-riddled hooker in California.”

Setting down the bottle, Tallulah wiped her nose off with the back of her hand. “How
dare
you?” she sputtered. “You were hiding behind the bar this entire time, listening to my private conversations?”

“My dear spitfire,” the fellow said calmly, “I could hardly have
avoided
your private conversations. I think everyone attempting to sleep under the roof of the Blue Wing Inn was privy to your private conversations.”

Tallulah snorted heatedly, swiping at a glass in which to pour the
aguardiente
. “Who
are
you? Hiding behind my bar? What did you do, fall asleep back there from drinking too much forty-rod?”

“
Schiedam
,” the jackass corrected her, coming forward.

Now that she really looked at him, she saw that he was annoyingly handsome. Even with a piece of baked salmon clinging to the locks of his long pigtail, he had an air of authority and superiority, and the iciest arctic blue eyes she had ever seen. “Right. You were the one who kept ordering s
chiedam
. A very strong Dutch liquor. Only men who intend on getting roostered order that.”

“Well,” he admitted, “that
was
the intention. There’s not much reason here in this heartless hinterland to remain sober, now, is there? Nothing but an endless parade of bad news and tragedy.”

Tallulah had to agree with that. “Yes. I was so ignorant to imagine that because women are scarce out here I could manage to find the one man capable of faithfulness.” She sipped the liquor and exhaled acrid anger. “
Bastard!
”

“Men will be unfaithful no matter how beautiful, loving, and attentive their woman is.”

“All men?”

“Well…” The fellow paused, thoughtfully staring at the filthy floor. Lamplight flickered in his icy eyes, warming them. He was dressed in the manner of many of these backwoodsmen. Fringed shirt, a filthy rag as a turban around his head, a brace of pistols bouncing at his hips. His accent was floridly European, his hawk’s nose giving him an exotic air. Tallulah could tell from his form that under his leather shirt was an athletic, muscular chest. “Perhaps not
all
men. But almost all. Just about all, I’d venture to say.”

Tallulah steeled herself to loathe this man all over again. She snorted. “And I presume you’re one of the majority of cheating men.”