Riding a Boston Cowboy

Donovan McGuire's home was in Boston; a grand Tudor styled home tucked into the center of high society. Before her death, his mother had made sure that her son's upbringing suited the McGuire lifestyle, and name. The best teachers money could buy had schooled him. French, Latin, and Italian unconsciously spilled out of his mouth frequently, a testament to his skill, and his teacher's tenacity. His blood was as blue as the deep of the Atlantic Ocean.

Unfortunately, however, Donovan McGuire's home has just been sold to pay off the debt that was the inheritance his father bequeathed to him three days ago. All that was left of Donovan's lifestyle was the knowledge he had been taught, which he discovered was completely useless outside high society, and an arrogance that exiled him from Boston's lower class which he now belonged to.

With nothing more than a hundred dollars, a satchel that held his clothes and a few small personal belongings, he took his father's horse and left the city he had always called home. He had no where in particular he planned on going, so he steadily worked his way West, sporadically stopping to do physical labor for money. Sometimes he worked on the railroads, or occasionally helped some farmer build a fence for a horse corral. Such physical labor his lean, aristocratic body had never known before. Gone was the superior arrogance, the academic, and the upper class. In place was a man of presence, large and physically formidable, completely lost in the wilderness of the prairie.

Walking next to his exhausted horse, Donovan kicked at the rocky trail, sending up a plume of dust. It was well past nightfall, and he was just as exhausted as his horse. There was a small scattering of lights in the near distance, which he figured was a small town. Fields of grass stretched out, punctuated by small herds of cows and the occasional farm.

"It's getting late," he said to his horse. Talking to the horse was a habit that began a week into his travels, and it annoyed him immensely. What kind of a cultured individual talked to his horse? Even if he was lonely.

The horse just snorted.

Donovan had learned quickly how dangerous it could be to wander into an unknown town at night. People were wary of outsiders in general, but at night it turned into a fierce protectiveness that usually included shooting first and asking questions later.

"Perhaps we should find a place out here to camp tonight."

The horse snorted again.

He made for a small stream that gurgled nearby. Sheltered by a few scraggly trees and high brush, Donovan made his bed for the evening. Despite the cold, exhaustion had made the decision to forgo a fire that evening, and as soon as his head hit the rolled up jacket that served as his pillow, he was asleep.

Riding the horizon, the moon was bursting with light. The tall grass shadowed the ground, but the glowing night made moving fairly easy. Sounds of running water covered the soft sound of footfall. There was a horse to the left, watching with guarded silence. A lump of a person was curled under a blanket, his handguns, sitting in their holsters, were uselessly sitting five feet away.

Kneeling a foot away from the sleeping person, a dark figure held a rifle up, and pulled back the hammer. The sharp sound brought the unconscious lump immediately awake.

"Don't move," a low voice said slowly. The figure aiming the alarmingly large rifle, alarmingly close to his person left Donovan feeling completely vulnerable and incredibly stupid. How could he have left his guns over by the horse?

The moon, and a wide brimmed hat shadowed the features of the stranger before him, and the only impressions Donovan could make were that the man was rather small. Regardless of stature, however, he wasn't about to try and take down someone holding a gun that close to him. He has seen what a gun like that can do.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Donovan McGuire, and I..."

"What are you doing on my land?"

"Sleeping," Donovan answered the quiet voice. "We were only going to be here for the night."

The stranger seemed to think about that for a moment.

"Get up." Donovan got up. "To your left; move."

Donovan began walking. A few minutes and a few nudges of the rifle later, he could see the lights of a small log cabin nearing.

"Inside." Donovan went inside, followed by the stranger. He turned around at the sound of the door closing.

The man had set the rifle down on a low cabinet next to the door, and had begun to unwind a long scarf from around his neck. When he took off his hat, Donovan realized that the man with the rifle was actually a woman.

As she pulled off a pair of dark brown gloves, she spoke again; "Why didn't you just come up to the house? I would have let you stay for the night."

"If you would have been so accommodating, why did you have that rifle trained on me the whole way here?"

She smiled sarcastically, "Not from 'round here, are you?" Her words were laced with southern honey.

"Boston." His tart answer made her smile widen, and Donovan felt his heart skip a beat or two. When she first took off her hat, he had thought her features plain and rough, but when she smiled, he realized how wrong he was.

Her tanned skin, he now noticed, was smooth and perfect. Blond hair was pulled back into a utilitarian braid, yet the strands were so fine that some had escaped from it's bond to curl around her heart shaped face. On a closer look, dark eyes turned out to be a moody gray color he had never seen before. It was her smile, however, that turned the features he originally thought plain, into something extraordinary.

"Now then, that's a pretty distance. What are you doing out here, love?"

Captivated by her smile, he thought to himself, "Looking for you, I think."

When she began laughing, he realized that he had actually spoken that thought out loud. His face flooded with embarrassment.

"Well, love, you've found me," as her eyes twinkled in amusement, her voice dropped to a purr, "What do you want to do now?"

"I think I want to lap up the honey in your voice," Donovan said, embarrassment fading as an unexpected heat took over.

"Do you now? That sounds interesting."

"Good." His clipped answer made her eyebrows rise, but before she could say anything, he had crossed over to her in two long strides.

The kiss silenced her mind in a way she had never before experienced. It was persuasively dominating, and she could not refuse even had she wanted to. So she rose, and poured herself into the kiss, wrapping her arms around his neck. As her mouth opened, his tongue slid inside. Suddenly, the silence in her head turned into a roar. Unbalanced by the feelings that assaulted her body, she staggered back. He followed her, and they slammed up against the door they had just come through minutes before.

Her mouth tasted like the seductive honey of her voice. Like he promised, he lapped at her with long strokes of his tongue, blatantly mimicking what he would soon be doing to her body. He picked her up, and she wrapped her legs around his body. Again, he pushed her against the wall, this time grinding his hardness against her until she was moaning into his mouth with her honeyed voice.

With one hand holding her up, the other hand yanked at the soft cotton shirt that was tucked into her leather pants. When he couldn't pull the ends of the shirt free, he ruthlessly tore it apart. Buttons flew everywhere as it gave to his single mindedness. He broke the kiss for a moment to look down at her. Her breath caused her heavy breasts to rise and fall. She cried out when he cupped a breast in his hand. Her hands grasped at his shoulders, and she arched her back as he rubbed his fingers across her nipple.

Suddenly, the wall was no longer at her back. He was carrying her, moving quickly to the bed that sat in the corner of the room. He dropped her onto the center of the bed, and stood back to look at her. She sat on her knees, her small hands reaching for him.

"Take off your pants." His voice was darkened with need, and she felt a little thrill run through her body at the sound of it. She reached down, sliding her hand slowly across her abdomen. He watched in potent silence as she pushed the leather down the swell of her hips.

Her body was lean with muscle, perfect in every way. He wanted to reach out and touch her, taste her, but he resisted. When she reached out for him, he stopped her, "No, I want to watch you first. Lay down."

She smiled as she complied. "What do you want me to do?"

He nearly lost his control when she spoke, nearly took her right then and there, pushing himself into her body like an animal, over and over again. But he reigned in the need, only the thickening of his voice giving away his feelings, "I want you to touch yourself, and while you do it, I want you to tell me what you want me to do to you."

Her hands came up to her throat, her fingers dancing across the skin, "I want you to kiss me here," she began, then lowered her hands to her breasts, touching them, rolling her nipples between her fingers, "and here, with your tongue and your mouth," she sighed as she moved her hands down into the thicket of curls between her legs. His mouth went dry as she parted her legs for him. He watched as she pushed a finger into herself, "and here, until I am screaming for you."

She continued to speak as she watched him begin to take off his clothes, practically ripping at them to get them off, "I want you to cover my body with yours," his arms and chest were packed with muscle, and hair as dark as that on his head covered his chest, trailing down into the pants he was now taking off, "and I want you to drive yourself into me, again and again..."

She broke off when he pulled off his pants, freeing his hard, thick shaft. Dropping down onto the bed, he slid his hands up the soft skin of her thighs. He looked into her gray eyes, which were storming with desire for him, "I want you inside me, Donovan."

His hands slid over the hand that was still between her legs. When she began to pull her hand away, he kept it there with one of his big hands. He watched her as he pushed his own fingers inside her, moving in tandem with her own. Her eyes closed as the heat began to fill her body, so when his tongue slipped between the soft lips of her body, she cried out in surprise and delight. He moved her hand away, but kept his fingers deep within her body as he lapped at her in long, loving strokes. When his lips closed over her small throbbing knob, her body bucked beneath his, the orgasms slamming into her as he suckled, and his tongue teased.

He rose above her, unable to wait any longer, and pushed his hardness into the softness he just tasted. She was whimpering now, delirious with the feeling of his thick shaft plunging deep within her body. When her legs wrapped around his waist, allowing him to push himself deeper, he completely lost control.

He went wild, thrusting into her, again and again, battering her small soft body with his hard body.

But before he could lose himself, he felt her small hands pushing at his shoulders, pushing him away. He sat up, a little dazed. His body actually hurt, wanting to finish what they had begun.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing at 'tall, love," she said, a little glint of mischief shining in her cloudy eyes. She pushed him back, and climbed on top of his body, "I just wanted to ride you this way now."

He groaned as she impaled herself on him. As she rocked her body back and forth, he felt something build within him, and suddenly he exploded within her body. Moments later, she shuddered, and he felt her body contracting around himself, coaxing him mercilessly into another blinding orgasms.

She dropped down on him, completely and utterly satisfied, her body humming with the aftereffects of their loving. She listened as his heart's erratic stattaco slowed, and felt powerful that she was able to do such a thing to such a man.

"I've only got one question for you," he mumbled.

"And what's that, love?"

"What's your name?"

Silence stretched between them for a few moments before they began to laugh. When they finally calmed a little, she found her voice, "Serena. I'm Serena Dillon."