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Devil’s Pact
Epitome of pure evil, born without a heart, soul, or conscience…even his parents did not claim him.
An Outlaw Who Takes What He Wants…
The moment Devin Spawn stumbles upon the exquisite beauty bathing alone in a river, he wants her. Morality non-existent, yet he struggles to keep his distance. His sexual excesses and massive proportions would be too much for the tiny girl who appears more waifish and innocent than womanly.
A Widow With So Much to Give…
The instant Megan Spawn feels his heated touch and potent sensuality, her flesh burns with wanton desires. It matters little he is the devilishly handsome outlaw known as the Devil’s Spawn, the most feared, lethal gunslinger in the West—and her stepson.
Together They Risk Everything in the Devil’s Playground…
Where sexuality is as untamed as the bloodthirsty savages roaming the western frontier, and childhood sweetheart Caleb Walker is guilty as sin, the dark side of lust and passionate surrender comes at a hefty price when you forge a Devil’s Pact.
Sensuality Rating: SCORCHING/SEXTREME
Genre: Western / Ménage à Trois
DEVIL’S PACT
Samantha Cruise
EROTIC ROMANCE
Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
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A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK
IMPRINT: Erotic Romance
DEVIL’S PACT
Copyright © 2007 by Samantha Cruise
ISBN: 1-933563-06-1
Electronic Publication Date: October 2007
All cover art and logo copyright © 2007 by Siren Publishing, Inc.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
PUBLISHER: Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
DEVIL’S PACT
SAMANTHA CRUISE
Copyright © 2007
Chapter 1
When Devin first spotted the wanted poster, that peculiar feeling he dubbed his “best friend” crept up on him. What a man wouldn’t do for that much gold. Ten thousand was a hell of a lot of reward for just one man.
Bemusedly, he patted the missive in the pocket of his buckskin jacket.
It would necessitate more backbone than brains to go after that bounty. He was half tempted himself.
Only problem, it was him the law wanted. The Devil’s Spawn.
From the looks of it, they wanted him alive. That in itself was implausible, cause for circumspection. No one in his right mind would dare try to take him alive. Why not dead? Then any young buck out to make a name for himself, money-hungry bounty hunter, or plum crazy old coot would be after his high-priced blood. Sneak up on him in the dead of night while he slept, perhaps shoot him in the back from high atop a mountain, or, if they had a large enough posse, chase him down.
Regardless the ceremony, they’d be buzzard pickins before they ever saw him. He grinned with assurance.
For now, Devin didn’t know whether to be flattered, shocked, or amused. Definitely not scared or worried. Few men in life were born without a scared bone in their bodies. He was one of the elite few—exceptional in more ways than the simple fact he knew no fear. Perhaps there was some sort of sentimental gene that eluded him.
Not that he would blame God for the deficiency due to religious beliefs. More like he stopped believing in the divinity all told. Same time, he stopped living like a normal human being at the ripe old age of ten. Nineteen years later and no less roughshod, there was no way in the infernal fires of damnation the name ‘God’ ever passed his lips.
What he lacked in sentimentality, he gained in other ways. His senses were sharpened to a heightened awareness that kept him alive when he should have died many times over. His strength, size, and agility were not that of any normal man. Whether an asset or curse, it was his lot in life to make the average man flinch upon staring into his eyes, mothers snatch their children off streets whenever he rode into town, or women coil in fear at the sight of his nakedness. He dealt with the latter best he could. The rest, he didn’t give a damn.
The past three years, he stayed away from civilization. Roamed the wilderness alone, ventured into towns when the need to rut grew so intense, he could no longer control the lust. Finding the nearest brothel, he’d pay handsomely to every willing prostitute brave enough to take on “The Cannon.” After long absences without a woman, he would ride them hard, fast, and merciless.
Unlike most men, he took what he wanted only after he gave them what they needed. And the women always looked grateful to see him walk through the door, going so far as fight for his attention sometimes. He was eager to fire up “The Cannon,” nicknamed by the girls at the Titillate Trove, his favorite whorehouse in Montana Territory. The only nickname he was partial to.
Having been called every name imaginable to go along with the tales attached didn’t bother him none, mainly because the tales were true.
He was often described as pure evil. They claimed he murdered so-called innocent men in cold blood, simply because they crossed his path. Of course, that was after he helped himself to gold, money, horses, weapons, or whatever they had that he wanted.
Flat on his stomach, hidden in the dense brush overlooking the river, he stared down at his hands, half expecting to see dried-up blood or some trace of the melee that always followed wherever he went. He had no inkling as to what the fuss was about. As far as he could tell, his hands were just like the next fellow—perhaps a mite larger and faster than most, but two just the same, with four fingers and a thumb on each.
He recalled the same unshakable feeling gripping him when he heard the news about his father. The gut warning had little to do with learning his father was ailing in the worst way possible.
Every man’s father died sooner or later. It was a fact of life. Nothing changed that. Same could be said about marriages and births. Only exception was, word about Devin’s kinfolk was non-existent. No one suspected the devil had kin. And he liked it that way. Since word traveled to Comanche territory, it was especially peculiar.
For the past month, he lived with the Comanche, spent the winter with the Cheyenne, and roamed the wilderness before that. Two weeks ago, a weasel of a trader doing business with the Indians mentioned an old man by the name of Reed Spawn, who lived in the Tejas Territory.
“Dangled one foot in ground,” the scalawag said. He dared enough to ask if the old man was any kin of his.
Detached, he listened to the account and neither confirmed nor denied it. Devin rode out as soon as the trader left the village. Two weeks of hard riding in the saddle, only stopping long enough to rest and feed Deuce, his sidekick, sole confidant, and whom he considered his only family in the world, brought him to this point. He was hidden in the brush, ignoring the poster in his pocket, and admiring the exquisite apparition in front of him.
He pushed all thoughts of the bounty aside along with every feeling other than the one rock hard and aching between his legs. In front of him, not more than nin
ety yards, swam the prettiest female form he had laid eyes on in a long time. He’d watched her play in the river without a stitch on for the last forty minutes. Grimacing, aware his over indulgent arousal was now a painful need, he tried to remember the last time he buried deep into the lusty wetness between two plump thighs.
With the sun long departed beyond the horizon, the sky streaked with hues of blue, pink and purple, darkness would soon set in. His vision strained to make out the fine details of every exposed feature on the luscious vision before him.
In water to the bottom curve of her buttocks, she stood, her long, sandy-blonde hair clinging to her heart-shaped backside and one wet lock covering a perfectly cone-shaped breast.
She brushed the hair off her shoulder with the sweep of a hand. He guessed the movement grazed the indiscernible nipple, for her body suddenly quivered as though an arousing sensation swept through her.
Much to his surprise and delight, her hands slowly and sensuously ran down her slender hips, then back up her flat stomach and finally cupped her small breasts. If he didn’t know any better, he would think she was no longer bathing or swimming, but actually taking pleasure in exploring her young, budding body.
Was it his imagination?
Was it wishful thinking?
Only whores took pleasure in sex, not respectable women. And this pretty little gal couldn’t be a whore. She looked too pure and innocent, like a fine porcelain figurine. A far cry from the women he encountered in brothels.
If judged by pubic hair so sparse, it looked as though it just sprouted or else been plucked, he guessed she was fifteen or sixteen, not a day over seventeen. Old enough for marriage, but not old enough to fend for herself against four-legged predators, much less the more dangerous two-legged variety.
His throat went dry when she caressed her breasts, rolling her fingers over the faintly colored tips that almost blended with her milky complexion. Licking her lips, her right hand slowly descended lower, lower, and lower over the soft curves of her skin, until a single finger disappeared between her dampened thighs. He swore he heard a breathy moan escape her lips, and her head fell back when the hand covering the damp golden curls on her mound seemed to move up and down or more like in and out.
Devin let out a low, pained groan as the woman’s legs drew slightly apart, and he imagined her fingers tunneling through the slick, hot flesh, pulsing with her own desire. He would give anything to sink a finger, tongue, cock—hell, he didn’t care what he sank between those legs, just as long as he could taste, touch, smell or suck on that sweet pussy. It seemed an awful waste for such a pretty young thing to resort to self-pleasure alone in the woods. Whoever the man, husband or father, to leave such an alluringly sensuous female alone was one ace shy of a full deck.
To his dismay, she was rather frail looking and very petite. Her rib cage was well defined and her breasts pathetically small with faint tips. Her hipbones stuck out prominently. If a strong wind blew, he swore she would break in half, or else take to the air.
He was aware girls much younger worked the bawdy crib houses. Personally, he stayed away from little lassies and forced the raucous men he used to lead to do the same. She was nothing like the robust women he preferred. Well-built to withstand the dark desires he craved, full breasts to sink his teeth into, plump thighs to ride him all night long, and a strong back. Oh, hell, yes, they definitely needed strength to withstand the hard-core sex he demanded from his partners.
Prim and proper ladies never appealed to him, either. A good thing, considering he seldom ran across any in the wilderness—at least, until now. There was something about her that tempted him beyond reason, despite the fact it had been too damned long since he coupled with a warm body.
When he came upon the river, he planned to take a bath before heading to his father’s ranch. Scrape off two weeks of frontier dust and grime. Instead, he found a bathing beauty who aroused feelings in him distinctly out of the ordinary. Normally, he would have ventured further down the river, leaving the little lady to her privacy, as was his custom whenever he stumbled across the Indian women in the village bathing with their children, but he was drawn to her, rooted to the ground, unable to move or look away.
He was imagining all sorts of ways to make an exception to his one virtue, compliments of growing up with two elderly aunts. Innocent women and children were off-limits.
With a mind of its own, his rioting erection grew more and more convincing when she suddenly fell backwards and floated away. A rough groan escaped his dry throat, and his entire body stiffened.
Like a creamy white log, she now drifted along the river, a treasure trove of deep gold floating around her head.
He shifted his hips, attempting to find a more comfortable position as his cock grew painfully hard to the point of bursting, crushing the bed of dried pine needles beneath him. He reflected on the groove a tracker would find in the event someone trailed him. He’d laugh if he weren’t already struggling to breathe.
It wasn’t until she floated spread-eagled atop the water, baring her pussy for the world to see—or at least, for him and the other forest animals—that he hunched on all fours in a swift silent motion. He was too far. He had to get closer. He wanted, needed a better look at what was shielded by the curls and sunless shadows between her legs.
Of all the rivers, lakes, and ponds he’d come across during the past two weeks, why did he have to find her in Tejas of all places?
Long ago, he made an unspoken oath to himself. Never start any trouble in Tejas as long as his father lived. Every other territory or state was his to plunder. Tejas Territory was off limits.
Sweet little missy was going to have to wait until some other randy cowboy put her out of her misery.
Anywhere else, he couldn’t care less. Already wanted in almost every state and territory, what was one more infraction?
But he was in Tejas, and if he couldn’t have her, at least he could wake a snake. He made his way to the tree stump a good distance from the single horse-drawn wagon, where he spotted her dress neatly folded. He was careful not to startle the animal and alert her to his presence. He knew that for a man his size, he moved stealthily and generated no sound in his moccasins.
He reached the area as she waded out of the river. Via the cover of the shadows of the fading light, he took two steps from behind a large tree, reached out, and grabbed her dress in a rapid motion while she leaned over to retrieve the shift she’d discarded earlier on the bank.
He became more intrigued by the young girl, watching from the concealment behind the wide tree trunk in the duskiness as she flapped her shift in the air to rid it of any trace of dirt before tossing the frayed garment over her head. Had she been waiting for a lover who obviously failed to appear, or was she awakening her lust, to be satisfied soon in waiting arms when she returned home? From the lack of a clearly identifiable reaction to an orgasm, she hadn’t made herself come.
Oddly, he couldn’t help but wonder what she would have looked like in the throes of passion, her skin flush, eyes glazed with arousal, and her body trembling as her orgasm washed over her. Was she a screamer who liked to dig her nails in her lover’s back, or did she close her eyes and whimper softly? It would be a helluva shame if she were one of them prissy girls who just lay there while her man huffed and puffed.
With a shake of his head, he decided that was out of the question. A gal horny enough to stick her fingers up her twat out in the open had to know the ins and outs of passion.
Despite her age, she behaved like no virgin.
He thought the whole situation downright odd. If someone started something, may as well go whole hog. She could have come in the river, again at home, and if it were up to him, on the way home to boot.
His tenet for carnality: anywhere, any time, any way.
* * * *
Megan felt refreshed. She looked up at the faint moon in the darkening blue and pink sky and inhaled deeply as the twilight air whipped softly around th
e green canopy above. She exhaled, then chuckled. Funny, she thought as she peered toward the river once more, how a swim could make her feel clean, guilty, and naughty. A small luxury seldom afforded, privacy, time alone, and a bit of indulgence.
For a moment, her eyes followed a passing tree branch carried downstream by the lazy current. She turned away and sighed, wondering what it felt like to be swept away, have no worries or cares, travel along an unguided path with only faith and heart to guide her.
She glanced at the worn-out buckboard with rusty springs and her old gray mare hitched to it and smiled. With one or two exceptions, her life was better than most. There wasn’t anywhere else in the world she would rather be than right here, right now.
Heading toward the tree stump to retrieve her dress, Megan glanced behind her at her long, wet trail in the cool earth. She wrung out her hair between her hands, drained what she could from the soaked strands that hung over her shoulders and down her back. Rivulets drenched her shift, causing goose flesh in the evening breeze as the damp, oversized shift clung to her.
As shivers ran through her, she shook her head in an attempt to wring more water from her hair before wrapping it in a loose bun at the nape of her neck, the most sensible style for the thick, unruly hip-length ringlets. Long, wayward strands hung over her shoulders and down her back.
Within a few feet from the stump, she frowned. She crossed her arms against the chill of the wet gown, fanned by the light breeze ruffling through the leaves in the tall trees, and her gaze swept the area. Her eyes darted to the wagon. No, she thought, certain she didn’t leave her dress in the wagon.
“It has to be here,” she muttered aloud to herself. She stepped closer to the stump, thinking it must have fallen off in a swift breeze. Nervousness began to creep in. The early spring winds weren’t strong enough to blow her dress away. If Shelby or Emma had woken up and meant to play a trick on her, she would have noticed, since her gaze instinctively went to the buckboard every few minutes.