The Mammoth Book of Threesomes and Moresomes

The Magnificent Threesome

Elspeth Potter

The One-Eyed Man saloon was not providing the entertainment DeVille was waiting for. His companion, Harcourt, was hunched over a small bound notebook, turning his stub of pencil over and over between his big, blunt fingers. DeVille doubted the numbers would change tonight. The next town along was hosting a fandango after a performance of the travelling Grand Ethiopian Minstrel Choir, and the streets had emptied by noon. Not a soul had entered who was interested in playing cards or hiring guns; the patrons, all two of them, came in, drank, gave him and Harcourt a suspicious glance, and left. He’d seen pitched battles that were friendlier.

He fluttered his deck of cards between his hands in a never-ending stream while he pondered how best to irritate Harcourt, and thus distract him from his obsessive accounting. It wasn’t getting them to San Francisco any sooner.

“It’s closing time,” the saloon’s owner Miss Kitty said, leaning over their table. A tuft of dark hair poked out of her red dress’ low-cut bosom, and she needed a shave. DeVille had been surprised, when they’d first arrived two days ago, how few of the customers seemed to mind Miss Kitty’s eccentricities. Then again, it was the only saloon in town.

“I know you must get your beauty sleep every night,” DeVille commented. He gathered the cards into one hand and smiled up at her.

Miss Kitty laughed like mountains crumbling and tapped the back of his head. He grabbed for his hat. She said, “You are a caution, Mr DeVille. Are you sure you don’t want to spend the night?”

“I am so sorry, ma’am, but me and the captain here have other plans,” DeVille said. “Right, Harcourt?”

Harcourt put away his notebook. He looked up long enough to say, “Yes.” He pushed his chair back and stood.

DeVille knew what the locals thought: Harcourt looked dangerous. A coloured man with deep-set eyes and lean cheeks, he wore black from hat down to scarred cavalry boots. The grips of his two low-slung Colt revolvers gleamed with use, and he didn’t hide the Bowie knife sheathed at his back. His voice was deep and rough as his appearance.

DeVille, a round-faced white man with a tidy moustache, knew he looked as if he’d come from another country entirely, though both men hailed from Holmestown, New Jersey. He made an effort to look less dangerous and more prosperous than Harcourt. Today he wore snug fawn pantaloons and a brocade frock coat the colour of good red wine. His embroidered gold waistcoat glowed over a minutely pleated cream linen shirt with a string tie. He reached into his breast pocket, but Miss Kitty laid a giant hand on his arm.

“I’ll run you a tab,” she purred.

“Why, thank you, Miss Kitty,” DeVille said. “And I’ve been thinking — why don’t you call me Virgil? It doesn’t seem fair, me using your Christian name and you not knowing mine.”

Miss Kitty giggled. This sound was more like rocks tumbling down a mineshaft. “Oh, you sweet thing,” she said. “Don’t you forget to have a drink with me next time.”

“I most surely would never forget!” DeVille said. He bowed and kissed the back of her hand. Harcourt rolled his eyes.

As they exited, a slender young cowboy entered, battered hat in hand, his longish blond hair tied back into a stubby queue. He wore a long sourdough coat, stained dark with waterproofing. DeVille gave him a second glance, and then a longer, more appreciative one as he hurried into the saloon, graceful in his high-heeled boots. Harcourt elbowed him. He sighed and let himself be drawn out of the swinging doors.

They’d gone barely ten steps when Miss Kitty bellowed after them. “Virgil! Captain Harcourt!”

DeVille looked at Harcourt, who lifted his eyebrows. They retraced their steps. The cowboy sat at their vacated table. Seeing his face clearly for the first time, DeVille was startled by the softness of his features, though he was clearly no longer a young boy. Without beard or moustache, his lips had a plush curve, just waiting for someone to press with their thumb.

Miss Kitty poured the cowboy a glass of whiskey and placed it in front of him, but he didn’t drink it. Miss Kitty said, her expression fierce, “Some rowdies attacked the Widow Larimer’s spread, just outside of town. Austin here’s her wrangler, and he thinks they’ll be back.”

The Widow Larimer was a coloured lady. DeVille imagined she hadn’t been interested in the Grand Ethiopian Minstrel Choir, either. Before Harcourt could say they’d risk their lives for free, he named their rates.

Austin looked up at that. He was beardless, but no fool, that was clear. “She told me to hire Captain Harcourt.”

“Where he goes, I follow,” DeVille said. “Ever since we were boys. But I’m only half his price, since he’s the better shot.”

After a little haggling, DeVille stowed away their advance money. Austin would ride ahead; they had to retrieve their horses from the livery. As they headed for the Widow Larimer’s ranch, Harcourt said, “You only follow me because it suits you. You’ve been getting me into trouble ever since we were boys.”

“He paid up, didn’t he?”

A few moments later, Harcourt said, “You keep your hands off the widow.”

“What if she’s pretty?”

“She’s respectable, Virgil. God knows, you could inveigle a snake into bed with you, much less a defenceless coloured woman. I don’t trust you farther than I could throw you.”

“What if I inveigled for the both of us?”

“Virgil.”

“Is it because she’s coloured? Are you afraid I’ll-”

“We were hired to protect her, not seduce her.”

“That tart back in Boise stick your sabre up your ass?”

“Virgil.”

“Jesus. You didn’t do her at all, did you? You wasted my money and didn’t do a damned thing.”

“She appreciated your money, not me,” Harcourt said, wryly.

“I paid her triple,” DeVille said. “She claimed she would make you so happy you’d be singing for a week. She had this thing she did with her-”

“I didn’t ask you for your help in getting a woman.”

DeVille muttered, “If you’re not careful, your cock’s going to dry up and fall off.”

Harcourt remarked, “Yours will wear out first. And remember, hands off the widow.”

The Widow Larimer did not look as if she needed protection. It was clear she would repel seduction attempts with the shotgun she cradled competently and lovingly against her incredible bosom. A second shotgun leaned against the porch railing beside her. She was a veritable goddess. DeVille moaned softly.

She called out, “I don’t need that fool gambler. I don’t care how cheap he is.”

“Boudicca!” DeVille rhapsodized. “Penthesilea! Mrs Bridger the Sunday school teacher back home!”

“Quiet,” Harcourt growled out of the corner of his mouth. To the widow, he said, “An extra gun can never hurt, ma’am.”

Austin stepped into view, cradling a rifle. “With all respect, ma’am, you sent me for some extra hands, what with everybody gone over to Destiny for the dancing.”

The widow snorted audibly. “You keep them out of trouble, boy. And they’re sleeping in the barn.”

DeVille murmured to Harcourt, “He’s got a pretty face. Can’t be more than twenty-five. Wonder if he needs someone to teach him the wonderful ways of the world?”

Harcourt eyed him sourly. “Hands off the wrangler, too.”

Austin didn’t hear their exchange, too busy wondering if the two men were going to be more trouble than they were worth. At least they had guns. And the coloured man was right, more guns were better; though he looked like, alone, he could whip his weight in wildcats. Austin would have bet a month’s pay he’d been in the war. What Harcourt was doing with a dandy like DeVille, Austin couldn’t fathom. Perhaps he was DeVille’s bodyguard. If DeVille was anything like Austin’s daddy had been, he would have a lot of reasons to need one, but it wouldn’t help him in the end.

Austin watched the visitors quickly care for their horses. The horses liked them, and they didn’t stint on the work. Even knowing some men cared more for their horses than for other people, Austin relaxed a little.

DeVille glanced over as he gave his gelding’s nose a final stroke. “How’d you come to work for Miz Larimer?”

He probably had his eye on the widow, or at least on her ranch. Since a gambler didn’t seem likely to have money, maybe he was hoping his nice teeth would recommend him. Austin said, “How’d you come to be a dandified flatterer?”

DeVille said, without seeming to notice the insult, “Some are born to glory. I, however, am the son of the worst ruffian in Holmestown, New Jersey, saved from disgrace only by the good offices of Captain Harcourt.” He plopped down on a hay bale.

“The archangel Michael couldn’t save you from disgrace,” Harcourt said.

His tone was familiar and absentminded, as if this sort of remark was common to him. They were friends, then, and not employer and employee? A strange pair. Austin said, “Don’t let Miz Larimer hear you blaspheming. If she’s your goal, that is.”

Harcourt said, shortly, “I have no interest in the lady.”

“She’s rich,” Austin said, testing.

“Is she?” DeVille asked. “Rich and a warrior queen. I think my heart just might leap out of my chest.”

Harcourt thumped him on the back of the arm. “Later,” he said.

A pistol slid into each of DeVille’s hands. “Yessir,” he drawled. “I’ll take the cookhouse, sir, and cover the back. Austin, you coming with?” He smiled and winked. Austin startled; the smile charmed, and the wink had looked almost seductive. Some men would go after anything that moved, true, but surely not if it moved in pantaloons.

“I’ll take the well,” Harcourt said.

Outside, Austin settled with one hip braced against a water barrel while DeVille paced endlessly up and down the side yard between house and cookhouse, talking endlessly as well, his voice clearly audible across the yard.

“Speak up, I don’t think they can hear you in town yet,” Austin said.

Cheerfully, DeVille replied, “The widow seems to have an itchy trigger finger. I can’t enjoy my money if she accidentally blows my head off.”

“And Harcourt?” Austin asked. The other man was only just visible as a dark bump on the well house, if one knew where to look. It was too bad he wasn’t over here, chatting. Austin had never seen anyone like him before. “Why’s he hiding, then?”

“He’s in reserve in case things get difficult,” DeVille said. “So, Austin, you like poetry?”

“No!”

“Well, how about this one? You might like this one, it’s better than you think.” And, without letting Austin interrupt, DeVille charged into a recitation and then another and another.

Just after midnight, the attackers ran into the yard, whooping and firing pistols. Austin had never heard more than a single gun firing at once. The noise was bone-shaking.

DeVille appeared unaffected, apart from dropping Alexander Pope in the middle of a rhyme and plastering himself against a corner of the house. “How kind,” he said. “They brought friends. At least they’re not on horseback.”

“Miz Larimer,” Austin said, from behind the water barrel.

“Hush,” DeVille said. “Stay hidden.”

“I thought hired guns were supposed to be brave.”

“Only an idiot nominates himself to get shot.”

The widow’s voice rang out. “Get off my property or I’ll pump you full of buckshot.”

A foul reply from the yard was followed by her shotgun blast. Shouts and pistol cracks, and more shotgun blasts, covered any more dialogue. Austin followed DeVille’s slow creep around the corner and was nearly knocked down by a reeling, brawny figure wielding a flaming branch in one hand and a pistol in the other. The intruder swung the pistol at the side window; Austin leaped at him, wrestling for the torch before he could shove it through the hole in the glass and set the house afire. The torch went flying into the yard, but the big man still had his pistol. He shoved Austin backwards and aimed.

“Down!” DeVille yelled, and leaped. Both landed on the ground. Austin struggled free and sat up. The attacker fled, along with two others Austin hadn’t seen, in a confusing melee overflowing with drunken curses.

“Cowards!” the widow yelled.

Harcourt stepped into view, rifle to shoulder. A hat flew into the air as if jerked on a string; its owner kept running.

“Great shot!” Austin said, feeling strangely euphoric.

“I was aiming for his-Virgil, you all right?”

In the sudden silence, DeVille’s voice trembled. He still lay on the ground. “I can’t believe, after all I’ve been through, some brainless lickfinger son of a bitch-”

Harcourt shoved Austin to the side and yanked open DeVille’s coat. “No blood,” he said.

“Jesus Christ, something sure hurts. Right here.”

The Widow Larimer loomed over the men with a lantern. “Do not take the Lord’s name in vain, for if you died right now, you would surely go to the fiery pits of hell.”

DeVille squinted up at her. “I don’t think I like you any more.”

Events came together in Austin’s mind. “Miz Larimer, I think he saved my life.”

Harcourt produced a dented silver case from DeVille’s coat. “And this saved his. Virgil, you don’t smoke!”

Austin took the case and examined the bullet mashed into its tooled surface. The case would barely prise open. It held, not rolling papers at all, but pornographic playing cards. “Captain Harcourt, do you think they’ll be back?”

The widow said, “If they do, I’ve got a whole case of shells right next to my coffee and my thunder mug. You men can leave my property to me, now. Go on, get.”

There was no arguing with her. Austin carried Harcourt’s rifle and the silver case, then lit and hung a lantern while Harcourt assisted DeVille back into the barn.

Once inside, DeVille snapped, “Get your damned hands off me!” and shoved Harcourt away. He spun his hat on to the pile of saddlebags, followed it with his gloves, ripped his necktie loose, then sat down, hard, on the same bale as before, wrapping his arms around his chest. He’d seemed perfectly collected while bullets whizzed by, but after his outburst, Austin could see him shaking.

Austin said, “I think we could all do with a drink.”

“In my saddlebag,” Harcourt said.

Austin had not imagined spending the night sitting around the barn on hay bales, passing a flask from hand to hand with two men who had been, at suppertime, complete strangers. DeVille didn’t speak for a long time, only took two gulps of the smooth whiskey for Harcourt’s every one. The two men sat shoulder to shoulder and wore still, tight expressions that made them seem oddly alike. Austin took the flask from Harcourt’s hand and sipped, just enough for flavour and a touch of heat, and to try to ease an unexpected trembling.

At last, DeVille said, “That damned harpy is paying me double. You can tell her.”

Sympathy evaporating in a flash of steam, Austin snapped, “Don’t talk about her like that!”

DeVille snatched the flask, gulped, then upended it, looking disgusted when nothing dripped out. “She was awfully mean to me. You only like her because you think females have to stick together.”

Austin’s breathing stuttered. “What?”

“I’ve landed on more than a few women in my time,” DeVille said, still vainly shaking the flask. “Also, you smell better than a cowboy. Doesn’t the widow know?”

Austin glanced at Harcourt. He looked mildly curious. Austin took a deep breath and said, “The widow don’t hold with women wearing men’s clothes.”

DeVille shrugged. “Lot of people don’t hold with me being friends with Harcourt.”

“The reverse is also true,” Harcourt drawled. “What point are you making, Virgil?”

DeVille smiled, though Austin noted the smile wasn’t as brilliant as before the fight. He said, “If nobody knows about Miss Austin, here, I thought it might be a relief to her to let her hair down for an evening. So to speak.”

Before Austin could reply, Harcourt had thumped DeVille on the arm. “I told you, hands off the wrangler!”

“She’s not paying us,” DeVille pointed out. “What d’you think, Miss Austin? Care to be entertained by two fine and discriminating gentlemen?” DeVille appeared to be completely serious.

Harcourt said, “Now wait just a minute, I never said-”

DeVille held up a hand to stop his words, in a graceful gesture like an actor on stage. “We can’t leave you out-”

“This woman is not a-”

“Don’t say it. You have some cussed strange ideas about women-”

“I respect women!”

“So do I!”

“You respect them right into bed with you!”

“Jealous? That’s not my fault. I sure as hell invited you along enough times!”

The two men glared straight into each other’s eyes as they argued. DeVille wore a strange half-smile, which appeared to enrage Harcourt more every second. They were sitting so close they could, Austin thought dizzily, lean forwards and kiss each other with no effort at all. Such a thing had never occurred to her before. She hadn’t even known she wanted to see it, until now.

She sprang to her feet. “It’ll be both, or none!”

DeVille snorted and shoved at Harcourt’s shoulder, then grinned. “I was right. They always like you best.”

Harcourt glared at him, then stood and took off his hat. “Miss Austin, don’t let that silver-tongued rascal talk you into something you might regret. Please understand, we’ll keep your secret, there’s no need to worry about that.”

Rough as it was, he did have a lovely deep voice. She could’ve listened to him all night. Now she’d have the chance. “That’s mighty kind of you,” she said, looking him up and down. His shoulders were broad and strong; his torso narrowed down to a waist more slender than hers. His thighs looked hard beneath his worn denim pants, and when she looked at the bulge his cock made beneath the fabric, her mouth watered. “But it’s you who don’t understand. I was married once. Earning my living the way I do, though, I haven’t been able to think about the pleasures of the flesh in a long time, because for sure, somebody would talk; and nobody’s going to put a woman, a fallen woman, in charge of their remuda. You two don’t have anything to do with that, do you? And I might as well make up for lost time.” She looked at DeVille and smiled.

He said to Harcourt, “You can’t complain about this one’s intentions, can you?”

Austin took a step closer to the men and tipped her hat back on her head. “You ain’t scared, Captain Harcourt?”

He glanced at DeVille, then back at her. His fingers tightened on his hat brim. “You two might want to speak in private. Perhaps I should take my leave.”

“Don’t,” Austin said. “Please?”

DeVille reached out and slapped Harcourt’s leg. “Come on, Harcourt. For the lady.”

Austin stepped forwards quickly, tugged Harcourt’s hat from his hand, and pressed her lips to his, interrupting whatever he had been about to say in protest. Her hat fell off. His lips were far softer than she’d expected, and he tasted like whiskey with all the burn gone.

She dropped his hat in the straw and ran her gloved hand up his chest. That was nice and firm. She scrubbed her palm across a nipple, but she could barely feel it beneath his clothing. His fingers closed over her wrist and lifted it. “Are you sure about this?” he said. Flickers of lantern light reflected in his eyes and glistened off the new dampness on his lips.

“As sure as shooting,” Austin said. “Get over here, DeVille.”

“That’d be Virgil to you.”

“Then I’m Sarah. Sarah Jane Austin.” Her free hand, ignoring the pleasantries, shaped Harcourt’s narrow waist and rubbed next to the knife sheath at the small of his back.

Harcourt’s eyes closed for a moment, then he grinned down at her, a quick flash. “Virgil, this lady is compromising me.”

“I’ll protect you,” he said, solemnly.

Preparations took little time. Harcourt opened out the men’s bedrolls atop their canvas tarps, with enough straw beneath for cushioning, while DeVille skimmed off Austin’s coat, knelt, and unbuckled her chaps. His fingers danced along her hip bones, then slid down the outsides of her thighs and cupped her knees above her boots. He tipped his head back to look up at her and said, “It’s a nice change from petticoats and corsetry. Downright inspirational, in fact.”

Austin swallowed and said, “You’ve got considerable clothes yourself. Harcourt, you going to help me with this?”

“Give me his coat, and I’ll hang it up.”

That wasn’t what she’d meant. She stripped off her gloves and, before laying her hands on DeVille’s coat, cupped his face instead. Stubble rasped her palms; he turned his head to press a damp, whiskery kiss into her palm before she reached his mouth. He was more skilled and intent than she’d been prepared for, and when she finally tugged away from him and shoved his coat off, her vest was off, her shirt had been unbuttoned to the waist, and pulled mostly out of her pants. She didn’t linger over DeVille’s waistcoat buttons as she’d intended, fearing she’d find herself ravished and sated before she’d even extracted his watch from its pocket. That would hardly be fair to Captain Harcourt.

DeVille helped her with the shoulder holsters he wore, laying his guns carefully away on a big silk handkerchief. Austin then glanced at Harcourt, whose hands went to the buckle of his gun belt, letting it slither down his hips until she caught the worn leather and laid the weapons aside.

She said to Harcourt, “You take his shirt off.”

A pause. DeVille said, “Lady’s choice, Aaron.” Their gaze met and held in silent conversation. Austin tried imagining using Harcourt’s Christian name herself, and couldn’t quite conceive of it.

Harcourt took a moment, visibly collecting himself, then went to work in businesslike fashion on DeVille’s cuffs and collar. He hesitated again. “You sure about this?”

DeVille shrugged. “I don’t think our Sarah’s that delicate, are you, honey?” He licked his lips, though, and looked away while Harcourt’s hands, suddenly gentle, worked the linen over DeVille’s shoulders and down his arms, and pulled off even his undershirt.

Austin understood, then. The bruise from earlier wasn’t showing except as a red mark, but DeVille was scarred all over his ribs and belly, as if he’d been peppered with a giant shotgun. She forced herself to look away from the damage and saw he had a good pair of shoulders on him. He said, “It’s from canister shot, down in Virginia. You got anything to say?”

“You look fine to me,” she said. She elbowed Harcourt aside and set to DeVille’s pants buttons. He didn’t seem to mind her fumbling there, so she fondled his cock and balls through the fall of his pants before dipping her hands inside and drawing him out. His rosy cock had a pretty arch to it, and she imagined, with suddenly dry mouth, how it might feel inside her cunny.

Harcourt moved behind her and unknotted the thong binding her hair, then spreading her hair over her shoulders. He burrowed his calloused fingers down to her scalp and massaged, a pleasure that brought tears to her eyes. By the time she had DeVille fully naked, her own shirt had disappeared and Harcourt had his arms around her waist from behind, nuzzling her ear while neatly flicking open the buttons on her pants.

Harcourt lifted his head long enough to say to DeVille, “You first,” and returned to her ear, her cheek, her throat, her shoulder, each kiss or nip making her tremble. She shuddered when she felt him hardening against the small of her back, and squirmed against him. He breathed raggedly into her neck and squeezed her to him more tightly. She wondered why he hadn’t wanted to go first himself. So long as she had him eventually, she supposed it didn’t matter.

Austin tugged DeVille forwards by the arm. “Kiss me,” she said, just before his mouth closed over hers. His clever fingers delved beneath the bandages she used to bind her bosom, and a moment later she felt another set of hands join in. Cotton fluttered down her sides and to the floor, and for the first time in six years, hands other than her own touched bare skin. She whimpered and sagged back against Harcourt, who cupped and held her breasts for DeVille’s hot, delicate mouth.

She twisted in their grip for an eternity, until DeVille muttered something and Harcourt lifted her off her feet, with no more effort than she would have used in picking up a kitten. DeVille, she realized, was yanking off her boots, then her pants. She had just enough presence of mind to grab, but she wasn’t quick enough to prevent him from seeing the rolled bandage that provided the other element of her male disguise. He grinned up at her and kissed her right on the quim. “Maybe it’s time for those bedrolls,” he said. “Harcourt, do take off that blamed knife. And the rest of it, while you’re at it.”

Austin lost some details after that. Both men seemed intent on making her lose her mind. She had never felt anything so good in her life as strong male bodies pressed both to her front and her back, their hands seeking out every sensitive spot she had. For a long time she did nothing but hold on and respond to whomever happened to be kissing her at the time. She could tell them apart even with her eyes closed: DeVille’s artistry and the scrape of his moustache, Harcourt’s smoother skin and more aggressive tongue and teeth. Harcourt’s hands were more direct, too, which she appreciated as she began to feel more and more wild for release.

His blunt, calloused finger delicately traced down the line between her buttocks, then stroked the folds of her quim. She cried out. The finger pressed upwards, opening her with impossible gentleness. The tip of the finger curled inside, and she cried out again. Harcourt said, sounding out of breath, “I think she might be ready for you, Virgil.”

“God damn … hold her for me …”

She didn’t want to wait for anything. Austin grabbed DeVille’s cock. “Hurry up, you son of a-” She lost her breath as he nudged himself inside, stretching her deliciously; then Harcourt’s hands shifted her hips in some small way, and DeVille slid in even more deeply, until there was no more space between them at all. He rolled his hips, rubbing deeply into the centre of her pleasure, and she gasped, “Again!”

“Anything for a lady,” he said, and after a little more of this she crested with a sharp cry, clinging to him until the waves of pleasure ebbed. She felt wonderful, but still wanted more. She squirmed between them both, sliding her hands from DeVille’s shoulders to his hips and back again. She could still feel him inside her, harder than before, and Harcourt’s cock like an iron bar digging into her waist.

DeVille said, tightly, “I need her on her back right now.”

Harcourt took her head in his lap. She hadn’t had a good look at his cock before now. She rubbed her cheek against it and kissed his velvety skin; after a muttered curse from him and a strained chuckle from DeVille, Harcourt took her shoulders firmly in his big hands and shifted her down, so she could no longer reach. She braced her feet on the blanket for what she expected would be a wild ride. Tense as he’d sounded, though, DeVille took his time, each stroke long and slow and sweet, punctuated now and then by his mouth on her breasts. Austin eased into a trance of pleasure, spiralling around DeVille’s cock and Harcourt’s gentle fingers playing in her hair and stroking her forehead and lips.

She didn’t think she could come this time, but she revelled in DeVille’s gasping breaths as his thrusts gradually turned short and ragged. She squeezed her passage tightly on him, on his next push; it felt even better, and DeVille’s back arched, his fingers tightening on her hips. She did it again from then on, keeping up the torture until, with a soundless exhalation, he spilled his pleasure inside her. At the end, as he began to soften, he wedged two fingers into her and stroked up and forwards, just enough hardness and pressure to wring another crest from her, this one deeper, seeming to flood her from the inside out.

After that, she drifted, barely aware of Harcourt shifting her more fully into DeVille’s embrace, then sliding down behind her and throwing his arm over them both. His cock was soft; she hadn’t seen him come, but perhaps he had, while she was occupied by her own pleasure. That was good; it meant there was no rush to satisfy him. She dozed a little then, and she thought DeVille did, too, for when she opened her eyes Harcourt had propped himself on his elbow and was stroking his friend’s brown curls. As if he’d felt her eyes, his hand abruptly stilled.

“I was just remembering something,” he said, withdrawing his hand and pretending interest in the door of the barn. He shook DeVille’s shoulder. “Wake up, lazybones!”

“But she tuckered me out!”

Austin grinned. “I want to tucker him, too.” She eased her backside against Harcourt and found him ready for her. He growled and grasped her hip, holding her there for a stroke or two. She said tentatively, not sure if he would allow it, “I’d like a taste of you.”

Harcourt’s breath whooshed out against her neck.

“Lady’s choice!” DeVille said, gleefully. “You can’t say it’s wicked if she offers.” Austin was relieved he didn’t seem to mind he hadn’t received the same; she hadn’t even thought of asking until that moment. Maybe after this round, they could-DeVille leaned down and kissed her, smiling against her mouth. “You are one fine woman,” he said. He drew his finger down the length of her nose. She couldn’t help but smile at him.

Austin turned in Harcourt’s arms and said, “Just a little taste?”

His lips parted, but he didn’t speak, only nodded. He laid his hand on the back of her head as she crouched and licked the length of his erection. His legs trembled, and his hand fisted in her hair. It was something amazing, to have power over a man like that. Holding his cock steady with one hand, she lapped his balls, then dragged her tongue up his length again and pushed back his foreskin. She traced his rim before pressing tiny kisses on to the head. The slit leaked clear fluid, and she drew it between her lips. He tasted salty. She pressed her lips around the head and sucked. A noise like a howl burst from him, and she jerked back, startled.

“Enough,” he gasped. “Virgil, quit laughing!” Harcourt yanked her towards him and kissed her feverishly.

He seemed to want her on top of him. Austin was happy to oblige, stretching out on his muscled length, pressing her bosom to his strong chest and matching up her quim against his rigid cock. She rubbed against him and moaned into his mouth, hungry as if she hadn’t already come twice that night. Harcourt kneaded her backside and DeVille stroked the rest of her, from one end to the other. Harcourt’s cock was insistent, though, and she began to feel hollow, so she sat astride him, lifted up enough to get a grip on his cock, and slid down. Harcourt reached up and played with her nipples, panting but not thrusting into her. “Lady’s choice,” he said. DeVille settled on his heels next to them, apparently content to watch for now.

Austin laid one hand on Harcourt’s belly, letting her fingers stray down into his curls, and then touching where they were joined. “I want a good, hard ride.”

He grinned, a flash of teeth she would’ve missed if she’d blinked. “That’d be a mercy just now, ma’am, but you please yourself.”

Austin found herself smiling. “I’m not aiming to have any mercy,” she said, and squeezed her passage on him. She could have sworn she felt the pulse of blood moving in his cock and throbbing against her inner walls. She bit her lip and rocked against him while he steadied her hips with his hands.

DeVille reached between them and laid his warm hand over her mound. His thumb nudged between her folds. “You want a little extra?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said. “And-” Harcourt’s hands went to her breasts before she could ask.

Her ride laster longer than she’d hoped. They were all weary, and even with DeVille’s skilled touch, her pleasure this time took longer to build, but it was worth it. Her crisis wracked her with spasms from feet to scalp. She cried out and, soon after, Harcourt followed, holding her tightly in his arms. When it was over, he pressed his mouth to her temple and held it there for a long moment. His fingers feathered down her back, and she blinked back tears, though she surely had nothing to cry about. She kissed his mouth softly and rested her forehead against his.

All three of them lay spent for some time, until DeVille said, “That was some pumpkins.”

Austin laughed. She didn’t want the night to end. She hesitated then decided to ask for what she wanted. When else would she have the chance? “I want you two to kiss. Because I ain’t seen it before, and I want to see it now.”

Harcourt opened his mouth then closed it again. He didn’t look so dangerous with his eyes so wide and shocked.

DeVille grinned. “Come on, Harcourt. Where’s your grit?”

Austin touched his face. “You don’t mind so much, do you? I’ve just got a powerful curiosity.”

“I noticed,” he said, dryly. “All right.” He gave DeVille a quick, sliding glance.

DeVille said, “I never thought I’d see the day. They must be sledding in hell right now.”

“Maybe I should change my mind,” Harcourt growled.

“Don’t,” DeVille said. He slid a little closer on the blanket, eyes downcast. “Listen to me.”

Harcourt’s brow wrinkled. “What’s all this solemnity?”

“I don’t want to joke about this.” He looked up, and Austin’s breath caught at his steady gaze, though he wasn’t looking at her. “You know if you asked me, I’d do just about anything for you, don’t you?”

“You don’t have to do anything for me. If you think that-”

Austin put her hand on his arm. “Let him talk.”

DeVille went on as if she hadn’t interrupted. “I didn’t say anything about having to. I only-Will you let me do this my way?”

“You’re serious about this. You really want-Why?”

“There’s a difference between us, Aaron. Not colour, or money, or bravery. You had a family, at least you did once. All I ever had was you. I’ve always wanted you to know that.” DeVille caught Harcourt’s face between his hands, dragged him close, and kissed him, open-mouthed.

Even weary as she was, it was downright exciting, seeing others engaged in intimacy at such close range, and so emphatically. DeVille’s hand snarled in Harcourt’s hair almost immediately, as if afraid he would escape; but after Harcourt’s first instinctive flinch, she could see his shoulders relax as he let DeVille taste him. Then Harcourt’s hand lifted, and she’d never seen anything so tender in her life as when his big square hand fitted itself to DeVille’s cheek, his thumb stroking. A moment later, he leaned forwards, moving into the kiss, and DeVille made a tiny sound in his throat.

Austin slid her hand down between her legs. Harcourt reached back, blindly, and grabbed her arm, pulling her towards them. He dragged his mouth away from DeVille’s, looking dazed, and kissed her hungrily. Then he turned back and kissed DeVille, who made a sound like a whimper, then Harcourt was tugging them both down to the blankets.

The night wasn’t quite over yet.

When morning came, Austin found herself rolling her few extra clothes into a saddlebag, not quite sure how DeVille had talked her into going with them, to make their fortunes in San Francisco.