Free The Devil's Collector by J. R. Roberts Page B

do.”
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    Jack and Betty walked hand in hand until they were far enough away from the house, and nowhere near her father. They sank to the ground together, kissing, their hands groping. He unbuttoned her dress and peeled it down her arms so that her bountiful breasts sprang free. He held them in his hands, kissed them until the nipples grew hard, then nibbled on them until she moaned and cried. She massaged him through his trousers, then undid his buttons and stuck her hand inside.
    They had done this a few times before he left, but had never gone so far as to consummate their love. This time there was no stopping them. He lifted her dress, touched her with his fingers until she was very wet. Then she slid his trousers down, lay on her back, spread her legs, and took him into her. There was a moment’s resistance, and then she was a virgin no more. She cried out in pain first . . .
    â€œDo you want me to stop?” he asked.
    â€œNo, no,” she said into his ear, “never, never stop.”
    And he didn’t. He moved into her slowly at first, then increased the tempo until he was ramming his cock into her.
    Over and over. Her breathing came in gasps as she tightened her legs around him, raked his back with her nails, and exhorted him on . . .
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    Later, as they dressed hastily, she said, “You have to take me with you, Jack.”
    â€œI can’t, Betty,” he said. “Clint and I . . . we have killin’ to do. You can’t be around that.”
    â€œBut I love you. You can’t leave me here.”
    He took her by the elbows and said, “I’ll be back for you, Betty. I swear I will.”
    He pulled her to him and she held on to him tightly.
    â€œMy father would kill you if he knew . . .”
    â€œWhen I come back for you, Betty, we’re gonna get married,” he said. “I’ll do it right. I’ll ask your father for your hand.”
    â€œAnd if he refuses?”
    He held her at arm’s length and said, “Then we’ll get married anyway. Nothing is gonna stop us. I love you, Betty.”
    â€œI love you, too, Jack.”
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    By the time they walked back to the house, Clint had the horses ready.
    â€œOh!” Betty said, grabbing Jack’s arm.
    â€œI told you,” he said, “I’ll be back. I promise.”
    Betty walked to the house and went inside.
    Sonnet joined Clint by the horses, accepted the reins of his mount.
    â€œDid you say good-bye?”
    â€œI did.”
    â€œGood.”
    â€œI also told her I’d be back.”
    â€œMaybe that wasn’t so good.”
    â€œYou can’t stop me, Clint.”
    â€œWho said I was going to try, kid?”
    They mounted their horses, started riding away from the house.
    â€œBusby?” Sonnet asked.
    Clint nodded and said, “First. Then we’ll try Garfield.”
    They rode away in silence. No sense in trying to talk Sonnet out of returning—not now anyway, Clint thought. Not when the kid had that puppy dog look in his eyes.

TWENTY-SEVEN
    Busby was a collection of falling-down shacks that could only be called a town through great generosity.
    â€œLook familiar?” Clint asked.
    â€œAs a matter of fact,” Sonnet said, “it does.”
    They reined in their horses in front of the trading post. When they entered, they saw that it was a combination general store and saloon. There was one man behind the bar, and three more in front, drinking. They all turned to look at the two strangers as they entered.
    â€œYou got a lot of nerve,” the bartender said.
    â€œAre you talking to me?” Clint asked.
    â€œI’m talkin’ to your friend,” the man said.
    â€œYou didn’t learn your lesson last time?” one of the other men asked Sonnet.
    â€œMy lesson?”
    â€œDon’t act like you don’t