Marie Harte: RetroCog

“I wouldn’t miss it, dear. I’ve been meaning to come for some time, but my health, you know how it is. Rumor has it you made sticky buns.” Ida reached for Bill’s strong forearm.

Bill grinned. “A great cook, a pretty innkeeper, and a heck of a hostess. Where’ve you been all my life?” The look he gave her reminded her she had yet to answer him about the date he kept bugging her to accept.

Blond, blue eyed, and seriously built, Bill Knowles had garnered a reputation in town for being an all-around good guy. He’d taken over for the old chief just as she’d arrived in town, and he seemed to be doing well. The ladies sure seemed to like him. If she hadn’t been so busy settling in and working around the clock to upgrade the inn’s services, she might have tried to see what so many found so captivating about the fire chief. But Lara had goals, and a relationship didn’t exactly factor into owning her own inn.

“Sorry, Ida. No sticky buns. We’re having lemon blueberry scones tonight, but I promise, they’re delicious. The dining room is all set up. Let me show you to a table.”

She skirted the center of the large dining area filled with smaller tables. An old oil lamp in the center of each table provided mood lighting for the many regulars joining the inn guests. She liked to think of it as a throwback to the old days, when the inn had functioned as a saloon.

After seating Ida, Lara turned around to leave and bumped into Bill. “Oops, sorry.”

Bill stepped closer. She had the overwhelming urge to flee, an abnormal start of hysteria when she saw something flash in his eyes that didn’t belong there.

Finn’s gonna be so pissed. Need to get out of here before … He ran a finger down her cheek. When she shivered, he smiled. But the expression didn’t reach his eyes, which impossibly darkened into brown . Brown? Bill had blue eyes. She blinked, and Bill chucked her chin.

“Thanks, Lara. You really do make the best coffee in town.” His blue eyes twinkled as he stepped back and sat next to his aunt. They both ordered coffee and scones as if nothing had happened.

As she left to get them their order, she decided she must have imagined the creepiness in Bill’s gaze. An oddness in itself. The voices she heard sometimes grew too loud, but they never impacted what she saw or knew to be real.

As she readied their orders in the kitchen and helped Shelly with a few other requests, Lara couldn’t shake the notion that there just might be something to the new voice she kept hearing after all.

Noah had a hard time doing anything more complicated than breathing as he stood in an honest-to-God brothel. The place had sexual vibes echoing as if they’d been made yesterday.

“So okay, then. If you need anything else, dial nine on the phone.”

Frank waved and left him alone in his room. Finally.

From the moment he’d stepped foot in this town, Noah had sensed the vast history throbbing just under the street’s concrete. Impressions of gunslingers, miners, and the occasional drunk strolling through town had told him he’d stepped into another place—time—entirely. Some areas were like that, full of history that reached out and slapped him. But nothing could have prepared him for the impact this building had. Or its manager.

According to the oh-so-helpful Frank, Lara Graham had arrived in town six months ago. She worked for Ida Knowles with the hopeful intent to eventually buy the property. The place had recently begun to prosper as guests from far and wide came to stay in the very place where the lusty madam Cecilia Fine and the infamous outlaw Finnegan Fury had loved and lost back in 1856.

The history of the place seeped through the walls of the building, but it was the image of Lara that had held him fast. She looked exactly like the woman in the portrait he’d been ordered to bring back. A living, breathing work of art come to life. The same full lips curved up in a smile, those expressive, rich brown eyes, so mysterious yet daring. And that body…

He stifled a groan, wishing he’d indulged in some quick, meaningless sex before flying out here. Because a man who hadn’t had sex in nearly five months, confronted with even half the things he was now seeing, would be hard-pressed to focus on this case. Downstairs, when he’d looked at Lara’s mouth, he’d seen a ghostly overlay of slick, glistening red painted over her lips. Then a woman’s transparent tongue had darted out to lick suggestively, hinting at all kinds of things Lara might do for him.

No, not Lara. That other woman. The one from the portrait.

Noah tried to get a handle on his sweltering libido when another image coalesced into a moving picture on his bed.

“Oh fuck. You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Two naked men were all over a woman clad in nothing but garters that held up netted stockings. He had a sense she was a working girl, one of the Lady Fine whores and two of her customers who’d paid for a tumble. Cowboy hats, dusty clothes, and grimy boots lay strewn in one corner, while the rest of the room lay under flickering shadows of candlelight.

As he watched, the noise only he could hear grew louder. Moans and groans, the sucking and smacking sounds of lips over moist flesh. Noah’s cock thickened in seconds—already hard from his recent thoughts of Lara—now eager to participate.

Noah liked to watch, and he liked to play— rough . So the sight of one guy’s head between the woman’s thighs, his cheeks rubbing against her smoky hose while he gorged on a wet cunt, was bad enough. But when the other fucked her face hard enough that she choked around him, Noah had to move to better see the three of them in action.

In and out, the rough guy pushed into the whore’s mouth with eager strokes, his balls mashing against her chin with each shove forward. The woman didn’t seem to mind it much, or she was that good an actress, because she pulled his thighs toward her, encouraging his advances. She shivered and sucked harder as she made whimpering sounds hinting at a climax. The rough guy stilled and yelled out as he came, then pulled away from her. He stepped back and stood next to Noah, the pair of them keen on the outcome still pending. The man kneeling between the whore’s plump thighs reared back, mounted her, and fucked her until he too climaxed.

No condoms, no talking other than grunts and groans. A small pile of coins sat on a washstand across from the iron-post bed, and the creaking of the bedsprings told its own story. After the last man came, he pulled out, and the three lovers smiled at one another.

The ghosts of yesterday vanished until all that remained in the room were Noah, his hard-on, and the same bed soon occupied with new patrons. The scene shifted into another vision of oral sex, this one between two women totally intent on one another. Sixty-nine had become his new favorite number.

Unable to rebuild his shields until he took care of his own needs, Noah grabbed a few tissues, undid his pants, and masturbated to the hottest sex he’d seen in some time. To his annoyance, he kept imagining Lara Graham on her knees, on her back, taking a nipple or a cock between her lips. The urge to dominate Lara, to bend her to his will, tempted him to let loose the bands on his honest needs. The dark desires he normally kept secret threatened to overtake him. Lara, bound and pliant. Submissive, his to play with, his to own … The fantasy only made his rushing orgasm that much more powerful.

Though he didn’t want to be here, and he didn’t like his odd sense of connection to the woman in the painting—to Lara—he couldn’t ignore it. But he could avoid the shame accompanying his base hungers by pretending they didn’t exist. Like he always did. At least his release abated the need, if not his desire. But when a new couple materialized, fucking on the floor, he focused hard to will away the visions still pressing his psyche, for fear he might inadvertently seek out Lara to make his fantasies all too real.