Secret Chapter – Cowgirls vs Aliens


© 2016 Grace Goodwin & Vanessa Vale

Chapter One
Cassie, 1885, Selby, Montana Territory

I was at a complete disadvantage. I’d never been kissed like this before. I didn’t know if I was doing it the least bit correctly. He did. Oh, he knew exactly how to kiss. I never imagined it would be like this, so… so hot. Wet. Decadent. The skill and eagerness of his attentions was a complete shock.

He tasted like cinnamon and whiskey and… man. There was no other word to describe that dark essence that was purely male. I had missed this, missed the intimacy, the… need. I craved more: his mouth, his hands, his breath on my skin. Everything.

His hand coasted down my side over my plain cotton nightgown until it reached the hem, which he caught up above my knee. Fingers, rough with calluses, slid the material up my thigh ever so slowly, searing a path as they went. Higher and higher his hand moved until my nightgown was bunched about my waist and I was bared to him, naked and exposed and so very empty. His palm circled to my inner thigh, nudging it wider. Wider still. His pant-clad knee moved between mine and I was trapped, open to him. To whatever he wanted.

His heavy weight pressed me deliciously into the bed. I liked it, liked the feel of him, the solidness. I felt small and feminine. The world—everything—was blocked by his body, separated from me and from what he was doing to my flesh. I was shielded, guarded and safe. Protected. My breasts rubbed against his chest, my nipples pebbling. Heat seeped through both his clothes and my nightgown, warming my flesh and making me shiver. The kiss, oh lord, the kiss! Firm, but insistent, he worked his way from one side of my mouth to the other before his tongue flicked over the corner. I gasped and he took advantage of that, plundering inside my mouth. His left hand tangled in my hair, tilting and turning my head as he wanted.

At the first brush of his fingertips against my core, I whimpered and tugged at the restraints that held my arms locked above my head. I couldn’t move, couldn’t touch him or escape his caress.

The thought made me whimper, my core pulsing with need. He silenced the sound with deeper kisses. Heat bloomed on my skin at the caress. My nipples ached, my pussy softened as if readying for him, for the hard drive of his cock filling me. A brilliant burst of pleasure flared when he circled my clit with his fingers and I bent my knee, arched my back and clawed at the wrought iron headboard.
One of his hands lifted to wrap around my wrist, sliding upward so our fingers entwined. Locked together. I felt my palm pulse and flare, as if he were marking me, branding me with just his touch. The pleasure engulfed me. I was lost, overcome with it.

Lower, I felt his cock nudge first my inner thigh, then my swollen folds. It slipped through my wet welcome, became coated in my essence. Shifting my hips, the head tipped inside me, stretching me open. Wide. So very wide that I felt the slight burn of discomfort, the edge of pleasure-pain spinning me higher, making me desperate to have all of him.

I gripped his hand and arched my hips, taking what I wanted, forcing him to slide in all the way. His groan mixed with my gasp at the feel of him deep inside. Like a hand and glove. So perfect. He began to move then, in and out, his own hips pinning mine into the bed. I could not move, could only revel in the way he angled his cock to stroke over delicious places deep inside that made my skin flush, my thighs clench on his sides. All the while, he kissed me, his tongue mimicking the motions of his cock, thrusting deeply before withdrawing. Aggressive. Hard. So overwhelming I couldn’t think or want, I could only feel. And need.

His need was as great as mine, for his pace changed from an even cadence to wild and desperate.
I came then, brilliant white light flaring behind my closed eyelids. He swallowed my cries of exquisite pleasure even as he continued to plunder, to push deep inside me, touching my womb. We weren’t just making love; this felt more primitive than that. Like a marking, as if he were a primal beast staking his claim on my body, and my soul. Dark, frantic and irreversible.
I felt claimed. As if I would never be the same.

“I will find you,” his harsh voice whispered in my ear as he kissed his way along my jaw, his thrusts shifting my entire body up on the bed with each wild drive of his hips to mine.

I will find you.

I jerked awake.

Sitting up, I looked about, confused. The room was dark, and, much to my disappointment, I was alone. No man touched my body or caressed my skin. My breath came quickly. My skin was damp as if I’d run home from town. My nightgown was up about my waist. I could still feel the man’s hands on me, his cock deep inside me. Clenching down, remnants of my orgasm lingered. My nipples were hard, my womanhood was swollen and achy. Shifting my hips, I rearranged my nightgown and fell back onto the soft mattress, but I left my feet flat on the bed, drawn up, my knees bent. Parting my knees, I spread them wide to dip my fingers between my legs. I was wet. So wet that it coated my thighs.

I whimpered as the need to come raged through my veins yet again. As my fingers took up the familiar circular motion over my clit, I thought of the dream.

It was the same dream as the previous night, but he’d gone farther this time. He’d only kissed and touched me before, but now… he’d fucked me. Dear God, he’d fucked me.

I’d been married to my late husband for nearly two years before he died, and was quite familiar with the activity, but what I’d done with Charles was nothing like this dream, nothing like the man who continued to haunt—and taunt—me. I had no idea the marriage bed could be anything but slightly pleasant. I had been young when we wed, just eighteen, and neither of us were skilled in the arts of the bedroom. Charles, while kind, was not overly attentive, especially when it came to marital relations. It had been quick fumblings in the dark, more thrusting and grunting with a sticky finish than lingering pleasure and desire. This man of my dreams was definitely not Charles. The feel of him was different. The scent. Even his cock. This was a man, not a boy as Charles had been.

Letting my legs fall open, I continued to touch myself, to push myself to feel the same thing again, but I sighed, resigned to suffering the ache. I rested my palm over the heated flesh, but found the touch of my own hand was not the same. My fingers could not offer the fulfillment that the man of my dreams could achieve. I was… unsatisfied somehow. Desperate and needy. I needed that man to touch me, kiss me, love me.

“Wake up, Cassie. It was just a dream,” I muttered to myself.

Shaking my head, I tried in vain to eliminate the sensual visions from my thoughts but found I could not. I wanted that man, needed him. No, I needed his cock. It was no more than a ridiculous fantasy, for he only ever existed in my dreams and my subconscious mind had not bothered to give him a name. Worse, I did not know his face, only his touch. His taste. His scent.

Taking a deep breath, I tried to pick up the smell of him on the cool air. I would recognize his scent, knew the woodsy smell of him, but it was gone. Fading along with the dream and the aftereffects of the orgasm.

It was insane. No, perhaps I was insane. To dream, not once or twice, but four times of the same thing. The same man. The first time, it was just the feel of him, heavy and comforting on top of me. The next, he’d kissed me. The next, he’d touched me. And this time, he fucked me. The dream was becoming longer, more detailed, more… carnal. Yet each time before I woke, I heard his voice. Dark and rumbling, like two stones being rubbed together. I would never forget that voice or the promise it made.

“I will find you,” he’d said as I came, my release so much better in a dream than the real thing ever had been.

I lay there, staring out the window as the sky slowly turned to gray in the east, thinking of what that promise meant. Dawn was approaching and the answer would not come. Nor would sleep, no matter how badly I longed to return to my dreams and his arms.

With a sigh, I climbed from the comforts of my bed and dressed quickly and pinned my hair into a simple bun. There was much to do before dawn, when Mr. Anderson awakened. I would have a little extra time this morning to complete my chores, time to myself as I considered the dream, wondered about how my desires for an unseen stranger had invaded my mind and body more than once.

Tiptoeing down from the attic on the back stairs, I lit the lantern in the kitchen and relit the stove. I filled the coffeepot with grounds and water, set it to heat. At the pump sink, I cupped the cool water in my palms and splashed it on my face, hoping to cool my heated cheeks. I washed my hands and dried myself with a towel. In the dawn light I looked at my palm, swiped it with the cloth.

The birthmark there, the darker shape, tingled. Rubbing it did not soothe the sensation. I remembered the dream and how the man held my hand. Palm to palm, the birthmark had flared to life and I’d almost come from that alone. I felt none of that now, but I was truly aware of it for the first time. I’d ignored it all my life. But now, I felt it, was aware of it, warm and insistent. It was becoming a distraction I did not need, as the dreams were.

There was no man in my life any longer. No suitor or beau. I was just the young widow who lived and worked at the boarding house. The Andersons had been kind to take me in when I was four, when I’d been placed on a train and sent west for adoption. I’d grown up with their son, Charles, who had been a few years older. It had been only natural to marry him when I turned eighteen. Looking back, I had to think that Mrs. Anderson had been motivated to keep me on as free labor rather than see me marry some other man in town. The alternatives had been slim and so I’d readily agreed to the match.

Perhaps I was young; perhaps I’d been worried about what would become of me if Charles had married someone else. Surely I’d have been turned out with nowhere to go. Selby was on the train line and growing, but there were not many options for work for unmarried women.

When Charles and his mother both died, I had chosen to remain with Mr. Anderson, who had been—and still was—completely lost. We were two wayward souls. For me, I’d still had no options and so I’d stayed. I wasn’t content, but I was safe. The dreams though, had me wonder if being safe didn’t feel as good as being free.

The familiar sound of footfalls overhead indicated that Mr. Anderson was stirring. He was a man of routine and would be down in five minutes to wash his hands and drink some coffee. I broke from my silly thoughts and let the dream slip away as I began yet another long workday. Grabbing the basket by the back door, I went outside to collect the eggs for breakfast.

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