Captured by Time Read online

  Cimmy indulged herself in a carb overload which she knew she was going to regret later, and secretly hoped that she didn't eat herself out of her clothes while she was here. It was going to be a temptation that was all too great, she could tell. Dessert was a simple apple pie, with very runny ice cream. But it, too, was pure Heaven.

  After dinner, she took another long walk around the town, and noticed the same curious reaction she'd had before—where her usually dormant nipples rose and throbbed as she began to indulge herself in one of her favorite fantasies, trying to put herself into this time period as if she could simply will it. But she'd never before had a sexual reaction when she'd done that. Fantasizing about the past had always provided her a nice respite from the tension and stress with which she had lived as a med student, and even before then as she had had to work to maintain the grades necessary to get into medical school in the first place.

  The way those achingly alert buds rubbed against her bra surprised her. She was no one's idea of a sex kitten; she'd had the same goal since she'd been a child, and no one—with a penis or without—was going to deter her. Her fellow students had teased her about her life as a nun, but those were the same people who'd fought over her help when it came time to study for exams and eventually boards.

  She was a virgin, and in absolutely no hurry to change that state. She'd never met a man she'd felt attracted to—it would have been hard for him to compete with John Wayne, and anyway, Cimmy couldn't imagine a man today even trying to. Pickings were much too easy to have to do that much work just to get laid, and since she had no experience, it probably wasn't worth the effort for her male peers.

  One of the few men who had tried to break through her single-minded determination had told her something to the effect of, "You can never tell what you're going to get with a virgin—she might be great, or, more likely, she might dissolve into tears in your arms." Cimmy had watched him shudder at the latter possibility and known she was making the right decision. She didn't need a man, and she most certainly didn't need the distraction. Medical school was hard enough without adding complications to the mix. And, having grown up with a single mother, and watching her bounce from one boyfriend to the next, Cimmy knew for a fact that men were definitely a complication.

  But now, for the first time in her life, she wasn't sure what was going on with her body, especially when her nipples remained engorged, chafing with every movement, and awakening parts of her that she was becoming quite sure were better left asleep, especially as she felt more than a drop of wetness dampening her panties. It was a good thing she hadn't bought the open crotch bloomers she'd been looking at before the trip, or there'd be a river running down the inside of her thigh.

  She was so bothered by the feelings that were stirring within her and her lack of control over them, that instead of stopping by a social the hotel was sponsoring in the Mark Twain Saloon, she instead made her way up to her room. With a cocktail added to the mix, Cimmy couldn't trust herself. One night stands were not going to become her style.

  As she undressed in the glowing lamplight, she caught her reflection in the mirror and was taken by it, somehow. Her body had always been no more than that to her—a way of getting her brain to places where it could learn and absorb as much as it could—but somehow something seemed different, perhaps because of her surroundings. She'd never seen herself in such soft light, almost more shadow than anything else.

  Her breasts felt swollen and tender, eager to be free of the confines of her bra. She watched herself reach behind and undo the clasps, then let it fall to the floor at her feet. She stared, mesmerized, as the naked mounds rose and fell with breathing that was becoming more and more ragged. She would have sworn they were growing in size under her gaze; the tips straining as if they were still bound by restrictive cotton, seeking something, anything, to soothe them.

  As she bit her lip, her hands rose of their own volition to cup herself, her palms filled to overflowing as her fingers sought those tender bits, pinching, tugging, pulling as a lover would, doing things to herself, touching herself in a manner she had never needed—or wanted—to do before.

  When she looked at her reflection, she saw a woman she didn't really know. Her features were softened in the light, her honey-blonde hair flowing down her back, rather than scraped into a ponytail so it would stay out of her eyes. She looked… not quite rubenesque, but womanly through and through. Shadows pointed out her more obviously feminine features, curving lovingly around the hands that held her breasts, slimming a waist that wasn't quite fat but not as toned as it should be from eating on the run and never exercising, and shrouding the delta between her thighs modestly while playing up the rounded curves of her hips and thighs.

  Her hands wandered to that juncture between her legs, gathering up the gown in one hand and pushing aside the crotch of her panties with the other until she could sink her fingers between those soft, feminine folds and caress the half-engorged button she found there until she was close… so, so close.

  But then she heard a voice from downstairs, and the spell was abruptly broken. Suddenly she realized how stupid she must look, standing there in front of the mirror, feeling herself up. So she turned away and finished undressing.

  Cimmy had gone the whole hog when Eva had given her this present and she'd known she was coming here, buying something that was as far from the sexy self she'd just discovered as possible; a chin high, toe length, granny-style nightgown. She hadn't gone as far as buying the mobcap that went with it, however, because this was, after all, Arizona. Even in the fall, triple digit temperatures weren't unusual.

  Cimmy liked how she felt in the gown. Not in the same way as she'd just discovered she liked touching herself, but in a soul satisfying manner that had her turning up the air conditioning—one of the hotel's few concessions to modernity that Cimmy alternately castigated and praised them for in her mind—and diving under the covers, pulling that pretty quilt all the way up under her chin and rolling onto her side, hoping that sleep would claim her quickly.

  Chapter Two

  Her long day of travel, combined with some remaining jet lag, had Cimmy falling into a deep sleep that was, however, anything but dreamless. In fact, the one and only dream she had that night seemed most disturbingly real.

  It was funny, but she was also asleep in her dream—until she rolled over and her bare nipple slid into someone's mouth as if it belonged there. And damn if that didn't feel so amazing she just wanted to scream. So this was what all the fuss was about? How could she have gone so long without it? She was quickly getting to the point where she didn't think she could imagine not feeling those firm, pursed lips tugging at that delicate point, flicking it demandingly with the tip of his tongue as its companion was engulfed in an enormous, callused palm that rasped her tender flesh on a pleasurable note that was just this side of painful.

  Wait a minute—someone was suckling at her breast? How did that happen?

  She came awake with a start—or at least, she thought she had. But the scene that met her eyes was so implausible, not to mention disturbingly sensual, that she knew it had to be a dream, and she closed them again immediately. She'd had the very occasional sex dream, and this one was no different, she supposed.

  Only it felt so much better that her eyes popped open again and collided with stark blue ones that were boldly staring back at her. And instead of opening her mouth to scream bloody murder, all Cimmy could think about was how bereft her little nub felt, all cool and wet in the night air.

  "I don't know what you're doing here, ma'am," her dream man rumbled quietly, "but I'm mighty obliged to find you here, regardless. I was expecting to find Cherry, but you are a much more delicious treat."

  He dipped his head as if he expected to kiss her—as if he couldn't conceive that she might object to that idea—and she finally found her voice, throwing her head back and beginning an all-out scream; another first, since she hadn't had the occasion to need to do that until now.


  But before she could get out so much as a peep, she found her mouth covered with the same big hand that had recently claimed her breast. His blue eyes darkened and his jaw clenched. The several days' worth of hair growth on his face only added to his rugged appeal. The way his dark hair lay against his forehead revealed that a hat once sat on his head. No hair product, no cologne, just the smell of dust, essence of man, and the scent of… horse? This guy, despite terrifying the crap out of her, definitely lived up to her ideal of a dream man when it came to looks. But regardless, terror won over fantasy.

  "None of that now," he whispered firmly. "I don't need that kind of attention right at this moment, and I can't imagine you'd like to see the sheriff's puckered face busting through that door, either. So I'll thank you to be quiet, and we'll transact our business without adding a disturbing the peace charge to my already growing list of transgressions, hmmm?"

  Transact their business? Sheriff? Expecting Cherry? Who was this man, and what the fuck was he doing in her room; in her bed, holding her and molesting her as if he had every right to do so? Was she even dreaming? Had this crazy man broken into her room and now wanted to have sex with her?

  She didn't express any kind of consent to his proposal. He simply assumed she'd see his logic and took his hand away. "Who the fuck are you?" she screamed, but she only got out one short note of distress before his palm covered her mouth again, stifling the rest of her full body scream. Surely, though, in such a quiet place with so few guests, even just that small cry of distress would be enough to send the management running to her aid, wouldn't it?

  Cimmy strained to hear footsteps on the stairs, but there were none. Instead, what greeted her ears was the sound of piano music, glasses clinking, and a multitude of loud male voices.

  Panic was inches from setting in, but then she remembered that she was probably sleeping, and all she needed to do was close her eyes and settle back into dreamland. Telling herself—in her head, but in the dream at the same time—had always worked in the past when she wanted to wake herself from the infrequent nightmare, so that was what she did. Please wake up. Please wake up. Please wake up!

  But this didn't have the feel of a dream, and when she opened her eyes again, things had rapidly gone from bad to worse. While she had been trying to convince herself that this wasn't real, her assailant had sat up on the edge of the bed and proceeded to reach down to haul her over his lap, face down.

  "Didn't I tell you to be quiet?" he growled.

  Her nightgown was up at her waist and her panties down at her ankles within seconds, although the panties did seem to give him a moment of pause before he yanked them down effortlessly. And all of a sudden that callused palm was being brought down on her newly-bared behind in such a sharp, rapid fashion that, for the second time in her life, she threw her head back, opened her mouth, and…

  Found it stuffed full of a white handkerchief that was quickly knotted over the hair at the back of her head. Her wrists were casually caught at the small of her back, and he picked up the spanking as if it had never been disrupted—indeed, to him, it probably barely had. Was her dream man spanking her? Was she actually over a man's knee and getting the first spanking of her life? What in the hell was going on?

  Cimmy's world—or what was left of it when she began to realize that she couldn't wake herself up from this nightmare—was crashing down around her, more so with every crisp, burning swat he landed.

  She had never really known the meaning of the word 'helpless', but she was learning it quite rapidly, to her complete and abject horror. No amount of twisting or writhing or arching or wiggling had any effect on him, and nor did any of the depressingly few blows she managed to land on his body. It was like hitting her fist against a brick wall, so eventually she stopped. She couldn't bite him; he'd seen to that. So she tried to pinch him instead, but there wasn't a spare inch of flesh on him, so he was immune to that defense, too.

  Why wasn't she waking up? Why was she not ending this crazy dream?

  There didn't seem to be anything she could do to avoid any of the havoc he was wreaking, and she seemed to be battling not only him, but also her mind and her body. Her mind wanted her to do nothing but scream, because dammit, it hurt! She was going to have to completely reevaluate how she felt about spankings—if she lived through this one—because no one had ever told her just how amazingly painful it was! But her body had wandered off somewhere into the sense memories of the occasional spanking scene that popped up in Westerns, and although she knew intellectually that her bottom had to be the color of a lobster by now, she also knew that the close proximity of that offending palm to parts of her that had never known a man's touch, had those very same parts yearning for his hand to slip, somehow, until his fingers end up lodged between her legs, preferably right up against her clit. She was just as surprised by the wetness forming in her eyes as she was by the wetness forming between the folds of her pussy; both of which were caused by the spanking.

  The mortifying knowledge of her position, the reality and sensations of what he was actually doing to her, and her own traitorous response to it, had her about as close to fainting as she'd ever gotten in her life.

  Wait, can you faint in a dream? That stray thought popped into her head and out just as quickly, driven out by the blaze in her bottom.

  * * * * *

  When he stopped, she didn't—despite the futility of her actions. Her legs continued to kick, and she continued to arch up and try to squirm out of his hold just as actively as if he was still bringing his palm down on to what had to be a pretty sore behind, if the color was anything to judge by.

  He could hear her sobbing as if someone was wrenching her heart out of her chest, and was uncharacteristically touched by it. He didn't know or care in the least what any other man thought, but he was a firm believer that a woman needed to be taught a lesson occasionally, in exactly this manner, and her persistent attempts to call attention to what they were doing had been more than enough provocation for him to do what he'd just done. Not to mention the fact that she had the mouth of a drunken bandit on her. But her heartfelt sobs behind the impromptu gag prompted a twinge of guilt he would have sworn it was no longer possible for him to feel. Regardless, he flipped her over and cradled her between his legs, holding her so that her backside wasn't touching anything and resting inches from the quilt beneath them as he gathered her within his tight embrace. Against his better judgment, he hugged her to him, rocking slightly. He wasn't usually one to show such intimacy to a woman of ill repute, but nonetheless, she was a woman in distress and he couldn't just allow her to cry. Especially since her distress was due to his hand, deserving or not. A woman of her kind wasn't used to a man's firm guidance no doubt, but her venomous tongue and actions needed some handling.

  "I told you not to scream, woman, and I mean what I say."

  His hard, implacable tone had her stiffening even further, but judging by the sounds drifting up from downstairs, they had a while before he would need to leave, and he intended to get his—or whoever's—money's worth from her. He hadn't contracted for her services, since a prostitute wasn't of much interest to him. Belle, the madam downstairs, must have sent her to the wrong room. But she was his now, and for some crazy reason unbeknownst to him, he'd kill any man who tried to interfere.

  What was one more death added to the pile of men he was already supposed to have killed? Besides, he had what he needed to prove his innocence now, and was in the mood to celebrate. And this little whore whimpering in his arms was a definite way to do that. Something about her seemed different than the rest. Special.

  Slickly, as if he'd done it a thousand times—and he hadn't, at least not quite that many, anyway—he twisted himself and her so that she was lying beside him, on her back, on the bed, still sporting the gag he'd made from the handkerchief he kept in his pocket. He considered removing it but then thought better of the idea. Some whores wouldn't let you kiss them, but he'd seen her lips and had wanted the
m instantly on his… and on other places that had long since hardened at the thought.

  Regardless of what she would allow or not, he knew he couldn't chance it. If she screamed again, if she screamed at one of those times when everyone else fell silent, he knew Belle and her goons—and probably the town sheriff, he'd seen him downstairs and done his best to avoid the older man's sharp eye—would be up here in a second, and that would be the end of him.

  Fucking her probably wouldn't be the smartest thing he'd ever done in his life, but the moment he'd woken up and seen her sleeping in his bed, he'd known that he was going to risk his hide, literally, to do just that. She was just too damned tempting, with all that honey blonde hair spread out over his pillow. It wasn't that artificial, brassy color a lot of working girls favored, but looked completely natural and enticing, and he was a fool for a woman's hair. Not to mention how innocent she looked while asleep, her face surprisingly clean and devoid of the remnants of the usual garish makeup.

  Of course, she wasn't dressed like any doxy he'd ever met—that nightgown was going to have to come off. But he guessed that maybe it was a novelty which some men enjoyed. Given his own preferences, he liked his women to be well-covered, although this nightgown was a bit much, even for him.

  It didn't button all the way down the front, though, so he took a side in each hand and ripped it, finding he didn't have the patience to take it off over her head. He wanted his hands on her; his palms literally itching with the need in a way they never had before. One was still distinctly warmer than the other, the price he paid for disciplining her, one he would never shirk paying for the right woman.

  Which, unfortunately, wasn't her. Wasn't likely to be any woman until he could get his name cleared, but even then it wouldn't be someone that everyone else in town had had. His pride just couldn't take that idea.