Denver Strike by Randy Wayne White

shoulders, he let his fingers stray, brushing her inner thigh, delicately touching her breasts, grazing her pubis with an extended thumb.
    â€œUmm,” she moaned. “Umm, yes.” Her face was flushed, beaded with the hot steam, and she did not resist when Hawker slid his hands into the shoulders of her body stocking, then stripped the soaking garment down over her chest, stomach, and thighs, then tossed it aside.
    He poured the coconut oil over her entire front. His hands slid up and down her body, massaging her as she lifted, arched, moaned, and cried. Her breasts became milk-white projectiles, projectiles so pale that blue veins formed a throbbing network of color beneath the fine skin, and her pink nipples swelled as if to explode. Her head was thrown back, eyes closed, mouth open, tongue tracing her full lips. Hawker bent and kissed her. She tensed for a moment, then her small hand wound itself in his hair, and she pulled his mouth hard against hers.
    â€œI’ve never felt like this, never ever felt like this,” she moaned. Hawker kissed her again and moved his left hand down her body to the inside of her thigh, stroking the hot clitoral swell beneath her silken pubic hair. She made a low growling shudder, a gurgling zoo sound that fit the primal atmosphere of the steam room. She was breathing so heavily that Hawker feared for a moment that she might be having some kind of attack. It must have been 120 degrees in that steam room! He took his hands from her and attempted to lift her to her feet, but she pressed his hand back to her vagina with a feral quickness. “Don’t stop,” she groaned. “Not now—not ever.…”
    Her hands began to search his body, then began to slide up and down his lean stomach and heavily muscled thighs, then slid his underwear down, and the vigilante stepped out of them.
    Melissa was on her back, her head craned backward, looking at Hawker, who stood above her. She took him in her two small hands, touching him gently, studying him carefully as if she had never seen a fully developed man before. Then with a hungry, almost feverish lunge, she took him into her mouth. She was like a starving, wild creature, her tongue hot and alive as she cupped his buttocks in her two hands and plunged him deeply into her mouth, again and again.
    Finally, Hawker had to pull away. “I’m dizzy as hell with this heat,” he said. “Let’s go outside—”
    â€œNo! Here—please, here. I’ve never felt so wonderful, so alive in my life! James, I’m scared if I leave now this feeling will never come again!”
    The vigilante made a fluttering noise of resignation with his lips as the woman found him once again with her hungry hands, spread her legs so wide that it seemed she wanted to swallow his entire body, then steered him into her with a sharp hip thrust and a yip of pain, then pleasure.
    â€œThis feeling will come again,” muttered Hawker, “but I’m not sure I will.…”
    After all the firelights he had been in, all the wars, the shootouts, the knife fights, fistfights, and mortal grudge matches, it crossed James Hawker’s mind how ironic it would be to die of heart failure in a steambath with the lips of a shockingly beautiful twenty-five-year-old virgin gridlocked on his tallywhacker.
    â€œMelissa, I’ve got to get out of here before I faint! I’ll give you another chance. Damn it, let go!”
    The vigilante went crashing through the door into the cold, clear wind of the Rocky Mountain night. Below, the lights of Denver glittered and glimmered with all the promise of autumn. Hawker took a quick look at himself in one of the full-length mirrors. “Jesus, I lost so much weight in there I look like Wally Cox,” he panted.
    â€œIt still looks perfect to me,” said the woman as she filed exuberantly out behind him. “God, I had no idea anything could feel so good. It feels