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To say you lacked a conscience would have been putting it kindly — you killed, robbed and looted, uncaring and indiscriminate. Just pulled the trigger all the same. You were a trigger-happy bitch to put it lightly, but you knew when to hold back. To keep from being thrown out of the gang, or more likely, catching a bullet in the back of the head.
When Micah joined up, you were indifferent. You didn't necessarily like each other—still fought over the same stupid shit he did with everyone else—but there was a kinship of sorts. An unspoken understanding.
Micah had found a lead on an unguarded caravan traveling through the Heartlands. He just needed someone to come with. Backup, he had called it but you knew better — he wasn't stupid enough to be the only one to die if shit went wrong. He'd asked almost everyone else in camp, only to be brushed off. You couldn't blame them — you trusted him as far as you could throw him, which wasn't very far at all.
As the last member gave an excuse not to go, you smirked slightly when he seemed to lose hope. Then his eyes found you. He scoffed before starting in your direction. Typical.
If you had a cock between your legs, you would have been his first choice. You were sure of it. You were one of the quickest draws in the gang and a damn good shot at that — you were just cursed to be of the gentler sex, as some men might have put it. But you were anything but gentle, harder than most men and twice as brutal. In fact, that made it easier. No one suspected such a pretty face to be so rotten on the inside.
You didn't look up from your rifle as you heard Micah stop in front of you. He had to ask for your attention, not just expect it. You heard him clear his throat, but kept your eyes on the weapon as you wiped it down with a kerchief. That wasn't good enough. He groaned and then spoke. You smirked.
“Miss,” he said, voice flat as he tried to sound polite. “Are you busy?”
You had to keep yourself from barking out a laugh. Hearing an honorific like that from Micah's mouth was almost preposterous — you expected it from someone like Arthur or Dutch, but not Micah. Micah could barely open his mouth without antagonizing someone but you supposed his attempt at civility was part of your meagre understanding. He didn't like you, but he respected you. Good.
You looked up, making no effort to hide the grin on your face but you did lower your rifle into your lap. His face was twisted into an almost pained grimace. You tilted your head.
“Maybe,” you mused. “What're you botherin’ me for?”
You weren't busy and you knew exactly what he had approached you for. His pitiful attempts at garnering help for his job were no secret. You'd heard him ask and be denied every time without fail. You just wanted to hear him say it. Ask you for help. Make the big and bad Micah Bell ask a woman for help.
His frown deepened and you saw the cogs turning in his mind as he contemplated just going off alone. But no, he wasn't that stupid. He plastered a thin smile on his face that didn't reach his eyes. You were going to agree either way—the job sounded easy enough and you needed the cash—but he should have known better than to try and use chivalry to appeal to you. Not that he had any.
“Well, I got a lead, miss,” he drawled as he spread his arms as if he was proposing the most profound thing in the world. “And I think you're the perfect one for it.”
Once again, you had to keep yourself from bursting into laughter. You were the perfect person for the job? Did he think you hadn't seen him pestering every able man before he begrudgingly approached you?
“Is that so, Micah?” you asked, leaning back on your hand as you cocked a brow.
You let him stew in the silence for a moment. You saw him falter and the smirk on your lips widened before you spoke.
“What's the job then? I ain't got all night.”
The thin smile finally reached his eyes because you hadn't outright turned him away like everyone else had.
“It's a stagecoach crossin’ the border, over near Emerald Station. Unguarded. Not too many folks in it,” he started. “Heard about it from a lawman over in Valentine after he drank too much. Should have some cash and weapons in it for us. For the gang too.”
You nodded as if weighing your options, once again enjoying how he seemed to lose hope when you didn't immediately agree. You waited just enough for uncertainty to begin to creep across his face.
“When do we head out?” you asked, going back to cleaning your rifle.
“First light. Stagecoach is comin’ around noon. We got to set up and find a place to scout.”
You nodded, not gracing him with a verbal answer. Micah turned to leave but then called over his shoulder,
“You best be up, woman, because I'm not wakin’ you. I'll leave without you.”
He wouldn't. You knew he wouldn't — once again, not that stupid. He wouldn't have stooped to ask you of all people if he didn't think he'd need the help.
Well, the job went to shit. You'd had a suspicion that it would but you didn't think it would be quite so spectacular — you figured it would end up having nothing of value and just be a waste of your time, but no, that wasn't it. Not only was it not unguarded like Micah had laid it out, it had federal agents on board. It was a set up. A trap meant to catch fools like you and Micah and you'd been drawn right in, like flies to honey. Or vinegar. Whatever the saying was.
You'd both managed to get a few shots off before deciding better of it and mounting your horses. You both rode like hell, weaving your way up through the Heartlands and into the Grizzlies. It would be easier to lose them that way. Make it harder to track you—most federal agents were city boys and had little stomach for the wilderness. They'd retreat with their tails between their legs and their ranks a few men lighter.
You rode until grassland and forest became snow and sparsely populated trees. Until your horses were frothed with sweat and stumbling. You decided you'd give your mare an extra helping of oats when you had the time — she deserved it. She'd done good and served you well.
You managed to come across an old hunter's cabin before your horses collapsed from exhaustion. The first stroke of luck you'd had all day — you didn't fancy having to purchase a new horse, but with the way it had been going, the thought had crossed your mind.
You dismounted and led your horse to the lean-to in close proximity to the cabin. You heard Micah doing the same but did not look back.
The cold was biting into your skin through your clothing — you'd worn clothing meant for average temperatures, not the Ninth Circle. The scowl on your face was so severe it hurt. You'd been wearing it for hours. Hopefully, it didn't give you new wrinkles. The life you lived was already hard enough — you didn't need to lose your advantage.
You untacked your mare with practiced ease, wiping the frothy sweat away from her coat and cooing to her. You heard Micah laugh that ugly laugh of his at your actions, but didn't say anything. You didn't trust yourself not to draw your revolver and shoot him.
Or maybe your sawed-off shotgun. That would hurt more. You smirked at the thought as you rubbed your mare's muzzle.
You wordlessly trudged toward the cabin, not caring if Micah followed. He could freeze for all you cared.
The cabin was small and threadbare. One room, a fireplace, a table, and a bed shoved against the far wall. It smelled of damp wood and old fur. It wasn't much but it had four walls and a promise of warmth. At that moment, it was paradise. At least compared to the day you'd been having.
There was a small pile of wood in the corner — barely enough, but enough to get a fire going. You grabbed a few pieces and began arranging them in the fireplace, adding some crumpled paper and a splash of liquor from your flask. You struck a match and lit it.
You then used the match to light a cigarette, sighing as you pulled the tar into your lungs. The nicotine was a godsend. At least now the smoke curling from your lips wasn't pretending to be warmth.
Micah then made his appearance and your scowl returned, your brow twitching. You stormed up to him, getting in his face despite your height difference.
“You bastard!” you spit, shoving at him with the hand not holding your cigarette. “You said it was unguarded! Maybe you're stupider than you look but that sure as hell ain't unguarded!”
Instead of getting angry, Micah just laughed again. He put up his hands and pushed you back, looking altogether too amused by your outrage. He kept you at bay but made no attempt to stop you from snarling and gnashing at him like an untrained dog.
“Calm down, girly,” he drawled, voice smooth as if you hadn't just skirted the noose. “Jobs don't always go accordin’ to plan. You know that.”
You let out a wordless sound of frustration and took a few steps back. He was right. That was part of the life you both lived. You took another drag of your cigarette as you paced. He couldn't have known it was unguarded—he wouldn't have begged everyone in camp to tag along before coming to ask you. If he wanted to kill you, he would have just done it himself, no federal agents or stagecoach robbery needed.
You stopped pacing and narrowed your eyes. You pointed a finger at him.
“You owe me, Micah,” you seethed. “I came with you on this shitshow of a job and I ain't got nothin’ to show for it. Not a damn thing.”
He chuckled at you as he took a few steps toward you.
“Sure, princess,” he drawled, the condescension in his voice clear. “Whatever you want.”
You saw red as you closed the distance between you, tossing the cigarette to the side. Your vice was the last thing on your mind right now. You crowded into his space and shoved at him.
“Screw you! You just lost the last damn person willin’ to go on a job with you!”
He stared down at you, a lazy grin on his lips as he watched your tantrum.
“Well, you were the last damn person I asked, so don't make much difference, does it?”
Your hands fisted into the collar of his shirt as you continued to try to shake him, though he barely budged. Maybe you should have just shot him when you were out with the horses. Baylock was a nice mount. You'd at least get something out of it.
“If I was a man you would have asked me first,” you hissed.
“Maybe, maybe not. But you ain't a man, are you? You're all woman.”
You stilled as you glared up at him. Micah took this as a sign to continue.
“You know, I don't think you're mad ‘cause the job went wrong. I think you're mad because you ain't gettin’ your cut.”
He was right and that was what hurt most. The bastard smirked down at you because he knew he'd hit his mark. You needed him to shut up. However you managed it. He'd take your continued silence as an invitation to keep running his mouth.
Before your mind could catch up, you yanked him by his shirt collar and mashed your lips onto his. Micah grunted in surprise, his body going rigid beneath your hands. For a heartbeat, he didn't return the kiss. Then his hand found the small of your back and pulled you closer.
The moment your brain caught up with what you were doing, you wanted to throw yourself into the fireplace. Your body might have kept the fire going for a bit longer. Not that it would benefit you at all. You shoved him away from you, breathless from the kiss.
That smug grin was back on his face, only deepening your anger.
“That what you needed, girly?” he drawled, advancing on you slowly. “Coulda just asked. Don't want you all hot and bothered.”
You glared at him as if you hadn't been the one to initiate.
“Fuck you, Micah,” you snarled but your feet kept you rooted to the spot.
You should've moved, should've put distance between you and that predatory look in his eyes. But you didn't. You just stood there like a prey animal that had forgotten how to run.
He closed the gap between you in two strides and when his hand came up to cup your jaw — possessive, rough — you reacted on instinct. Your palm cracked across his face hard enough that the sound echoed through the small cabin. His head snapped to the side and for a moment, everything went still.
Then he laughed, low and grating.
“There she is,” he drawled, turning back to face you with a red mark blooming across his cheek. He raised a hand to rub at it. “There's that mean little bitch I know.”
Before you could respond, his hand shot out to return the favor. The slap wasn't as hard as yours had been — he was holding back, the sleazy bastard — but it was enough to make your head turn. Enough to make heat course through your veins that had nothing to do with the fire crackling behind you.
“You hit like a man,” he remarked, flexing his jaw where you'd hit him. “Wonder if you fuck like one too.”
You lunged at him then, all teeth and fury, shoving him backward. He caught your wrists and suddenly you were grappling, bodies colliding as you both fought for control. His back hit the wall with a thud that shook the cabin, and pressing your advantage, you attempted to pin him there with your weight. Your faces were inches apart, both of you breathing hard. Teeth bared, ready to sink into flesh.
“I shoulda left you back there,” you hissed. “Shoulda left you to die.”
“But you didn't,” he drawled, eyes dark and pupils blown wide. “You saved my worthless hide. Now what're you gonna do about it?”
You kissed him again harder this time, all teeth and tongues. He bit your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood and you gasped into his mouth. The metallic tang only seemed to spur you both on. His hands found your hips, gripping them bruisingly tight as he spun you around to slam your back against the wall where he had just been. The breath was knocked from your lungs from the force of the impact, but you didn't have time to recover before his mouth was on your neck, biting and sucking marks into your skin that would be visible for days. You dug your nails into his shoulders through his shirt, hard enough that he groaned against your throat.
“You're a goddamn animal,” you panted, even as you tilted your head to give him better access.
If your mind wasn't so addled by lust, you would have slapped yourself for being so goddamn submissive. You were the one who wore the pants.
“Takes one to know one, darlin’.”
His hands were everywhere on you — rough, calloused and demanding. He yanked at your shirt, buttons scattering across the floor as he tore it open. You followed suit, ripping his shirt apart. When his mouth found your breast through your thin chemise, you arched into him with a sound you would never admit to making.
You shoved at his chest and he let you push him backward until his legs hit the edge of the bed. He sat down hard, looking up at you with that infuriating smirk still firmly in place. You straddled him, grinding down against the obvious bulge in his pants. You watched him with dark satisfaction as his eyes fluttered shut for just a moment.
“Not so smug now, are you, Micah?” you taunted.
His eyes snapped open and before you could react, he had you flipped onto your back on the bed, his weight pressing you into the thin mattress.
“You talk too much, woman,” he growled and claimed your mouth again in a brutal kiss.
You fought against him even as you kissed back, shoving and rolling until you were on top again, then him, then you — a tangle of limbs and fury and desperate need.
Somewhere in the struggle, you lost your pants, as did he. The same happened with your undergarments and soon you were fully bare in front of each other. His hand slid between your thighs and you gasped when his fingers found how wet you were for him.
“Shit,” he rasped against your ear. “All this from hatin’ me?”
“Shut up,” you managed, but it came out breathy and weak.
His fingers began to circle your clit with maddening pressure and you couldn't stop your hips from rolling into his touch.
“Make me,” he challenged, his fingers pressing harder and working you with deliberate cruelty.
You bit down on his shoulder hard enough to break skin, tasting copper. He responded by shoving two fingers inside you without warning. The sudden intrusion made you cry out, the walls of your cunt clenching around the thick digits as he forced them deeper. The stretch burned and your body had to work to accommodate them as he twisted his wrist, trying to find the angles that made your thighs tremble.
“That's it,” he murmured against your throat. “Squeeze my fingers just like that. Show me how tight that cunt is.”
Your hand smacked against the side of his face, not hard enough to do any real damage but hard enough to wound his pride. He rose up on his forearms to leer down at you. The look in his eyes promised retaliation. Without a word, he added a third finger, the stretch almost painful as he forced you open for him.
“Fuck you…you bastard—” you gasped even as another gush of slick coated his fingers while he pistoned them in and out ruthlessly.
“Yeah?” he drawled, curling his fingers and finding the spot deep inside you that made your vision blur. “Keep talkin’ that shit, woman. See where it gets you.”
You moved your hand to try and slap him again, but he caught your wrist this time, pinning it against the mattress above your head painfully. His other hand never stopped working, thick fingers driving into you with brutal efficiency. The wet sounds of your arousal filled the room obscenely and undeniably.
“Listen to that,” he taunted, his breath hot against your ear. “Listen to how wet you are for me. Your cunt's droolin’ all over my hand, girly.”
“Go to hell,” you snarled — or at least tried to. The words came out broken as he scissored his fingers, stretching you wider.
Your inner walls fluttered around his fingers, slick and hot, as your body prepared itself for orgasm even as you tried to quell it. You didn't want to give in. Refused to. Loathed the very idea.
Micah made the choice for you. He withdrew his fingers suddenly and you couldn't stop the sound of frustration that escaped your throat. He brought his hand up between you, turning it over as your arousal glistened in the firelight.
“Look at that,” he said with a laugh, spreading his fingers so you could see the strands of wetness webbing between them. “All that for a man you claim to hate.”
You opened your mouth to retort but he grabbed a fistful of your hair and yanked back hard, bearing your throat to him. The pain in your scalp was sharp and immediate, making you gasp out. His mouth found your neck once more, biting hard and adding to the marks surely already marring the expanse. You couldn't help the moan that escaped you as his teeth scraped along your pressure point.
You dug your nails into his back, leaving bloody crescents and angry red streaks as you raked down. He groaned against your throat and you felt the thickness of his cock pressing against your thighs. The size of him sent a jolt of genuine apprehension through you — the same kind you got when you realized you were in over your head on a job — but you'd be damned if you'd show it.
“What's wrong, Micah?” you teased, your voice taking on a sickly saccharine edge meant to provoke. It was a habit you picked up when you were nervous. One that often did more harm than good. “Need to talk yourself up before you can get it up?"
His hand tightened in your hair, pulling harder, and his other hand came up to backhand you across the face. He didn't hold back this time — your head spun as your vision blurred and despite it all, you moaned. You'd always needed to be hurt to get off, to truly enjoy a rendezvous. You were a sick little bitch in more ways than one.
“Keep runnin’ that mouth,” he said with a laugh. “I got somethin’ to shut you up with.”
He released his grip on your hair only to flip you over with brutal efficiency, shoving your face into the mattress. You let out a choked sound of indignation — this wasn't how it was supposed to go.
You tried to push yourself up but his hand pressed between your shoulder blades, pinning you down. You felt him position himself behind you, felt the blunt head of his cock sliding through your folds to coat himself in your slick.
“Micah,” you hissed, voice almost a growl. “Wait.”
“Wait?” he asked, laughing again, dark and mean. “You been beggin’ for this since you kissed me, girly. Now you're gonna take it.”
He pushed into you and the stretch was overwhelming, bordering on painful. Just the head of his cock felt impossibly thick, forcing your cunt to yield around him. Your nails dug into the threadbare coverlet on the mattress, trying to muffle the cries you couldn't quite hold back as he split you.
“Fuck, you're tight,” Micah groaned, his fingers digging bruises into the plump flesh of your hips. “Squeezin’ me so goddamn hard.”
You couldn't respond. Could barely breathe as the walls of your cunt were stretched taut around him, every nerve ending screaming as he filled you completely. The burn of it was intense and you couldn't tell if it was pleasure or pain you were feeling. Honestly, it didn't matter — it felt good either way. You could feel your clit throbbing with need. You could feel every ridge and every vein as he sank his cock deeper into you.
When he finally bottomed out, fully seated inside of you, his cock nudging against your cervix — you felt so full. Cunt stuffed to the brim. Claimed in a way that made something primal and animalistic within you want to fight even harder. So you did.
“Get off—” you started half-heartedly, but he pulled almost all the way out and slammed back in, making the words dissolve into a choked cry.
“What was that, girly?” Micah drawled, obviously amused at the fact you were still fighting the inevitable. “Didn't quite hear you.”
He set a brutal pace immediately — no mercy, no gentleness. Each thrust drove the air from your lungs, his cock dragging against your inner walls with devastating friction. Broken, keening noises spilled from your lips with each thrust and that fact made you want to die. You'd never live this down.
“Fuck you,” you finally managed, but it came out breathy and was promptly undermined by a helpless moan.
His hand fisted in your hair again, yanking your head back at a painful angle. Your back arched, allowing him to hit something deep inside you that made you see stars with each pass of his cock. You could no longer hear the soothing crackle of the fire, just the obscene sounds of flesh meeting flesh, the wet sounds your cunt made as he fucked into you and your gasps and his grunts of effort.
“That's it,” he panted, his grip on your hair tightening until tears pricked at your eyes. “Take it. Take every goddamn inch of my cock.”
His other hand came down on your ass with a sharp crack that made you keen. The sting spread beautifully across your skin and he did it again, harder — the sound echoing off the cabin walls. Your cunt clenched around him involuntarily and he groaned.
“You like that?” he taunted. He spanked you again, then again, each blow harder than the last. “Like gettin’ your ass beat while I fuck you, girly?”
If you were to be honest with yourself, yes you did. Quite so. But the last time you'd told anything but half-truths and platitudes, you couldn't lace your boots on your own.
“Go. To. Hell,” you gasped out in between his thrusts, though there wasn't much venom behind it.
You were so wet, you could feel it dripping down your thighs. Could hear it in the slick sounds of him driving into you. Your cunt walls were fluttering around him, gripping him tightly despite your protests.
He released your hair only to grab your hips with both hands, his fingers digging in hard and worrying the already forming bruises as he used the leverage to fuck you harder. The force of his thrusts was driving you forward on the mattress and you had to brace your hands against the rickety headboard to keep from being shoved into the wall.
“Look at you,” he drawled, his voice rough with exertion. “Takin’ my cock like you were made for it. This cunt was just made to get fucked, wasn't it?”
“Shut. Your. Mouth,” you rasped, each word punctuated by one of his brutal thrusts, your voice breaking.
Micah leaned over you then, his chest pressed to your back as his hand snaked around your hip to find your clit. The new angle only allowed him to thrust deeper and you sobbed into the mattress as his calloused fingers found that sensitive little bundle of nerves. He rubbed harsh circles, no finesse, just raw stimulation that had your thighs shaking and cunt clenching.
“You're gonna come on my cock, girly,” he growled in your ear, his breath hot against your neck. “Gonna feel this tight little cunt squeezin’ me while you come.”
“Like hell—” you started, but he bit down on your shoulder hard enough to leave teeth marks.
Instead, a broken moan spilled from your lips. Quite the little masochist you were. Micah's fingers pressed harder against your clit, the muscles in your core beginning to coil tighter and tighter. Drawing up like a snake poised to strike.
“Yeah, you are,” he insisted, his hips never stopping their punishing rhythm. “I can feel it. Can feel how you're clenchin’ around me. Your body knows what it wants even if you're too damn stubborn to admit it.”
You blindly reached back to try to shove him away, to hit him — anything really, but he caught your wrist and pinned it against your lower back. Your wrist was twisted painfully and you sucked in a breath through gritted teeth. The position left you completely helpless, unable to do anything but take what he was giving you. His cock was hammering against that spot inside you with every thrust now. The friction was unbearable and his fingers on your clit were relentless. You'd lost. It was humiliating, really. You'd always been a sore loser.
“Come on,” he demanded, his voice taking on a strained edge. “Give it to me. Come on my cock like the mean little bitch you are.”
“Fuck you, Micah,” you hissed.
But even as you said it, you could feel your body doing the opposite. The tension was reaching a breaking point, your walls clenching rhythmically around his cock, your clit throbbing under his fingers. The coil was about to snap.
He slapped your ass again, hard enough to make you cry out, and that did it. Your orgasm crashed over you like a riptide, your cunt clamping down on him so hard, you heard him curse. Pleasure ripped through you in violent waves, your whole body shaking as you came harder than you ever had in your entire life. You bit down on the mattress to muffle your screams, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of hearing you fall apart — though you were pretty sure the way your cunt was gushing your release around him communicated that well enough.
“That's it, girly. Fuck—”
His rhythm faltered, becoming erratic as your walls milked him.
“Squeezin’ me so goddamn tight.”
He grabbed your hair again, yanking your head back as he pounded your cunt with renewed brutality. You were oversensitive now, every thrust almost too much, but he didn't stop. Didn't slow down. He fucked you through your climax and beyond, chasing his own release with single-minded determination.
“Gonna fill you up,” he groaned, his grip on your hair painful in a way that made your eyes roll back. “Gonna pump you full of cum—”
That sobered your cockdrunk mind in an instant.
“Don't you dare,” you hissed, but he was already there.
You felt his hips stutter, felt the first hot pulse of his release spilling inside you as he began to spend himself and then he was coming, his cock jerking as he emptied himself deep inside you. The warmth spread through you like good whiskey and you hated how good it felt, hated the way your cunt clenched around him to milk every last drop.
He collapsed on top of you, both of you breathing hard, sweat-slicked and trembling. His weight was crushing and you shoved at him weakly.
“Get the hell off me,” you muttered.
He laughed that ugly laugh of his, low and satisfied, but rolled off you. You could feel his cum beginning to leak out of you and you groaned in disgust. You immediately sat up and edged away from him, putting much-needed distance between your bodies.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You could feel his gaze on you. Could practically hear that smug smirk in the settling silence. And so you pretended your nail beds were the most interesting thing in the world.
“Still hate me?” he finally asked.
You turned your head and fixed him with a pointed glare, taking in his disheveled appearance — his hair a mess, scratches along his chest and arms from where you'd mauled him, bite marks on his shoulder. He looked thoroughly debauched. You were sure you looked the same, if not worse.
He looked satisfied and that pissed you off more than anything.
“More than ever,” you said flatly, meaning every word.
His laugh was low and dark.
“Good,” he drawled. “Wouldn't want it any other way.”