Louisiana Stalker by J. R. Roberts Page A

pushed herself away from him, skittered back on the mattress, and rolled herself up into a ball.
    â€œJesus,” she gasped, “where did you learn to do that?”
    â€œI picked it up over the years,” he said, stroking her back.
    â€œGod, it was so good . . . it was . . . almost painful,” she said. “I didn’t want you to stop, but you had to stop.” She unfurled her body and looked at him. “Did you learn that from some whore?”
    â€œI’ve never been with a whore,” he said, and then added, “well, I’ve never paid for one. Let’s put it that way.”
    â€œIf you can do that to a woman,” she gasped, “I can see why you wouldn’t need a whore. They must line up at your door.”
    â€œMaybe,” he said, “if I had a door, but I move around a lot.”
    â€œNo home?” she asked.
    â€œNone to speak of.”
    â€œNever had a wife?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œEver come close?”
    He hesitated, then said, “Once.”
    â€œWhat happened?”
    â€œShe died.”
    â€œI’m sorry.”
    Her breathing returned to normal, and she reached out for his cock, which was still semierect.
    â€œYour turn,” she said. “Help me turn down the bed so we can do it right.”
    Together they pulled down the quilt and sheet, then got in the bed together. They cuddled and kissed for a bit, until his cock was standing at full mast, and then she pushed him down on his back and straddled him. First, she rubbed her pussy over his shaft, wetting it with her juices. Finally she lifted her hips, held him with her hand, and settled down on him, taking the length of him into her steamy depths.
    â€œAhhhh!” he said as her heat engulfed him.
    She leaned over, hung her breasts over his face so he could lick and suck them, then leaned down farther to kiss him and say, “Stay with me, Mr. Adams. I like a nice long ride.”
    He let his hands glide up and down her back and said, “I’ll do my best, ma’am.”

EIGHTEEN
    There were two stalkers in Baton Rouge.
    Lee Keller was Capucine Devereaux’s stalker. But before he could continue, he needed to identify the man who was apparently spending the afternoon with her. The man who might know that would be her driver, Simmons.
    Keller knew where Simmons spent his afternoons when Capucine was at her pied-à-terre. There was a small saloon several blocks away. Simmons would park his carriage out front, and then go inside and nurse two beers for the afternoon.
    Keller found the saloon. It was called Casey’s. As he entered, he saw Simmons sitting at a table alone, half a mug of beer in front of him. In the past Keller had observed Simmons through the front windows. He usually sat alone, and rarely talked with anyone. So getting into a conversation with him would take some doing. Fortunately, Keller had done his research on the man.
    â€œSimmons” was a British name. Keller knew that Capucine was Irish. There was enough of a similarity there for the two of them to have found each other in the United States.
    Keller went to the bar and ordered a beer. The saloon was sparsely populated, and would probably stay that way until early evening. Keller nursed his beer and was able to watch Simmons through the mirror behind the bar.
    He waved the bartender over.
    â€œYes, sir?”
    â€œCan you tell me who that fella over there is?”
    The bartender looked.
    â€œI don’t know, but he comes in here a lot and sits there alone.”
    â€œAlways alone?”
    â€œYup,” the bartender said. “Never talks to anyone.”
    â€œThat’s strange,” Keller said. “Drinkers usually talk to each other. Do you think he’d talk to me?”
    â€œBeats me. Why would you wanna talk to him?”
    â€œLike I said, drinkers usually talk to each other.”
    â€œHe only ever drinks beer,” the