Cowboy Dreams

2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Sylvester

The liquor in Max’s Place really was vile. The beer was marginally better, but I barely tasted the Dos Equis I’d given him twenty bucks for, as I sat at the bar and waited. Joe had said ten sharp, and I had a feeling he’d be right on time. I’d asked around and the word in town was that Joe McNeil was pretty ordinary, a stand-up guy but not too bright and, you know, kinda queer.

I already knew they were wrong about him not being bright. He might not use fancy words and that slow cowboy drawl wasn’t all put on for my benefit, but he was sharp underneath. Like that analysis of the dude ranch idea— he clearly had practical competence. Quick with a comeback, too. I did like that in a man. I liked Joe, way more than I should have for two meetings, and one excellent fuck.

When I’d arrived at Max’s around nine-thirty, I’d gotten the once-over from the locals. If I hadn’t met Joe, there were a couple of men sitting at the small tables with that working-cowboy look— strong forearms and dusty boots— that turned my crank, but compared to Joe, they faded into the background. I couldn’t even say why, just that from the moment he met my eyes and came out with that lame pick-up line, something deep inside me sat up and said, “I want! That one.”

A gift of fate that he thought the same and liked to bottom. The memory of that plug in his ass made me shift on my bar stool.

The glass front door opened for the sixth time since I sat down. This time, the cowboy taking his hat in hand was Joe. The bar lights haloed his blond hair sticking up messily around his head. Most of the men here cut theirs short, maybe with a bit of length on top, but I liked that Joe had enough hair for me to hold onto while fucking his mouth— an image which didn’t help my tight-jeans situation.

I didn’t wave his way or get up, just waited for him to spot me across the room. Joe strolled over with that loose cowboy stride, a little roll of the hips and an easy strength that was night and day from a city twink flexing his ass. I watched him cross the floor, watched him pause to chat a moment with this guy and that, as if I wasn’t his target— the brat.

It took him a couple of minutes to reach me, and just as he did, I turned away, signaling to the bartender as if I wanted another of the beers I’d only half-finished.

Joe jostled my knee with his. “I got a couple good offers if you’re not interested.”

I turned and raised an eyebrow. “Ah, but do they come with an extra-long pillow-top mattress?”

“Y’know…” Joe took my beer bottle from my hand and drank a gulp. “A guy whose own appeal rates lower than his mattress is in trouble.”

“Point.” I gave him the finger lick and air-point, seeing the way his eyes narrowed as he glanced at my mouth. “Of course, we could also talk about a guy who can be seduced by a mattress.”

“Don’t recall the mattress bein’ the one with its hands on me.” He took another sip.

I swiped the bottle back. “Give me that. I ordered you your own.” The bartender, with good timing or good eavesdropping, came over then with the fresh Dos Equis and I handed him another twenty. Good tipping was something I owed folks who could use it and an investment in future goodwill. I might be the queer guy opening a local business to be wary of, but I could also be the man who tipped really well.

Most of the men in the bar had their eyes on us. I guess not a lot exciting happened around here. Joe had to be aware of the scrutiny but he didn’t take his eyes off me as he popped the cap off his bottle and ran his tongue around the inside of the rim.

I told him, “Seven for technique, five for style points.”

He laughed in a way I already craved and tilted his head back, chugging beer. His Adam’s apple bobbed. A drop escaped down his cheek to his neck and I had to restrain myself from licking the amber droplet off his skin.

When he paused, I said, “Very nice. You plan to put your money where your mouth is?”

He set the bottle down on the bar and eyed me sideways as he tucked a five-dollar bill into the neck with a little extra twist. “Money— where my mouth was. Why don’t we go find out?”

I almost quipped about how maybe I was enjoying this fine establishment too much to leave, but sarcasm might’ve come out like a slur on the bar, and I needed these folks with me later. So I saluted him with my beer, set aside the empty, and strode out without looking back.

For a minute, I wondered if he’d wait to follow me, to make a point. He seemed to enjoy resisting me as much as I enjoyed pushing him around. But I heard the door open and close three steps behind me. I turned as I reached the Mustang. “So—”

“My truck tonight,” he said.

I looked over at the battered Ford he’d gotten into last time I brought him back here. The pickup had a rust problem over the big wheel wells, a white driver’s door that didn’t match the rest, loose hay in the bed, and a heavy hitch on the back. A working truck. I had respect for that, even if I wasn’t going to let him see it. “It clashes with my sweater.”

“But matches your face, and your dick. You like that in a car.”

Since it was red, if a tamer red than my Mustang, that was a good comeback. I managed, “The door matches your ass.”

“You liked my ass.”

“Still white as a full moon.”

“My farmer’s tan turns you on.” He settled his hat on his head and waited.

“I might need another look.”

“Gotta ride in my truck to get there.”

“Something brought out the stubborn in you tonight?”

He shifted his weight, like he wasn’t quite as confident as he sounded. “You hold a lot of the cards right now. My truck is my get out of jail free card.”

“Jail?” An odd swoop of dismay passed through my belly. I tried to make a joke. “I only handcuff the men who ask for it.”

He made an indecipherable gesture. “Maybe that was the wrong word.”

“If you feel more secure having your truck there,” I suggested, “why don’t you follow me to the ranch. Follow me home.” I was trying to get in the habit of calling it home. To keep him from feeling rejected, I added truthfully, “I don’t want to leave the Mustang outside a bar all night.”

“I guess. Prob’ly stands out too much for someone to steal and sell around here, but some drunk punk might decide to take a joyride.”

“I take good care of everything that belongs to me.” If I meant the words a bit more personally than it sounded, I’d leave him to figure that out.

“Right. I don’t need to follow you, though. I know where the Circle K is.”

“You mean your truck can’t keep up with my Mustang.”

“Eat my dust.” He swung up into his truck, fired the engine, and headed out before I could react, tires squealing as he turned at the road and floored it.

Oh, game on. I jumped into my car and followed him.

The truck had more horsepower under the hood than I expected, but it couldn’t match my girl. I rode his bumper for a while, not because I couldn’t pass on the sparsely trafficked two-lane roads, but to let him know when I decided to pass him was entirely in my hands. Or so I thought until we got close to the ranch and he suddenly swerved off onto a dirt lane leading through a field.

I braked to a stop and sat there, eyeing his red taillights as they bounced away down the rutted track, the rough ground ahead lit by his lowbeams. He vanished behind some trees, but I saw glints of his lights. He’d been right before. I was not taking the Mustang across country. And I had no idea where that track went, or how much of the curving county road he’d manage to cut off that way.

Of course, his speed would be severely limited. Mine wasn’t. I did the only thing I could do and pulled back onto the road, hitting the gas. Pushed the Mustang to eighty. Then ninety.

Only to have a police cruiser come out from nowhere a minute later, siren wailing.

I gritted my teeth, pulled onto the shoulder, and waited.

The cop car parked behind me. I sat silently, obediently, minute after minute, as its blue lights flickered in my mirrors. What is he waiting for? Reinforcements? I realized, as time went by, how isolated we were. I’d have texted Joe, but I didn’t have his number. I thought about texting a friend, but they were all states away and would just worry. One truck passed going the other direction, slowing only enough for courtesy as it went by. Then we were alone again.

Finally, the cop got out, put on his hat, and strode toward my door with that heavy, macho gait some law enforcement men use. He had his hand close to his holster, and I reminded my inner smartass that this was a county trooper, not some bouncer in a club. I rolled down my window, the knob cool against my sweaty palm.

“Nice car,” the cop drawled as he reached the window. “Guess there’s a lot of horses under the hood, seeing as you were going a hundred miles an hour.”

I’d barely touched ninety, but I wasn’t foolish enough to say so.

“Get on out of the car,” he directed. “Nice and easy, hands where I can see them.”

I obeyed orders, standing in the open door, eyeing him. The cop was shorter than me by maybe six inches, but then most men were. He carried a lot more weight in his belly too, but his arms looked beefy in his uniform sleeves, like he worked out. I couldn’t see much of his face in the shadow under his hat.

“Walk around front to the other side of the car,” he ordered. “No need for us to get hit by a semi. Then turn and put your hands on the roof, legs spread.”

Complying seemed smarter than questioning, so I did that. He kicked my feet wider, then patted me down. I waited as he neared my groin to see if he was the kind of cop that put more hand action there, but he barely touched me before pulling my wallet out of my back pocket and eyeing my license.

“Stay put,” he ordered, adding after a moment, “Sylvester Georgia…dis.” He mangled the name, pronouncing the first part like the state. “What the hell kind of name is that?”

“Georgiadis.” I pronounced it right, but without too much emphasis. “It’s Greek.” Mom took Cassie’s name and let me choose to do the same.

“Greek. You Greek too? Foreigner?”

“No.” I should’ve added the “sir” that would win me more favor, but it stuck in my throat. “Born right here in Colorado.”

“Huh.” He set my wallet on the hood of the car. “Where you been tonight? Out drinking?”

“I had one beer.”

“At Max’s?” He moved to the side where he could see my face.

Another chill went through me. He had to know Max’s was a gay bar, and that could be bad news, but I said, “Yes.”

“Crappy liquor. Crappier customers. Buncha queers.”

For a moment, I felt the self-preservation impulse to deflect, to say something like, “Yeah, boy, I didn’t think a bar in this part of the state would be full of queers. Drank my beer and split.” If I’d been passing through some redneck state, not planning to stay, I probably would’ve tried. I wanted to avoid a beat-down as much as the next man.

But I was staying put, and Max’s was Joe’s bar. And when common sense caught up, I realized the cop wouldn’t believe me anyhow. He hadn’t been behind us all those miles. If he knew I was at Max’s, it was because he knew who I was. He’d just get a kick out of me putting down other gay men.

So I said, “The beer’s better than the Scotch, that’s for sure.”

“Turn around.” He looked me up and down as I faced him. “How drunk are you?”

“One beer doesn’t do much for me.” I’m a big guy. I didn’t say that. Don’t emphasize to the cop that you’re bigger than he is.

“OK, we’re going to check that out.” He had me follow his penlight, the beam bright in my eyes, made me walk the white line along the shoulder, and stand on one foot. I complied with competence, and without snark. When we were done, he stood there a few feet away, right hand still not far from his holster. “Might still be above the limit. You sure blew away the speed limit.”

I pulled slow breaths through my nose and said nothing.

“Quiet night. Got nothing better to do than take drunks off the roads. Be a shame to tow that cherry of a car, though.”

More moments passed. I wasn’t sure what he was waiting for. Probably not a blow job, given that he hadn’t groped me. Money? A chance to drive the Mustang? Or just because he could? Because I was queer and he could, or was this me being a stranger, or a guy with a foreign name, or simply anyone who wasn’t a cop?

I’d never know because the radio at his belt crackled with some unintelligible message to which he unhooked it and replied, “Five minutes. I’m on it.” He turned back to me. “Your lucky day. Now, driving a hundred miles an hour carries a ten-day minimum sentence with the three-hundred-dollar fine. Driving ninety-nine is just the two-hundred bucks.”

I was not going to beg that bastard to be honest.

Luckily time was on my side, because the radio crackled again. He said, “Stay put. I’ll put you at ninety-nine. Hate going to court.” He jogged to his cruiser, came back with a form he filled out and passed the top copy to me along with my license. I took them with fingers that were steadier than my gut. The cop tipped his hat to me, lips curled. “You have a nice day now, y’hear. And drive safe.” He knocked my wallet off the hood onto the dirt and jogged to his cruiser, backed a few feet, and pulled out onto the road, siren blaring.

Twenty seconds, one dip and a bend in the road, and he was gone.

Sitting down right there in the dirt had a certain appeal, but I straightened my spine, picked up my wallet, dusted it off. My driver’s door still stood open. I got in, shut the door, gripped the wheel in both hands and breathed in for four, hold for four, out for four. When my chest felt less tight, I put the car in gear and headed home. Below the speed limit and it galled me, but I didn’t have the energy to do all that again.

When I reached the end of the driveway in front of the ranch house, Joe was there, leaning against his truck. He had his legs crossed at the ankles, his thumbs in his jeans pockets, and his hat pulled low. He straightened as I parked, then sauntered over.

“Hey, city slicker, did you stop to howl at the moon—” He must’ve seen something in my face because he cut himself short and dropped the drawl. “What happened? Did you hit a critter?”

I shook my head. “Got a speeding ticket.”

My effort at nonchalance didn’t pay off because he peered at my face, then muttered, “Fuck. Was the trooper a beer-belly blond around fifty with a nasty fucking attitude?”

“Didn’t see his hair under the hat,” I said.

“Deputy Morse, I bet,” Joe told me. “The sheriff has him running speed traps a lot, because he’s not good with people.”

“I wondered if it was just me.” I meant to leave the comment at that, but heard myself say, “He knew I’d been at Max’s.”

“Fuck, that’s Morse. Yeah, that car stands out. And Morse is not a friend of us queers.”

“How about the sheriff?” Because if all the law in this county was like Morse, I’d need to rethink my plans.

“Sheriff Breyer’s okay. He’s not waving any rainbow flags but he’s not pulling them down neither. He’s well respected, and most of the deputies follow his lead, but Morse was on the force before Breyer ever came here. The last sheriff was a mite hidebound, you might say.”

“Or I might say a bigot?”

“Might. He got on with Morse real good but that was over ten years back. Retired now and moved to Florida.”

I hope he likes it down there. He could take Morse with him. “That’s something.”

Joe tipped off his hat and met my eyes. “You wanna call tonight off? Tangling with the law can be hard on the nerves. Been there.”

I thought about a young Joe sitting in his truck while Morse and the old sheriff decided what to do with him. The idea made me rabid. “No, I’m not calling this off.”

“Good to hear. Inside, then?”

“Sure.” I led the way, hearing Joe’s boot heels click on my floors.

Upstairs, into my room, then Joe shut the door behind us. Hell, yes, I was doing this. I needed something to wipe the taste of that traffic stop from my mouth. Maybe on my knees. I wasn’t sure what I wanted, the electric current of anger still riding every nerve. I stripped off my clothes, tossing them at the chair without caring when my sweater hit the floor. I turned and Joe was standing there, his boots toed off by the door but otherwise still dressed. “Well, are you joining me?” I realized I’d barked the question when Joe frowned.

He took off his Stetson, turning it in his hands for a moment before setting it on the dresser. “What do you need?” he asked me. “You want to boss me around, own my ass? I’d be good with that.”

Do I? Topping would give me back a measure of control I suddenly craved, but I wasn’t sure I could be gentle with Joe tonight.

“I don’t need gentle,” Joe said as if he could read my mind. “I don’t break. Ask half a dozen broncs and a steer or twenty.”

“Have you ever broken a bone?” I queried, staving off the decision.

“Sure, a few over the years. Guess I should say I don’t break worse than I can heal.”

I paced a couple of steps to the window and back, the wood floor cool under my bare feet. “I don’t know what I want.”

Joe came to me. He ran those work-rough palms from my shoulders down my arms, then took my hands, tracing the veins on the backs with his thumbs. One after the other, he lifted my hands to his mouth and kissed my knuckles. “Maybe you can let me take care of you, just for one night. Lie back on that big bed like a prince and let me do the work.”

I meant to refuse, to tell Joe that passive was never going to be my thing, but fatigue swept over me like a wave. The bed was right there. I could lie back and let Joe make the effort. Would that be a bad thing?

Guess I was going to find out. I stripped off my briefs and pulled the covers to the foot of the bed, then stretched out on my back, my head propped on pillows so I could see, arms at my sides. “Go for it.” My dick wasn’t hard, but a stirring in my groin said with enough time and enough Joe, that would change.

Joe tugged off one sock and then the other, stuffing them in his boots. I liked the sight of his long, knobby, bare feet below the hems of his faded, boot-cut jeans. He came over to my side, just out of reach, and put his fingers on his buttons. “Shirt on or off?”

“Off,” I told him. The flannel hid the good stuff, even if he wore this one snugger than a working man usually might. “Keep the jeans, though.”

“You like these?” He slanted a look at me as he unbuttoned his shirt and continued the movement of his hands to touch his belt buckle and brush down his fly.

“I do. Get that shirt off.”

“You looking for somewhere in between boss me around and lie back like a prince ?” He slid the flannel off his shoulders and down his arms, taking his time about freeing himself from the sleeves. Then he pitched it, soft underhand, to land on my face.

I should’ve been peeved, maybe yanked the shirt away, but the scent of his skin and sweat and the faint overlay of horses and hay soothed my soul. I closed my eyes and breathed, there in the darkness.

The weight on my face vanished and light brightened behind my eyelids. I looked up. Joe’s storm-gray eyes peered into mine from a few inches away.

“Hey,” he murmured. “You with me?”

“Are you with me, my prince ?” I teased and was glad to see him smile.

“Oh, like that, is it?”

I spread my arms wider. “Serve me. Or service me. Whichever.”

“Yes, your Majesty. Or Highness?”

“Sylvester will do.”

“Sure will.” Joe climbed onto the bed and straddled me, his denim-clad knees caging my thighs, his ass heavy on my shins. He trailed calloused fingertips down my chest, then back up, pressing small circles against my skin. When he reached my nipples he pinched them, rolling and tweaking. A tug of matching heat low in my belly made me grunt and arch toward his hands.

“Hell, yeah. Hoped you were sensitive.” Joe slid back, bent, and put his mouth over one nipple, sucking me between his lips, then adding a pinch of teeth.

“Should’ve known you were a biter,” I muttered, which was not the same thing as saying stop.

He grinned. “Yep.” And did it again, then ran his tongue up my chest and probed the hollows of my throat, licked under my jaw. His hard nip at my chin made me snort.

“Rabid biter.”

“You ain’t felt nothin’ yet.” Joe returned to licking and kissing and biting, from my earlobes to my waist, down and back up, his hands caging my ribs tightly enough to keep me steady.

“My dick’s down here.” I bucked my hips under his weight after the fifth time he turned around north of my belly button and headed back toward my neck. I was definitely hard now.

“I seen it,” he said. “Not in any kind of rush.”

“Maybe I am.”

He paused, then rose higher to bring his mouth to mine, a slow, warm, leisurely kiss completely unlike the rough teasing he’d unleashed on my chest and neck. “Are you? In a hurry?”

“No.” My eyes wanted to drift shut and as incredible as the sight of Joe, bending over me in just his jeans, was, I let my vision go dark. “No, keep doing what you’re doing.” I went for an imperious wave of the hand which probably came out more like a flap of my wrist. Whatever. Joe went back to torturing me with his mouth and teeth and hands, and I sank into the sensations.

By the time he slid lower and finally licked a stripe up my dick, I was so wound up I almost came just from that. I had to look down because I wasn’t going to miss the sight of Joe with my cock in his mouth. He swung a leg over me, nudged my thighs apart with those big hands, and climbed in between. Then he took my legs and raised them, pressing my knees up and open. My dick and balls and taint were on full display, while his cock still strained the closed zipper of those jeans.

“Want to take your pants off?” I asked. “That looks uncomfortable.”

“Nope. I’m good.” He lowered his mouth to me again, freeing a hand to wrap around the base of my cock as he sucked me deep and slow to the back of his throat.

“Fuck.”

He slurped back off. “Not tonight.”

Joe’s nip at my ball sac was just this side of too much and I yelped.

“Oops.” He paused and met my eyes. Something passed between us. Heat— yes; fun— that too; but something deeper and softer as well.

“Suck me, cowboy,” I murmured.

And holy hell, Joe could give a master class in fellatio. He used his lips, tongue, teeth, throat, and fingers, pressed my taint, rolled my balls, varied the tight suction with sloppy plunges and long thorough licks, then pressed his tongue tip into my leaking slit. I watched his spit-wet lips and talented tongue and big rough hands as he took me apart. I didn’t have to do anything but lie there and gasp and groan, shudder, and clutch the sheets.

Heat built inside me, the coming explosion a steamy pressure beneath my skin. Joe was everything I’d imagined in nearly thirty years of fantasies, and at the same time, even more. Not just lean shoulders and strong forearms with raised veins, narrow hips and tight ass in cowboy denim, but that bright gaze that kept returning to mine and the smart mouth that asked, “See somethin’ you like?”

“Everything,” I admitted.

“If you can still talk, I gotta work harder.” He bent back over and deep-throated me, nose right down to my curls.

I groaned and arched, seconds away from coming, and he squeezed my base with his fingers as he pulled off, and laughed. After that, words fell away. He sucked me hard and fast until the wave of pleasure rose to breaking. I tugged on his hair, beyond speech, but he grunted and plunged deep, making me spill down his throat in spasms so hard and sharp and perfect that my vision went black around the edges.

Joe gentled his touch, licking me clean and delivering tiny kisses as my muscles went slack and my cock softened against my thigh. When I could breathe again, I knotted my fingers in his hair and hauled him up over me for a kiss. Joe rose willingly and met my mouth, the taste of my spunk musky on his tongue. His kiss landed askew, but he balanced on one arm and we tried again, lips meeting gently, tongues brushing. A kiss of thank you and hello there and you‘re incredible .

Joe’s cock still strained the front of his jeans. I gestured at the tented denim. “You want to do something about that?”

“Can I jerk off on you?”

I’d planned to offer my mouth, but getting to lie back and let Joe do the rest of the work wasn’t a hardship. “Go for it.”

He popped his button and then eased his zipper down carefully, groaning deep in his chest as he shoved his underwear and jeans off in one move. His long, slender cock sprang free, flushed and ready. When he knelt up between my thighs and took himself in hand, I wished I hadn’t just come so I could give that sight the appreciation it deserved.

Joe jerked off fast and hard, his hand flying up and down his shaft, the fat red head popping in and out of the end of his fist. He began panting with his motions, harsh breaths that became deep rhythmic grunts. The lean muscles in his arms and chest stood out, highlighted by the sheen of sweat on his skin. Then he froze, gasped, “Oh, fuck. Oh, God!” and shot between his fingers, ribbon after ribbon of spunk splashing up my stomach and across my chest to my chin, until the spurts gave way to drips, and then ended.

I sucked in a breath, the chlorine-vanilla smell of cum thick in my nose, and drank in the sight of Joe kneeling over me, chest heaving, arm shaking, battered knuckles closed around himself.

After a moment he laughed, a short sound. “Okay, that was intense.”

“Glad to be of service,” I drawled.

“All you had to do was lie there and look pretty.” Joe sat back on his heels, then glanced around. “Gonna go clean up. Wait here. I’ll bring you a cloth.”

I was going to say he didn’t need to, but he was off the bed and out of the room before my orgasm-thick tongue could find words. He came back a few minutes later with a washcloth. Gently, with the same focus he’d given to kissing me, he wiped the sweat and cum off my face and neck and chest, and then off my soft dick which didn’t even manage a twitch.

He left again, dealing with the cloth. I heard the toilet flush, then he came to stand by the bed. “What now?”

I wasn’t sure if he expected me to send him home, or exile him to one of my many guest rooms or what. A cough tickled my throat, but once I had breath, I said, “Get in here and pull the covers up while you’re at it.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” he quipped. I pretended I hadn’t liked that, while he lay down beside me, fumbled at our feet, and pulled the sheet and blankets up.

He seemed tentative when he stretched out, his legs and arms not touching mine. Usually, I wasn’t one for sharing a bed. No one had ever accused me of being a cuddler. But I wanted Joe there, his warm presence a comfort. I reached over far enough to lay the back of my hand against his chest, and, despite everything, I fell asleep between one breath and the next.