13. Dalton #3
I took his cock in my mouth. Licking. Sucking. I settled my palm around the base of him, the back of my hand taking the pressure off the bottom of his open fly, the pull of elastic.
None of that should touch him. Only my mouth and the curl of my fingers. My other hand was at his waist, fingers spread across the warm skin and muscle of his back. I could feel him twitch, the angles of his body shifting as his hips came forward.
I loved on him. Sure swirls of my tongue around him. Steady strokes, sucks that drew my cheeks inward. Over and over I made those motions, swallowing my spit and his pre-cum, and inhaled and breathed in the moment, wanting to carry it with me always.
When he came, he made a far-off sound. High. Surprised. It went straight to my heart.
I sucked more gently, licked more slowly, and drew off with the taste of him on my tongue, the tail end of desire.
I swallowed and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, then tucked him away and drew up the elastic to set it gently against his belly.
There was a frail layer of sweat along the middle of his back, and I rose to snuggle into the curve of his arm.
“Was that too forward?” I asked, my voice a bit shaky as I buttoned up his jeans and re-buckled his belt.
“No,” he said. He hooked a finger beneath my chin and raised my head. “It was lovely.”
His next kiss made me weak at the knees.
Truly it did. His arms came around me as though he’d just pulled me from deep water and wanted to make sure I was safe so he could kiss the breath out of me.
Taste his taste on my tongue. Hug me so damn tightly I was sure my body was going to meld with his, and that would be fine by me.
When his hands cupped my face again, it was full-out raining. A gray curtain fell all around us, loud in the near silence of everything else. His hard breathing slowing down as mine slowed down.
The world came into focus. A faint ribbon of daylight lingered over the foothills traced with lilac and purple and the darkest blue. The rushing sound of the rain, the river banging against gravel and stone as the water level, perhaps, rose a little higher.
“Should we get back?” I asked. Though I didn’t want to.
He actually frowned at me and bent his head to nibble along my neck. “What about you?” he asked, low enough to send shivers up my spine.
“Not in the dirt, you said,” I said, getting a little sassy. “And now it’s turning to mud, so—”
To my surprise and total astonishment, I heard a huff of a laugh in his throat. “I have a private bunkhouse,” he said.
It was on the tip of my tongue to keep joking, to step back from the serious tone in his voice. To say something like But there’s a bonfire! People at the bonfire will see us together!
But I didn’t say anything, because frankly, I couldn’t give a good goddamn if anyone saw. It was none of anyone’s damn business.
“Let’s go to your bunkhouse, then,” I said, and, as a reward, received another nibble on my neck and a long, slow, sweet kiss on my forehead.
We hustled back in the rain, in the growing dark.
Jake led the way, checking in frequently to make sure I was keeping up.
We crossed the bridge, trotting on the damp wood, and arrived at the half-circle of bunkhouses.
Nobody was there. The rain was coming down like someone was pouring it from a bucket.
And it hit me, what I should have realized to begin with: it was raining. It was pouring. There was no way anyone could build a fire.
Wondering where Cameron and Dillon were, I looked across the road and the riding arena to the staff building where the dining hall was.
Lights were blazing in the windows. That’s where they were.
Having an impromptu party or something. Which meant we had the privacy we needed. Silence. Lack of interruption.
“It’s like a gift,” I said as I followed Jake to the little front porch of his bunkhouse. He opened it without entering a code. Because it was unlocked. Of course it was.
“You’re the gift,” he said to me as he gestured that I should go first, making me realize I had found the last gentleman cowboy in the entire state of Colorado.
“Thank you, sir.”
As he flicked on the light, reaching around me, I got another one of those small smiles. A curve of his mouth, his eyes dancing as he looked at me. “And you’re soaked,” he said. “I have towels.”
The bunkhouse that Jake had to himself was configured the same as the one I shared with the boys.
Kitchen at one end, bathroom at the other.
Wood paneled. Gingham-check curtains, red and white.
Small lights in the wall meant to look like old-time lanterns, complete with amber glass in the shape of tulip bulbs.
The difference was the bed setup. There was an upper bunk, with Jake’s gear, I figured. The lower bunk had been removed, and in its place was a double bed. And in the small space below the window across from this was a tiny, Ikea-worthy drop-leaf table meant for two.
There were two chairs. One had a boot-polishing kit on it. The other had a well-worn green cushion. The table was bare. No stray receipts, crumbs, half-drunk cups of coffee. Jake wasn’t a neatnik, but he was neat.
He came to me with a white towel—of course it was white—that, though worn, was soft and clean. I brought it to my nose to smell. The scent was basic. Purposeful. “What about you?” I asked.
“Figured we could share.”
Did he have only one towel? I could find out later, but that meant now he came first. I reached up to blot his hair. Pulled his t-shirt off, damp from the shoulders to halfway down his chest, and buffed him dry.
We grappled over the towel, of course, but soon both our shirts were off.
Boots and socks came next. That left us with bare chests and damp blue jeans.
I shivered. Maybe the AC from the split had kicked in, but he was on it.
He stripped me of my jeans, leaving me in my boxer briefs, and he buffed me from head to toe.
“Come on, now,” I said. “Don’t be shy.”
He flicked off the light and tumbled me onto the bed, and in the half-glow from the distant lights of the staff building, he took off his jeans, the belt buckle clinking as he tossed the garment to the floor of the bunkhouse.
We wove our legs together, the softness of the quilt against our skin. He took my head in his hands and kissed me until I was breathless. I had a feeling, as he tugged at the waistband of my citified boxer briefs, that I was about to be a great deal more breathless.
I was not wrong.
He draped himself over me, with his weight and his denseness and his muscle.
On his elbows, like a gentleman, of course, but in the near darkness, he loomed.
An outline that held me beneath him, and he kissed me and breathed on my neck for more nibbles.
Sweet kisses. His chest shuddered with hard breaths, as if he’d waited for a moment such as this his whole life and could hardly believe it had arrived at long last.
I felt wanted. Cherished, even.
His kisses turned deep, and I met those kisses with my own.
Salty sweet. Sweeping. Making me delirious.
When he reached between our bodies, I sighed, my breath hitching.
My belly did a jump and then went hollow, so as not to bar his way to where he was reaching.
Between my legs where my hard and rather insistent cock was waiting.
He pulled at my boxer briefs and, in a sweeping motion, removed them entirely.
“You,” I gasped into his mouth. “Too.”
“Okay.”
I helped him take off his white briefs and tossed them into the darkness.
His scent was all around me now. His beard growth rasped against my cheeks. As he stroked my cock, his calluses made themselves known. The warmth of his hand welcome. My cock, taut, was slick with pre-cum, and I didn’t mind the calluses.
But then I gasped when his whole body shifted and he slithered, there was no other word for it, down my body to clasp my hips, steadying me until he was between my legs, one warm hand on each thigh.
“Spread,” he said. And so I did.
Nestled between my spread thighs, he sucked me into his mouth in a single hard suck.
I was more than ready. More needy than I could ever remember being.
My breath held as he rolled his tongue around the head of my cock, a swirl of delight that made me arch and gasp.
His hand was on my belly, gentle pets, a splay of his fingers.
I wouldn’t last long. Couldn’t last long, not in those circumstances.
I came in a spill down his throat, full and then pulsing.
And he swallowed, his throat working as I touched his shoulder, reaching for him in the darkness.
Panting sounds in the dark. Sounds of his licking, his warm tongue swirling around the base of me, cleaning me with his tongue.
When he was done, he kissed the inside of my thigh with a moist smack and crawled up my body to cradle me in his arms, his long form next to mine, legs twined.
He was hard again; I felt the brush of him, and I kissed him, turning into his arms, to bury my face in his neck.
“We could,” I said. “If you want. I mean, you could.”
“Don’t have anything,” he whispered in my ear. “Could get some for next time.”
As if I would make him do all that fetching and carrying.
I knew where the Mercantile was the same as he did.
I could get stuff to make us slick. But my words were swallowed by his kisses.
I tasted myself in his mouth and lingered on each kiss with warm breath and sighs and leaned into his caress, the way his fingers trailed over my jaw and he swept the hair back from my forehead.
“Next time,” he repeated.
It sounded like a question to which there was only one possible answer. “Yes.”