Page 6 of Cowboy Dreams

“If I’d’ve gone back with you. Kinda big assumption.” Like I hadn’t done it a hundred times with guys no match for him.

He tugged the zipper of my jacket down, inch by inch, then tweaked my nipple through my shirt. “Are you claiming you’d have said no?”

“Not claiming anything. Just sayin’.” I couldn’t help twitching when he played with my other nipple under the flannel.

“We have a clean room, a big bed, privacy, and lots of time. I want to see you naked.” He undid the top button of my shirt and then the next one.

I had to say, “I ain’t all that.” Because he was looking at me with this light in his eyes like a kid on Christmas morning.

“You’re fine, Joe. You’re excellent.” He tugged the shirttails out of my jeans to finish unbuttoning, then slid the shirt and coat off my shoulders together.

“I’m not muscled up like the guys in porn.”

He ran a hand over my shoulder and down one arm, rubbing his thumb along the raised vein on my forearm. “You have real muscles, working muscles. This is strength here.” He touched my biceps. “And here.” He trailed fingers across my chest.

I shivered at his touch. “Got a farmer’s tan.” The lines of brown faded up my arms, from fall T-shirt length back to summer sleeveless, to where I’d work without a shirt when it got real hot. When we stripped down past jeans and underwear, I’d probably blind him with my white ass and legs. Ranching ain’t no place for wearing booty shorts and lying out to catch a tan.

“It’s funny,” he said in a slow, honey-rich tone, as he touched my neck and chest and arms. “My grandfather would be rolling in his grave to know that his ranch helped set my preferences when I was still young. He’d take me out with him, on a horse or in the truck, to where the men were working. All those lean, wiry cowboys, naked to the waist on hot days, with stringy muscles and hair on their chests and the smell of sweat and leather. I was only nine or ten, when he told me ‘That’s what a real man’s like,’ but by God, I imprinted on it.”

“Like a gay duckling?” I dared to reach over in my turn and begin unbuttoning his leather jacket.

“But without the waterfowl.” He shrugged out of his jacket, tossed it to a chair, and pulled his silky sweater over his head. Under it, his chest was smooth and hairless, sculpted and hard. He didn’t have a six-pack, but his stomach was flat, and above the waistband of his slacks, he had those grooves gym-fit men get, hip heading to groin on each side. My eyes wanted to follow the arrowhead down where a hint of treasure trail peeked above his fine leather belt.

I ran my fingertips down his chest, watching his soft, brown nipples crinkle and tighten at my touch. “If you like chest hair and all, how come you’re shaved?”

“Waxed, I’ll have you know.” He sighed. “Long story, ex-boyfriend, and anyhow, I didn’t want tobethose cowboys, I wanted to sleep with them.”

“At age nine?” I tried to raise one eyebrow, though it’s an art I didn’t have down pat like he did.

“Latently. Without realizing it. Ten years later, right front and center.”

I felt a mite jealous of that ex-boyfriend and even all those long-gone cowboys, which was about the silliest thing I’d ever thought of. I stepped away from him and undid my belt.

Sylvester tilted his head, watching me. “I like hard-bodied men and I like leather. You’d look good in leather. Ever try any?”

“Nope.” At least not the bondage harness or cuffs or whatever he was thinking of.

“That’s a pity. I’d like to see you in it.”

“I could leave my boots on.”

He chuckled. “Get naked, Joe McNeil. Show me what you’ve got for me.”

I was a bit off my game in front of his smooth perfection. So I kept my eyes down on the polished wood floor while I kicked out of those boots and stripped off jeans, socks, and undershorts. I dropped my clothes to one side, aware of the rustling as he pulled down his wool slacks and, okay, I took one look at his sculpted ass in tight briefs that barely covered his big package, before dropping my gaze again. My dick didn’t care about whether I measured up to what he was looking for, though. I’d been hard ever since I got into the damned Mustang, and by now I could’ve driven nails with my cock.

“Perfect,” he said, like he meant it.

“Can I kneel now?” I asked, snarky-like, to hide how much I wanted it.

He ran a hand over my head, tugging a little on my hair, then pushed me lower. “Suck me, Joe.”

I dropped to my knees, harder than I meant to but I didn’t care. Running my hands up his thighs to his hips, I held on good and leaned forward. His big, cut cock bobbed in front of my face and I opened up and took him in. This I was good at. This I could do, a skill honed by years of practice. I sucked hard, hollowing my cheeks, then licked and teased, lapping at the precum welling at his tip, then opened my throat and dove down to the neatly-trimmed curls at his base.

“Jesus!” He gasped and his fingers tightened in my hair. “You don’t fool around.”

I pulled off with a pop. “I know what I like.”

He freed a hand to stroke my cheek as I sucked him again. “You ever like getting fucked?”

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