by Eli Easton
He stopped an arm’s length away. His feet found pebbled ground. He dug in his toes—smooth-hard rocks, the squish of mud. Every sensation was heightened today, every feeling magnified, echoing around in his chest, in his soul.
He didn’t want to feel fatalistic. But the resignation that had taken root inside him made every breath feel important, something to be appreciated and savored, something that might never come again.
He watched Trace, memorizing the sight of him standing in that river. The water lapped at Robby’s shoulders. His legs were going numb. His genitals felt floaty and shy in the cold. His toes got slimed in the riverbed.
“So. Do you like me without the dress?” Robby asked, smiling in invitation.
“You’re about the best-lookin’ man I ever saw,” Trace said seriously, his eyes still sad. “Hell yes, I like ya like this. I’d also like ya done up in nice trousers, and a vest, and a shirt pressed so crisp it’d cut, like they do in the laundry in Santa Fe. I will see you like that someday, Robby, and take ya out to a nice dinner. Or I’ll be damned.”
The words were meant to reassure him. But Robby didn’t want promises right now. He craved oblivion in the form of rough hands and a hard cock.
“We have time. This afternoon, I mean,” Robby said firmly.
But Trace didn’t attempt to argue. When Robby pressed forward, closing the gap between them, Trace opened his arms and pulled Robby in. He crushed Robby to his chest like he was extracting the essence from an herb, one arm a band across Robby’s back, and the other gently cupping one cheek of Robby’s ass. His kiss was hot and wet and filthy. And, thank God, this was going to happen.
The kiss went on and on, as hot as the water was cold. It was dizzying and desperate. In the same way he’d been aware of the muck between his toes a moment ago, Robby now was hyperaware of the silky hair of Trace’s chest smashed up against his nipples, of the smoky, intoxicating flavor of Trace’s kiss, of the strong thighs like iron under his, and the growing heft of Trace’s cock as it came to attention.
Robby’s own cock gave it a good try. But it was damned frigid in the river.
He pushed back. “Cabin,” he ordered. Then he waded to the shore.
Trace followed Robby out of the river, his cock heavy and swaying awkwardly as he walked. He paused in the cabin’s doorway. Robby was spread out on the narrow bed, one leg bent, one arm behind his head, and a hand on his thigh by his cock. It grew as Trace looked at it, lengthening and shifting to point straight as an arrow up his belly.
Trace had a fleeting wish for a real bed, or at least a fresh blanket. But then he was too busy looking at what he did have to give the cabin’s shortcomings another thought. Robby sure was a sight to see like this, without the makeup or the dress, naked and wet. A week ago, Trace wouldn’t have thought a man like Robby was his type. His flat stomach, narrow hips, and long, slender limbs were boyish. But his shoulders were broad for his waist, and the muscle in his chest and biceps were full and tight. There were only a few dark hairs around his nipples, but a prominent line went down his belly and grew thick between his legs. His cock was long and ripe. There was no doubt Robby Riverton was a full-blown man. And a gorgeous one, by any standards.
In the army, Trace had met an eighteen-year-old recruit from Texas. Private Davies had been a stunning young man with black hair and blue eyes and a fair countenance. Cheeks like cream, lips like rose petals. Trace had felt a certain fondness for him, but he’d never thought to seduce the boy. He was too innocent, too good, and he talked about a gal back home with stars in his eyes.
Trace had never had anyone like Private Davies as a lover.
But Robby’s beauty and youth were like that—and it captivated him. Better yet, Robby wasn’t innocent at all. The way he was looking at Trace made it clear he knew all about the way things could be between two men, and he liked it. He was gutsy and strong. Smarter than he had any right to be. And there was that pull between them that came from out of the blue, but was mighty powerful all the same.
If Trace wasn’t careful, he could end up building castles in the air over Robby Riverton, become as neutered as a love-struck steer. He refused to let that happen. But a dalliance on a quiet afternoon before things got ugly? He wouldn’t deny Robby that. Or himself.
“You gonna just stand there and look?” Robby asked. He trailed his fingers slowly up his cock.
“All in good time,” Trace drawled, proud that his voice sounded calm. As if he weren’t sporting a prick as stiff as an iron bar.
Robby shifted up onto one elbow and let his fingers continue their seduction. “I haven’t got all day. Lawman.”
The throb of lust caused by those words reminded Trace that looking was all well and good, but touching was better. In a heartbeat, he was kneeling on the bed, half sprawled over Robby.
Robby looked up at him, eyes burning. “Damn, you’re handsome. Thank God you have no interest in the stage.”
Trace chuckled. “Forget the sweet talk and kiss me.”
Kiss me? Why had he said that? He’d meant fuck me. Or let’s get on with the sex. But then, kissing Robby was a singular pleasure. He kissed in such a delicious, filthy way. It stoked the embers inside Trace into a full-blown forest fire and made every part of him pull tighter, ache deeper.
This time, though, kissing wasn’t enough, not with Robby naked and wet. His hands roamed, enjoying the firm-slippery feel of damp skin. He ran his hand up the inside of the thigh Robby had hiked up. His thighs were firm but the skin there was baby-soft despite the light covering of hair. The mix of textures fascinated him. From the round, firm flesh of Robby’s behind, over the moist canyon of him, and the spongy-prickly texture of his sac, to the hot bar of his shaft, then back again. Trace’s palm and fingers learned the textures like braille. And again. Again.
Robby’s hips rose, seeking his touch. His hands clutched Trace’s back as though all he could do was hold on. It drove Trace mad with lust. This handsome young man shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be in Flat Bottom at all, yet here he was. And at the moment, Trace could only feel like the luckiest son of a bitch that ever lived.
Robby opened the floodgates on everything Trace Crabtree had ever found arousing. He wanted him in a purely base and carnal way. And yet the need dug down deeper than that too, like roots in the earth.
Robby groaned. “That feels good. But if you don’t get down to business, I think I’ll die.”
He tugged again, moving his leg up and over Trace’s back and pushing down with his heel. Trace gave in, laying heavily on top of him and grinding against his hip. A sweet shock of pleasure sang through his entire body.
Robby clutched Trace’s ass to grind them together hard. He broke off the kiss and arched with frustration. “Want you,” he begged. “Come on, Trace. Take me hard.”
Trace froze even as his cock pulsed hopefully against Robby’s. He wanted nothing more than to flip Robby over and pound into him. But . . . “I don’t have any slick. Don’t wanna hurt ya.” His voice sounded like glass over gravel.
“I have some. Let me up.”
Trace rolled onto his side, not happy at the interruption. He was high on lust, inflamed, and he didn’t want to cool down.
But the view of Robby bending over his dress to fish in a pocket, and then running back to the bed with his erection red and leaking, was one Trace couldn’t regret. It was like his eyes reminded his brain of why he wanted this so bad in the first place.
Robby put something in Trace’s hand. It was a piece of half-melted butter wrapped in a linen napkin. A bubble of happiness climbed up Trace’s throat and erupted as a laugh. “Oh, I see. Ya always intended to have your wicked way with me.”
“It’s helpful to have a vision. Now stop talking.”
Robby leaned over and kissed Trace again hard, then he climbed onto the mattress on his hands and knees, looked over his shoulder.
Trace stopped talking.
The river water had left Robby clean and tasting slightly o
f iron and earth. Trace opened him with his fingers, taking advantage of this new angle to map out new textures of flesh and bone. He tasted the light fur on the backs of Robby’s thighs, sucked the firmness of his round behind, licked the warm, soft sac that hung low between his legs, all while he slicked and pushed with the butter.
The butter tasted lovely on Robby’s skin.
“For God’s sake, Trace. Before I die!” Robby panted impatiently. He reached back with his hand to tug on Trace’s arm.
So Trace draped himself over Robby’s back. The head of his cock found that slick entrance, and he pushed.
God. Dear God above. He was tight and hot, slick and perfect.
Trace gripped Robby’s shoulders and gritted his teeth. He let Robby lead, let him push and pull, squeeze around Trace’s sensitive cockhead. It was difficult, but he held himself back until at last his balls were against Robby’s, and Robby relaxed and surrendered beneath him like a hot mountain pool.
Then Trace grabbed Robby’s hips and took him hard, pounding and circling and grinding in place and starting all over again. The moans and gasps Robby made sank into his ears, his brain, the tension tightening in his belly until he couldn’t take much more.
He let go of one of Robby’s hips to reach under him. Robby’s hand was already there. He squeezed Robby’s fist tighter and moved it fast, pounding into Robby in the same rhythm. In seconds, Robby cried out and seized up, nearly forcing Trace from his body with the strength of his contractions. But Trace held deep, deep, deep, as spasms of pleasure wracked through him and stars spun away before his eyes.
Sometime later, Trace panted against Robby’s forehead. Robby’s chin nudged his shoulder blade. He had an urge to feel Robby’s heartbeat, so he covered Robby’s chest with his palm. Rapid. Bum-bum. Strong and fast as a rabbit’s.
What was this strange urge he had to touch this man? The awareness of Robby’s skin, bones, and muscle. Craving things like textures and finding hair arousing. Liking heartbeats for Christ’s sake. It was downright peculiar. Trace had never found such pleasure in the minute details of someone’s body. He’d never imagined the blood rushing beneath their skin.
He probably only felt that way because of Robby’s precarious situation, because he was aware of how vulnerable Robby was. Trace worried about Robby when they weren’t together, and when they were together, he couldn’t keep his hands to himself, no matter how strictly he told himself he would.
Or maybe Robby had bewitched him.
He considered the idea seriously for a moment. After all, who knew what Easterners got up to? But then he realized Robby had enough to worry about being a successful New York actor, a fugitive from gangsters, wanted by U.S. Marshals, and impersonating a mail-order bride. No matter how productive the man was, adding “witch” to his list of accomplishments was highly unlikely.
The thought made Trace chuckle out loud.
“What’s so funny?” Trace felt Robby’s smile against his chest.
“Just wonderin’ when this fire in my belly for you is gonna let up, is all.”
Robby sighed and rubbed his forehead against the hair on Trace’s chest. “Not for a good while, I hope. I’ve never had anyone touch me the way you do.”
Trace froze, unable to read the meaning in Robby’s tone. He supposed his touches gave too much away, exposed his eagerness. Well, Lord, of course they did. Men didn’t treat each other tenderly like this, didn’t hold each other like this.
He sat up and pulled away.
“No.” Robby propped himself up on one elbow. “I’m not complaining. I’ve never felt so good in my life.”
Trace was somewhat mollified, but he still felt the need to put distance between them. He got up and put on his pants, hung his gun belt over a post of the bed, just in case he needed it. He lit a cigarette and sat on the end of the bed, his back against the wall. Robby shuffled around until his head was in Trace’s lap, his body splayed on the mattress like a rag doll. He seemed content to let everything hang out in plain sight.
Trace avoided looking at Robby’s softening cock. It caused a low feeling of discomfort in his balls when his body tried to respond and couldn’t. He also resisted the urge to card his fingers through Robby’s unruly curls, and another urge to make Robby get dressed and hurry back to the ranch out of fear he’d be missed.
What a stupid situation. Trace was acting like a nursemaid.
He cleared his throat. “Ya should probably get back. What if they come lookin’ for ya?”
Trace wished he could stop time, change the way things were. But the deck was stacked against them.
Chapter Eighteen
It seemed to Robby that Trace was always trying to get rid of him. He knew it was out of worry, but Robby didn’t care. It felt wonderful to be in his own skin, and he was going to linger as long as he possibly could.
“I told you, the men aren’t expected back until suppertime, and I told Marcy and Emmie not to expect me back before then either.”
Trace took a long drag and held it. He didn’t reply, but he made no move to leave.
“Besides,” Robby said. “I’m not putting that dress back on until I have to.”
“Is that something ya did in New York? Dress up like a woman?” Trace asked. He sounded merely curious.
“No. Well. I did have one big role as a female. Ophelia in fact. And may I say, I was brilliant.” He grinned, and Trace smiled back. “But no, it’s not my milieu.”
Trace relaxed finally, slouching loose-boned against the wall. He started to play with Robby’s hair, which was lovely.
“There was a house I went to once in San Antonio where men dressed up as women. They sang and danced,” Trace said.
Robby knew of a tavern liked that in New York. The show was amusing, and the performers were talented. Robby knew how hard it was to pull off a female convincingly. But that had never been his ambition.
“I want to play all the great male roles. Hamlet. Macbeth. Faust. There’s an actor in New York named Charles Fechter. He’s so commanding on stage, and what a magnificent voice! That’s the career I’d love to have.” Robby sighed. “Then again, Rowena is quite something.”
Trace raised an eyebrow. “Ya talk like she’s a separate person.”
Robby shrugged. “All the characters I play are real to me. They have to be real in my head for them to be convincing. Rowena is especially vibrant.”
Trace rubbed his thumb along Robby’s jaw. “Ya must be quite a sight, up there on stage. I’d love to see ya in a real performance someday.”
The idea of Trace being in the front row at the Burton Theater made Robby smile. Lord, he would love that. He’d love to show Trace what he could really do.
“Have you ever thought about acting, yourself?” Robby asked.
Trace snorted. “Hardly. Can’t see me singin’ and dancin’.”
“There are other ways to be on stage. Dramatic acting. Plays.”
“Can’t imagine that either.”
Robby nuzzled into Trace’s bare stomach contentedly. There was a line of fuzzy brown hair that went from his navel to below his trouser line that was utterly mesmerizing. “It’s just as well you have no ambition for it. If you were on stage, no one would notice me.”
Trace looked down, his face serious. “There ain’t a person alive who could cast you into shadow, Robby Riverton. I can’t imagine you’re ever in a room where ya ain’t the most fascinatin’ thing in it. I can’t keep my eyes off ya. Guess that’s what they call charisma. No wonder you were a star in New York.”
Robby got a lump in his throat. It had been a long time since he’d felt acknowledged like that. “You say the sweetest things.”
Trace made a disgusted face. “There ain’t a sweet bone in my body. I’m just statin’ facts.”
“What about you? Have you always wanted to be a sheriff?”
Trace huffed. “Nah. I left home at seventeen—against Pa’s wishes, of course—and joined the army. I only came back aft
er I got wounded. I was shot in the thigh. The sheriff job is convenient is all.”
Trace rubbed at his right thigh through the cotton. Robby remembered feeling a scar there, though he’d been too distracted at the time to examine it. And he’d noticed Trace had a slight limp.
“Does it still bother you?”
“Not much.”
Robby took a heavy breath and took over rubbing Trace’s thigh. “I was fifteen when I left home. There were eight of us, and I was number three.” He laughed. “I think the first night I ever spent without being woken by a crying baby was in New York. And I could live without ever having to muck out another cow stall.”
“Did they treat ya bad? Your family?”
“No. My parents were good people. There were just too many bodies, too much noise, too many rules. I wanted adventure.”
Robby swung to sitting, the telling making him antsy. “Guess I wanted to see what I could do on my own. It’s hard to be noticed in a family with that many kids. I knew I wanted to be an actor, so I went to New York City. Worked backstage until I got my break.”
Robby felt a sense of pain at the memory. Those early years had been hard. Very hard. Many times, Robby had gone hungry. He’d spent a few nights in alleys with only newspapers for warmth, and many others sleeping on the floor in the theater or in a compassionate actor’s rented rooms. And then he’d risen to such heights. Now here he was again, nearly broke and without a job. It was frightening if he let himself think about it.
“Looks like ya found more adventure than you’d bargained for just lately,” Trace said dryly.
“Guess I did.”
“Was the wagon train truly awful?”
Robby tilted his head, considering it. “Surprisingly, no. I never wanted to come west. But when I was on that wagon train, it was like . . .” He laid back down again, his cheek resting on Trace’s thigh and his hand wrapping around Trace’s waistband, just to have something to hang on to. “It was like I remembered that thirst for adventure I’d had as a kid. I’d gotten so caught up in my career I couldn’t see anything else. You forget there’s an entire huge world out there that doesn’t care a fig about who’s playing what on the New York stage.”