The Substantial Gift [The Sunset Palomino Ranch 3] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting)

by Karen Mercury

  The more Sinclair was swept away in the tide of sex, the less inhibited he became. It really didn’t matter who the guy was. It was a faceless, nameless encounter in a club he’d never go to again. Now the man was gripping him firmly by the hip as he fondled Sinclair’s erection. He pressed his own hard-on into Sinclair’s ass crack. The thrill of the illicit groping was becoming too much for Sinclair, and he felt the semen surge up his prick. He reached behind him to feel for the other guy’s hip, to touch him, to let him know it was all right, that he didn’t mind.

  Hot breath moistened the side of his neck. “I’ll bet you’d be one amazing hunk of meat dangling from some suspension cuffs.”

  Sinclair thought he detected a whiff of grass or hay emanating from the heat of the body behind him. Long, soft hair brushed his nape, stiffening his nipples. He had no idea how to reply to such a statement. He let the first thing come out of his mouth. “I don’t usually dangle from a ceiling.” However, as a subconscious response to the other guy’s urging, Sinclair stretched his free arm above his head, unfurling it like a cat stretching.

  That encouraged the other guy to run his free palm up Sinclair’s torso, massaging his pec and pinching his nipple. Another surge of semen when he gave Sinclair’s dick an enormous squeeze while sliding his erection against Sinclair’s sphincter. Sinclair gasped, knowing he’d dripped precum. A shade of anger rose in his throat, and he added, “I don’t usually let strangers grope me in clubs.”

  “But you like the display,” the stranger urged, his voice low and salacious with just the hint of a twang. “You get turned on watching those two guys and their long cocks.”

  The stranger was right. The bear seemed set to come, he was pumping the sheath so vigorously. Sinclair could make up any lie, any story he wanted, but the truth was, the sight of two men jacking themselves was riling him to unbelievable heights. It both confused and angered him. The bear, his mouth frozen in a silent scream, head thrown back, hips thrust forward in a never-ending shudder, that dude was coming. He was honestly coming into the clear sheath, lubricating the sleeve for his partner.

  Sinclair tried to choke out, “I do…not…”

  But when the intruder pawed him with both hands now, all hope was lost. In just a few expert maneuvers, the newcomer was palming Sinclair’s balls while eagerly jacking him outside of his pants, and, well, what ordinary man wouldn’t lose it under identical circumstances?

  Shamefully, Sinclair felt his load flood his briefs, hot and already sticky. It flowed and pulsed over the balls the stranger was squeezing so lovingly, gently yet evilly forcing the ejaculate out. Did the guy somehow know Sinclair was spewing? He tried to talk through the curtain of ecstasy that clouded his inner mind.

  “Doesn’t…matter…to me…” All the while, Sinclair’s hips were jerking, in time to the bear’s onstage. “Ah!” He released a big grunt of satisfaction when the stranger’s thumb circled around the corona again. He knew the other man must realize that, like a high schooler, he had jacked him to bliss without even unzipping his pants.

  This fear was confirmed when the intruder laughed in his ear, pleased. “You like that, don’t you? You’re more shameless than you let on.”

  Anger finally overcame euphoria, and Sinclair clamped a hand down on the stranger’s. All activity abruptly ceased, and Sinclair twisted his torso around to see the guy for the first time. After all, he was big, built, and powerful from years of skiing on both water and snow. This guy’s muscles were longer, more wiry and sinewy. He obviously worked at something that required strength, but not just upper body strength.

  Sinclair wrapped his fingers around the guy’s wrist. He was surprised to see the guy was young, maybe his age, and good-looking in an outdoorsy way. His face was deeply tanned and even wind-whipped—Sinclair knew that healthy red glow from skiing. The moustache and Van Dyke beard demonstrated his careless attitude, and his thin, narrow features gave him the look of a Shakespeare actor. The top layer of his hair was pulled back out of his face, but the rest flowed freely nearly to his shoulders. He wore one cuff earring, as though he secretly wished to be a pirate.

  “I don’t like any damned thing,” Sinclair snarled. He knew it was absurd, having just been jacked to orgasm by this guy, but he felt the need to deny everything. “You can just take your filthy fucking hands off of me.” Pride and vindication swelled Sinclair’s chest, and he took one step to the side in preparation to storming off.

  But the outdoorsy stranger had one more thing up his sleeve. Sinclair was completely taken by surprise, his momentum already heading toward the exit door. But the intruder yanked him in exactly the perfect way, as though roping a calf or something. In the flashing of a second, Sinclair found himself in the guy’s arms, fixed with a hypnotic stare. Those eyes. Eerie.

  “You can’t admit you like it.” The guy had his arm in an impossible wrestling hold, and the next thing Sinclair knew, he pressed a bruising kiss to Sinclair’s mouth.

  Of course, Sinclair struggled, snorting and wrenching his arms, like a…well, like a roped calf. But the stranger persisted, almost gently opening his mouth over Sinclair’s, slipping his tongue between Sinclair’s lips, where he easily could’ve bitten him.

  But he didn’t. Sinclair stood there, and took it. Gradually he stopped struggling and just submitted to the forced kiss. One part of his brain knew he was being a turkey, a complete and utter sucker, a chump for this strange, twisted fellow’s whims. But what could he do? Make a scene? Men already pressed in on them from all sides, apparently having tired of the action onstage, which had now passed its climax. Men murmured their approval of the kiss.

  Who was Sinclair to deny them their fun? To please them, and because he’d always been somewhat of an exhibitionist, Sinclair inched his fingers up the stranger’s chest till he struck bare skin. He slithered his fingers between the shirt buttons to feel a pectoral as tight as a drum, and he was pleased at the urgent erection the cowboy pressed against his pubic bone. It was nice to tantalize someone, even if it was another man.

  Just as the guy succeeded in getting Sinclair to open his mouth, too, to allow the hypnotic man to lap at the roof of his mouth, Sinclair shoved him away again. This time he must’ve taken the guy by surprise, for he stumbled back into another few men who eagerly grabbed him.

  Flush with power, Sinclair pointed a stiff forefinger at the ground. “I admit nothing, you fucktard! And I never want to see you again.” He stalked out with dignity intact, if nothing else.

  His heart was pounding out of his chest as he pushed past what now looked like a clinging crowd of zombies with bulging milky eyes and grasping, putrid fingers.

  He was shocked to discover it was still daylight outside. Such sordid doings seemed only suited for the modest shadow of nighttime. Sinclair was nearly in a panic as he got behind the Jaguar’s wheel. I have to stop doing things like this. I’m a member of society. What the hell was I thinking?

  Sinclair had always dismissed the few drunken, homoerotic encounters he’d had over the years. I was drunk. I was horny. The girl I wanted wasn’t there. Now, as he swerved unnecessarily wide onto Barry Manilow Avenue, the horrifying truth started to creep into his reality, just as the itchy semen began to dry and crawl on his balls.

  He had enjoyed the hell out of that encounter just now with the hypnotic stranger—the stranger with a pec tat that declared “Morgan” was the only guy for him.

  Chapter Three

  Harper Davies had to go inside Shining Lands and talk to the owner, Drake Stinson. He dreaded it. His horse dreaded it, he could tell. The pinto mare skittered and hesitated when he tried to rein her toward the sprawling, modern house.

  True, Drake had become much more “one of us” since marrying that down-to-earth restaurant woman, Rose. And it was to Drake’s credit that they also seemed to be involved in a kinky ménage with a man of mixed race, the interior designer Jesse. Harper always gave anyone credit for doing anything even remotely kinky. Drake actually came out i
nto the field, wore chaps, and got dusty with the rest of them, following and directing the herds from one rangeland to another. Drake was a buff, virile guy who had until recently lounged around bordellos in Europe—one of them apparently a gay club in India where he’d had a well-publicized run-in with a tranny. Mr. Sam Stinson had practically disowned him for that, but now, apparently, gayness was tolerated on Shining Lands, as Jesse lived in the main house and seemed to share the master bedroom with the married couple.

  In March, the Coachella Valley was an orgy of fertile forage, and a dozen head had wandered off the grid and onto the neighboring land of Lone Palm Ranch. Harper didn’t have warm and fuzzy relations with that cow boss, his counterpart over there. That pendejo had sicced his dogs on a lone cow of Harper’s. They had torn her throat and flank so badly Harper had had to ride over and shoot the poor cow through the forehead with his revolver, and he hated that kind of shit. He didn’t even really like guns, but you had to carry one in case of mountain lions or rabid skunks. And they were better than knives.

  Harper tied up to a hitching post that someone had thoughtfully set next to a long, elegant reflecting pool that was a moat around this wing of the house. Shining Lands was a weird juxtaposition of modern and traditional. Once a herd had wandered through the golf course, past one of eleven man-made lakes on the property, and Harper had paused to take photos with his phone. That was something you didn’t often see. Now he was tying up next to a cactus garden, a dozen rows of cute miniature barrel cacti all aligned geometrically. Harper liked being out on the range or at his roomy house five miles out in the desert, but he was fascinated by this house and its strange history.

  As usual when forced to come here, Harper walked right up to the glassy sliding doors of Drake’s office. This way, he didn’t track dust across the miles of shag carpeting in the common areas, or breathe on the priceless art. Drake had given many of the originals to New York’s MOMA and had them replaced on the walls with digitized copies. If he wasn’t out on the range and on the radio, he could be found here.

  Yes. Drake was sitting at the long conference table talking to some guy. Glossy photos were on the table between them. This table was where Richard Nixon had relaxed after resigning, where George Schulz had left a martini glass ring while overhauling the tax code, where Dwight and Mamie had pasted photos into albums. Now, Drake Stinson, the son of the original owner, conferred over photos of—a bowling alley?

  Harper hitched his thumbs into his overloaded belt loops—cowboys always had about twenty pounds of gear strapped around their waists. “Mr. Stinson. A few head have wandered onto Amadeo Barbieri’s land, and you recall what happened last time—” Harper practically choked on whatever his next words would’ve been.

  Drake looked placidly at him, waiting for him to explain the problem. But when Drake’s friend turned around, Harper near about had a heart attack.

  It was that good-looking son of a bitch from The Racquet Club.

  Of course, it wasn’t just any bastard. It was the chiseled asshole who had pretended he was being dragged screaming through the portals of hell when Harper had massaged his dick till he squirted inside his pants.

  Yes, that bastard. He looked even more chiseled than he had the other night in the club, with his perfectly dimpled chin. But now, his lower jaw hung slack, just as it had when Harper had fondled his well-hung schlong, so full to bursting nestled against his powerful thigh that Harper had nearly come off, too, humping his curvy ass.

  That was the risk one took going into places like The Racquet Club. This was actually the first time he’d run into anyone on the outside in the vanilla world, and Harper had been going there near about weekly since he’d arrived at Shining Lands two years ago. That probably was a risk worth taking, for those odds.

  As best he could, Harper tried to cover up his recognition and stumbled on like a moron. “You know…Hector, the cow boss…hates my guts…we lost that cow…”

  Drake seemed to get the picture. Luckily he couldn’t possibly know what was going through Harper’s—and probably his guest’s—mind. He just leaped up and headed for his desk, saying, “Yeah, let me call Amadeo and make sure that drunk vaquero knows you’re going to be coming for the cows. Otherwise who knows who he’ll be liable to sic those dogs on next.”

  Mr. Toolbag snapped his head around and coughed. He pretended to examine the bowling alley photos, but Harper could tell he’d recognized him, too. Needing the upper hand, Harper clasped his hands behind his back as he walked around the long conference table, like a gunslinger in an old west showdown. He knew this position displayed his gun belt and pistol holsters, and the chaps nicely framed his own package. Now that he’d gotten over the initial shock at seeing the handsome bastard, Harper tried to regain his usual cool, collected demeanor.

  Once he could look Drake’s guest in the face, Harper fixed him with his steely eyes. It wouldn’t do for the guy to know he was shaken. “Right,” he called to Drake, over his shoulder, “just tell Amadeo they disappeared down Edge Arroyo, heading toward Hewson Gulley.”

  Drake frowned as he listened to his phone ring. “Down there? That’s mighty steep and chock full of giant barrel cacti. Hey Sinclair, this guy’s an ace bull rider. He’s at—what is it, Harper? Percent attempted and ridden? Harper, I got Stony to mostly fill out the entrance papers for that Built Tough event next month, but he’s got a couple more personal questions if you want to stop by his office on your way out. I think he’s in there right now.”

  “Sure.” Harper never ignored a chance to brag, so he answered his boss. “Of my seventy attempts, I’ve ridden forty-six percent.”

  Drake pointed. “And that’s a damned good percentage. Oh, hey, Amadeo, this is Drake over at Shining Lands.”

  Drake didn’t know much about riding bulls or any other rodeo event, but Harper appreciated that he was taking an interest. Still holding Sinclair’s gaze, Harper reached up and snapped the dust from his neckerchief. He stuffed the points back into the V of his denim shirt, just to make sure Sinclair couldn’t see his tattoo—or to draw more attention to it in case he had seen it at The Racquet Club. He nodded once, tersely, to the rich asshole, and strode out of the room.

  He found Stony’s office and answered his questions in a trance. He just wanted to know his weight and height for the entrance application. Harper waited while Stony called up the application on his computer. “Stony. Who is that gentleman in with Drake? Drake called him Sinclair.”

  “Oh. Sinclair Nieman. Heir to some department store fortune.”

  It figured Stony would be impressed by that. He’d traveled with Drake for years doing things like purchasing his rubbers, or throwing out the used ones, whatever a personal valet did for rich guys. “And what does he do? Aside from being an heir, I mean.”

  Stony shrugged. “He’s staying here in the main house. I met him a few times in Gstaad and the Maldives. He seems…different from most.”

  “Different? In what way?”

  “Well, he seems to honestly be interested in the charities he’s affiliated with. I’ve seen thousands who give away money just for the write off, but very rarely do I come across anyone who seems genuinely interested in the well-being of his recipients.”

  Harper didn’t want to think of the well-hung, purebred stud as also being a philanthropist. He wanted to hate the guy, because he knew Sinclair would never allow him to toy with him again. Now that Sinclair knew he was a lowly cow boss who actually rode broncs bareback for money, he’d never allow Harper to touch him again. And Harper wanted to touch him again. Badly.

  He drifted toward the kitchen to grab a bottle of water from the fridge, lost in thought about the Racquet Club encounter. Harper had been leaning against the wall dully, having seen this sort of prick demonstration a hundred times before at the club. Harper was searching for something new. Ever since delving wholeheartedly into the hedonistic, decadent lifestyle of the bondage world three years ago, it had been one constant search to one-up
himself. He’d tried wax play for a while. When it got old dripping candles on body parts, he’d turned to knife play, and so on. He was finally to the point where he thought it might just be the scene in general that was numbing out his brain.

  Lately, he’d been wondering if he needed more in the way of an intimate play partner. Possibly—he barely allowed himself to consider this possibility—a hunk he could take home with him. Spend the night. Cook breakfast with.

  When he’d seen Sinclair getting hot and bothered in the Racquet Club audience, of course he wasn’t thinking about breakfast food. His expert glance scoped out the shapely ass, the sinewy hips, the tightly-sheathed dick pulsating against his leg. Harper knew the guy wasn’t gay and had probably just stumbled into that room by mistake. But since everyone in the room was being carried away on a tidal wave of lust, it was the perfect chance to take him in hand, so to speak.

  And Harper hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it since. Massaging that stallion’s meat through his well-tailored pants had been such an erotic rush, he’d jacked off ten times since then just thinking about it. Harper knew the guy had loved it when he’d pawed and fondled his big cock. Harper knew the guy would shoot in his pants when he caressed the dickhead in a circular manner like he had. Hell, he had nearly shot his wad with a handful of that giant boner. Sinclair had protested too much when he’d kissed him. Harper knew the other man had enjoyed the hell out of it.

  Stony was right—Sinclair was different. Harper didn’t spend days fantasizing about a brief hookup like that. Ever. Since Morgan’s death three years ago, he’d built a fortress around himself so dense and so solid that no one had been able to penetrate. Harper’s only consolation was the idea he’d never see the dimpled stallion again. Now that hope was dashed and the roller coaster would begin again, thinking about him and not being able to have him. Now he even had a name for the faceless, zipless fuck—Sinclair Nieman…