by Peter Styles
My muscles drew tighter, the white-hot heat building in my stomach quickly.
“That’s it,” Quinn’s whisper was husky and warm on my jaw, “come for me. I know you’re close.”
Something took me over. With my fingers in his hair, I drew Quinn into a bruising kiss as his hand moved over me at a torturously slow pace.
I wasn’t always this easy. Maybe it was because it had been so long. Maybe it was Quinn. Maybe it was the intimacy of the kiss. It could have been any number of things.
Moaning, biting at the red plush of his lip, relief flooded through me like liquid gold, hot and heady, and spilled over his fingers. Quinn giggled softly against my lips and worked me through it, chasing the aftershocks of pleasure where he could get them, smearing the mess I’d made over my cock until I could barely stand and his laughter took on the tone of someone having fun at my expense, more so than my benefit. When I couldn’t handle it any longer and my knees gave out, I sank down into the grass and he followed me down like he was attached. I breathed deep and tried to control the spasms in my body every time his fingers swept up and over my cock head. Eventually, he let me rest.
When my eyes opened, Quinn’s face was still close, his lips brushing against mine as I ached for a good breath. He blinked at me, delighted surprise coloring his expression.
I guess I was surprised, too, that a kiss was what finished me off.
Lost in the moment, I told myself.
“This, uh….” Glancing down between us, I could see Quinn was still hard and straining in his jeans—though the thoroughly turned-on, semi-fucked look on his face was indication enough. I licked my lips quickly, and noticed his eyes follow the motion.
“This is starting to feel a little one-sided,” I told him.
His eyes snapped up from my lips. “That’s all right.”
I stayed still while he rocked back onto his ass to sit, wiping his hand on the overshirt wrapped around his waist. Even with a hard-on, he looked like he was trying to pull himself together despite the flush on his face. I shook my head slowly, the motion catching his attention.
“No,” I told him. “I want to return the favor.”
He blinked, a small smile working onto his lips. “Oh.”
Sitting in the grass, hoping no one would catch us fooling around when we ought to have been working, made me feel like a teenager again; something about it was refreshing and fun.
“I just have never done it—with a guy before.”
His legs parted some as I rested my hand low on his thigh.
“You ever gotten a woman off with your fingers?” he asked.
“Yeah?”
He touched my shoulder, drawing me in closer to him. That Cheshire grin on his face could’ve tempted even the devil himself. “Yeah, it’s… nothing like that.”
I chuckled, tucking myself back into my jeans.
“It’s easy,” Quinn said, touching my hand once my button was done. He guided it to the impression of his cock, arching into the pressure I put on it. Somehow it made my breath feel short again. “I can show you.”
Quinn clearly knew what he was doing. There was a part of me, long-taught, that said this was wrong, memories of kissing a boy on the playground as a kid that had resulted in bruises and a whole lot of trouble resurfacing; a reminder that I could never return to normal, no matter what I did, even if this one man did believe my innocence.
He guided my hand higher. Taking the hint, I undid his fly. He was excited. I could tell by the flush on his chest, and the way he was breathing harder, and his finger’s twitch on my shoulder when I touched the skin above his boxers.
“Take it out,” he said, and I did, his cock hot and red and wet at the tip—from watching me, from touching me, making me come. It was flattering. My face warmed.
Wrapping my hand around him, I figured it was like touching myself, and so I gave a loose-fisted pump. He bit back on a hard sigh and watched my hand, his fingernails digging down into the skin on my shoulder.
“Gonna have to be wet if you want me to come,” he said, but when I started to take my hand away he chuckled and held it in place. “Didn’t say you couldn’t play a bit before.”
I nodded, and my smile gradually broadened as I got comfortable holding his cock. It wasn’t too thick, really. It was… delicate, almost, if a cock could be that, and the skin was soft and a little tight from where he’d been cut far back. The vein along the back that was so visible on me was barely there on him, and where the head of my dick was a little dome-shaped, his was a kind of pronounced helmet shape with a swept rim over the back. I squeezed gently, testing the firmness and Quinn’s breath caught. A bead of precum welled up on the tip, and I swept a finger up and over it to smear it around.
My eyes found his as I worked my thumb and forefinger all around that helmet-head, and his eyebrows pinched. His bottom lip disappeared between his teeth and his eyelids fluttered.
“That good?” I asked.
He nodded, and gave a soft moan for my trouble.
“How do I…?”
“Set a pace,” he said. “Slow. Slick. You can spit.”
I licked my lips, worked up some while I continued to massage him, and when it felt like I had enough, I took my hand away just long enough to spit in my palm. When I put my hand back on him and spread it around, and finally gripped him and stroked down from head to base, he sucked in a gasp and breathed it out in a high-pitched groan as his hips thrust. He leaned back to brace himself and I slipped in beside him to wrap my free arm around his back. He dropped his knee so I didn’t have to keep an awkward angle, and on instinct I pulled him up and into my lap. Once there, he draped an arm over my neck and clutched at my shoulder while I twisted my fist around him the way he’d done me.
“Slow,” he said between gasps, and touched my hand until I was at the pace he liked. A snail’s sprint, up and down, up and down, and when I reached the head each time he turned my fist into a tight corkscrew one way, and then the other until he was shaking. “Fuck, O-Oliver….”
His nails trailed up to the back of my neck. I leaned in, and our foreheads pressed together, sweat mingling in the hot sunlight. “You tell me when you’re close?”
Quinn nodded against my forehead and let his hand rest loosely over mine as it worked him. His breathing evened out one moment, and caught in his throat the next. He glided through my fist, swelling and jumping like his cock was its own little animal, weeping precum in drops that I gathered up and spread around each time.
It didn’t take too long. He looked up at me, pressed his lips to mine and held them there as his trembling voice came out in a taut whine. “Oliver, I—I—”
It was the warning I had before his nails dug in, hard against my skin, and he came over my hand, a cascade of hot liquid that fountained once and then dribbled out over my fingers and down over his pumping belly. His body tensed when I gave him another stroke, something like a moan rattling through him—until it was suddenly over, his body going just a touch slack against mine. I took my hand off his spent cock.
He swore under his breath, looking up at me through his lidded eyes.
I nudged his nose with mine. “Good?”
Maybe he was trying to find the right words. Maybe he didn’t know what to say. Eventually, he nodded, our foreheads disconnecting as he slid off my lap and untied his overshirt for me. “Here, wipe your hand.”
The experience was setting in slowly, as I watched Quinn right himself, his cock pushed back into his jeans before we got snuck up on by some poor farmhand. He caught me watching and gave a little smile.
“It was good,” he said, and I could tell in his smile he meant it. “Not bad for your first handjob.”
I hummed, tossing the balled-up overshirt at his face. “Thanks.”
Pulling himself up, he righted his jeans before extending a hand to me. I glanced left and right, expecting some sort of ugly consequence to appear before us, but none did. All was quiet as far as I could see.
“Did you like it?” he asked, nodding for me to follow, and we fell in step as we headed into the north barn finally.
I thought about it, remembered the fresh memory of it. Nodding slowly, I grinned down at him. “Yeah.” I was surprised by how much I meant it.
Quinn seemed pleased with the answer.
“But,” I told him, nudging him with my elbow. “You’re gonna have to keep good on your promise of helping me. Without you, there’s no way I’m getting all the cleaning done by the time James gets back now.”
I watched Quinn’s smile turn from innocent to devilish. He laughed.
“All right, greenhorn. Let’s get this shit degreased before the sun comes down.”
8
Quinn
When I met up with Sawyer, it was hours later, and I was feeling properly satisfied for the first time in a long time. Or very close to it, at any rate. There were parts of me distinctly unsatisfied and getting impatient to experience more of Oliver.
Getting off the ranch every now and again was nice. I hadn’t exactly pictured myself here forever but I needed to be, with the way things were going, and, well, there was really no changing that. It was what it was. So whenever I took the truck down the long way into town, the warm wind coming in through the windows, the music loud in my ear, I counted each second as a soft sort of blessing.
It wasn’t the first time I’d met up with Sawyer. With the ranch’s finances in the state they were in, we were familiar. The late afternoon sun streamed in through the windows as we sat and went over papers in folders, a highlighter in his hand and a pen at his side.
I watched carefully as he went over a spreadsheet, before he looked up at me and sighed.
Bad news, I guessed.
“It’s not looking good, Quinn.”
“I know, I know.” Scooting my chair closer to the desk, I tried to make sense of his notes. “We’re—”
“Spending money quicker than you can make it?”
I nodded.
“Yeah.” Sawyer blew out a breath. “Yeah. Have you possibly considered selling off some of the land? Whatever you don’t usually use, with the cattle stock being so small now.”
It wasn’t the worst idea; it would take time to build the herd back up unless we were acquiring more, which we didn’t have the money to do anyway. But, as nice an idea as that was….
“My mama—Tilly—she’d never go for it.” I could feel the frustration from our many conversations creeping up my back. But she had more stock in the farm, a higher ownership, so it was ultimately up to her, in the end. “We’ve talked about it before. She wants to keep the land.”
“Even if you’re not using it all to the best of its ability?”
I shook my head. “The land’s been in the Dyer family for six generations. Trust me, I’ve tried, but… she’s stubborn.”
Sawyer and I looked at each other for a long moment. It was a temporary impasse. He could see I wanted to go along with what would make us money, I was sure, but it wasn’t my choice.
With a nod, he turned back to his papers. “Okay, well, barring that… what about diversifying?”
“Along the lines of what?” I leaned in like I could see the answer written down, though it wasn’t yet.
“It would require spending some money,” he said, a little hesitant, “but it would be an investment, ultimately. Like, pork, for example. You could go into pork. Or with putting some money into proper fencing, the ranch could….” He made a gesture, like he was spitballing. Honestly, at this point, spitballing was the best option. “You could extend the work horse population, or open up a side business for equestrian stuff.”
“Equestrian stuff?”
“You know.” He twirled the highlighter between his fingers. “Teach kids to ride and compete. That kind of thing.”
It had potential, but it wasn’t as easy as putting out a shingle. “We’d have to pay for a coach or trainer.”
The silence was deafening. I could hear the air conditioning rattling. It was too loud.
I sat up a little higher, trying not to look at the many dollar signs spread out over the papers.
“Well,” I finally huffed, “I can take these ideas to my mama. Talk to her—there are some possibilities in here.” I felt guilt in my stomach. Maybe it was shitty of me to say, “Maybe if she sees there aren’t many options for us, she’ll consider selling off the land in the east quadrant. If there’s no other way out.”
“What would you do with it?”
“We’ve had a few developers inquire about it,” I told him.
Sawyer shot me a sympathetic look. “Honestly, Quinn… I’ve been looking at these numbers a while now, and that seems like the best option.”
I thought of asking him to come on down to the homestead so he could tell Mama the news himself. Not that it’d be a difference to her bull-headed self. He stacked up the papers and passed me the folder.
“Other than that,” he said, “I figure the ranch is already running at a minimum capacity. Though… if you could do more with automation in the hayfields, you might be able to save money in terms of workforce. Have you thought about that?”
The face I made must have been sour, because Sawyer actually laughed at the look of it.
“Sorry,” he said, waving a hand.
I shook my head, grinning into my lap. “No, it’s fine, I… I can’t part with any of our hands, Sawyer. Trust me, I’ve thought about it, but… laying people off right now ain’t in the cards. Not just yet, anyway.”
It wasn’t just about the money; I didn’t think I had the heart to tell anyone to leave the ranch.
I could see the sympathy in Sawyer’s face.
“I’ll see what else I can whip up,” he told me. “Looking at the documents, it might be possible to move some money into investments that could benefit the ranch.”
He was pulling it out of his ass at this point, but I was happy someone besides me was trying. Tucking the folder under my arm, I swallowed my disappointment and shook his hand. “Thanks, Sawyer. I really appreciate it.”
And it was the honest truth.
After a long car ride of blasting Johnny Cash loud enough to destroy my hearing, I pulled into the driveway at the ranch feeling a little less relaxed than I’d felt when I left.
There was a lot to think about: the farm and the money and my mama, tucked up in her bed, napping the day away.
A different thought came in through the back door as I sat at the kitchen table, throwing together another supply order to take out before the day ended. Expecting it to be some random farmhand, I was pleasantly surprised to find it was Oliver coming in, still drenched in sweat and looking criminally hot; pun intended.
“Hey,” he said. He sounded surprised.
“Hey.” I grinned. “You want something to drink?”
“Sure.”
Oliver leaned against the counter, watching as I filled up a cup for him from the tap. When he took a drink, I looked at his hands, and remembered how big they’d felt around my cock; it was kind of fucked up that he’d never given a handjob before. His hands were practically made for it.
“How’s work been going?”
“Good, good.” He sighed, glancing out the window. “It’s been a busy day, but….”
I couldn’t help the teasing in my voice. “Yeah. Real busy.”
Oliver shot me a wry look and I pushed his shoulder with a light laugh. “Kidding.”
“Yeah.”
I filled up a cup for myself, and when I turned back to him, he looked like he had something to say. “Hey, uh….”
“Hm?”
“James should be back soon, right?”
“Yeah.”
He touched the rim of his cup, looking into the water. “Do you know about, uh… about how long?”
Oliver was fidgeting. It wasn’t hard to pick up on, because it wasn’t totally obvious. Looking at a guy like him, you wouldn’t think he could get nervous, but you’d be wr
ong.
I lifted my cup to my lips to hide the smile. “Why does it matter?”
Oliver looked up at me, eyes a little wider, like he was caught thinking something naughty.
Fuck, it was adorable.“Hooked, huh?”
Looking away, Oliver gave a half shrug. Like it didn’t matter. I could tell it did.
I dumped out what water was left, drawing closer. My fingers traced down his chest slowly, like they had when I first touched him out by the barn. “Unfortunately, I don’t have time.”
Oliver looked down at me. He was good at keeping a poker face; too bad everything else about him was easy to read. It was endearing to see in such a hardened guy.
“But if you were planning on spending the night with James again, then….” I grinned, my finger hooking in his jeans. “Maybe later.”
Some guys might have thought having an inexperienced lover would be a drag. You had to take the time to be patient or teach them things they didn’t naturally know. Not me. I could think of a million things to do with Oliver, and all of it would be new to him. It was exciting, to be able to guide someone through something like that. To see them experience it for the first time. And he didn’t have any bad habits to break.
I thought of bending over, of riding him, of his mouth or his hand on my ass.
The possibilities were endless.
“Don’t worry, cowboy,” I told him. “I’m just as eager for round two.”
When he blew out an amused breath, his lips curling a little, I could feel it on my cheek. His lashes fluttered, eyes flicking from my face to the window; he was bashful. It was unexpectedly hot on a daddy like Oliver. “Wouldn’t it be technically round three?”
He was right. I looked him over, and touched the ring of sweat near his shirt collar. “The work sweat thing is super hot, like, halfway through the day,” I told him. “By the end of the day, take a shower. Okay?”
I could tell he was trying not to show how amused he was. It came through in his devastatingly nice eyes, though. “I will.”
The grin on my face was dopey. I could feel it, but I didn’t give a shit. Peeling away from him, I plucked up the list from the table and pointed at him. “I’m gonna go put in the grocery order,” I told him. “James should be back.”