Page 7 of Stirring Spurs (Rainbow Ranch #1)

WYLIE

After washing up in one of the shared bathrooms in the hallway, I return to my small room, my eyes closing as the door clicks shut, and I throw the small lock over the knob.

A single bed sits in the corner with a small table next to it.

A tall, narrow dresser and a little wooden chair rest on the opposite wall.

That’s it. Sparse and simple, but it’s all I need.

I won’t be here terribly long, and for now, I’m leaving my clothes on the floor in my old duffel. No sense getting too comfortable.

Never thought I’d leave Wyoming, let alone my folks’ homestead. But here I am. Ten years gone. Thirty-four years old, and not really sure where I’m going or what I’m looking for—just gotta keep moving. Stay anywhere too long, and you plant seeds. Nothing good ever comes from seeds taking root.

It wasn’t the only reason I left, but it sure as hell played a part.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve known something about me was different.

Not like my brothers, not like my old man, and certainly not like any of the other men we had around the ranch or in town.

Tried to shove it down for as long as I could, but it never quite stayed buried.

Pretty sure my family knew, but never said anything.

I never took an interest in women the way Luke and Jesse did.

We were busy working—who had time for anything else?

The truth? I knew full well that the kind of love I was after was never gonna fly in a place like that.

A town like ours? They wouldn’t get it, and I sure as fuck wasn’t gonna stick around to be someone’s lesson in tolerance.

It’s gnawed at me ever since—riding from one place to the next, trying to outrun all that mess.

Years on the move, and I end up here, in a place where no one knows my sad story.

With their brightly painted buildings and every queer flag in creation flapping in the breeze.

And the best part? Nobody gives a crap who I fall for.

Especially not that chipper cookie with the damn dimple in his cheek.

Maybe that’s what I need—something new, something I don’t have to drag around with me like a millstone.

A fresh start. Maybe a few weeks on Rainbow Ranch will do me some good.

And hell, if nothing else, with all his fancy cooking, I’ll leave a few pounds heavier.

I hang my hat on a hook behind the bedroom door, sit on the edge of the bed, and kick off my boots.

A blister on my right big toe bubbles under my sock, and I wince as the pressure of being crammed into leather all day releases.

I lean back on the thin mattress, and the coils of the bed squeak as my head rests on the flimsy pillow.

My eyes shift to the moon and stars out the window beside the bed.

The shade is up, but being on the third floor of the ranch, I leave it.

Nobody but owls and bats looking in. Maybe I’ll give 'em a show.

I unbutton my shirt and peel off my tank.

My fingers graze my chest, getting lost in the hair.

Unlike my brothers, who never grew much anywhere but their heads, mine’s covered in a soft, thick layer.

The few times I’ve been with men, they’ve seemed to appreciate it.

Burying their fingers. Faces. Tongues. Fuck.

The tightness in my jeans becomes uncomfortable as Boone’s face swims in my head.

That smile. Those damn green eyes staring at me as I ate his sweet cake.

I reach down and unbutton my fly, and my dick immediately springs to life.

Quickly, I stand and strip, the moonlight catching my face as I pull the patchwork blanket back and return to bed.

With another glance out the window, I spot a figure moving in the distance.

As a reflex, my hand covers myself as I squint and try to figure out who’s out so late.

Near a purple rustic outbuilding, about a hundred feet from the main house—Beau said it was for storage, trash, recycling, and composting—the image comes into focus as my eyes adjust to the darkness.

A bright light clicks on—one of those fancy motion detector ones—and I see him.

The cookie. Boone. He’s kneeling, bent over.

His body shakes, and I quickly realize he’s emptying something.

Garbage. Food. Scraps. As my eyes screw up to make out the details, my thumb grazes the head of my cock.

And yeah, he’s so fucking far away—he’ll never know.

I scoot closer to the window, my legs apart, my face resting against the smooth, cool wood of the window casing as my fingers warm from gripping the heat of my dick.

He’s got a few containers. There’s a wagon or cart of some sort next to him, and as he empties each one, he returns it and grabs another.

Who’d ever think Boone Adams bent over bins would give me such a raging boner? Probably not him.

He had to be flirting with me. The icing.

And cake. And all the talk of needing something sweet.

What would he think if he knew I was staring at his round ass in those tight jeans as he wiggles to get every bit of trash loose?

Fuck, I’d like to loosen him up. Cram my tongue up there first to get him nice and ready.

Slick. Glide it around every corner like a hound dog tracking a rabbit.

Add a finger. Two, if he’s horny for it.

Open him right up for my throbbing cock.

My fingers glide over the tip, wet with precum, and the sensation sends a shiver up my spine. It also makes my elbow twitch, ramming into the window with a loud bang. Boone snaps around, jutting his head forward, searching for the culprit.

I quickly shimmy away from the window. The room is dark, so there’s no way he can see me. My gaze darts down to the blanket on the bed. Moonlight floods the room, creating a spotlight, and dammit all the hell. Could he see me way up here? Did he?

With a deep inhale, I settle and realize my dick has grown even harder. The idea of him catching me stroking myself, thinking of him, watching him, makes my insides boil.

I count to ten, take another breath, and peek out the window. He’s gone.

I lie back on the bed, resting my head on the pillow, and run my free hand down my chest, pausing to pinch my left nipple.

My cock is slick with precum, and the thought of Boone bent over, quivering under my touch, brings me to the edge.

The urge to come rushes up from my toes as my balls tighten.

I’m so close, but I’m not ready. I release myself, moving my hands behind my head.

My dick points right at my chin, hard, dripping, and ready to launch.

But years of being on my own have taught me that delaying my orgasm will only intensify it.

I lock my fingers in my hair and contract the muscles to pulse my cock.

A sticky bead stretches from the thin trail of hair that starts at my belly button and leads to my dick.

... now that I know you like certain sweets.

Boone’s voice echoes in my head. There’s a sweetness—a softness to him.

Reminds me of the fleece blanket I used to love as a kid.

Mom would insist on cleaning it every few weeks, and I’d worry it would fall apart from me loving on it too much or her scrubbing it against the washboard.

It was like sleeping in the puffiest cloud.

I wonder what I’d find under that long leather apron and his clothes. Is he soft like his voice, or does all the baking and cooking create the same calluses and blisters I get from working with the animals and being outside? Damn sure would like to find out.

My eyes close, and I imagine him here. The bed isn’t big enough for two.

I’d swing my legs over the edge. Throw him my pillow to kneel on.

Just like he was bent over the bins outside, he could pray between my legs.

Worship my cock with his sweet lips while I run my thumb up and down his cheek—making sure to give that dimple plenty of attention.

When he needs a breath, I’d rub my cockhead over his face, ramming it into the indentation, wishing I could fuck it.

“You like that fat cock?”

The words escape my lips as my fingers graze the back of my head, thinking of him licking the icing from my face off the tip of his finger.

“Want my load, Boone?”

He’d moan with pleasure, my dick stretching those beautiful, full lips.

That’s it. I’m unable to hold back anymore.

My hand pumps my shaft, the prickle of my orgasm arrives fast, and my nuts contract.

I imagine fucking Boone’s throat while holding onto the wavy, light brown hair on top of his head.

Hot spurts of cum splash the hair on my chest. Then my neck.

One lands just below my lower lip, the salty bitterness close enough for me to taste, and I can't help but wish it was Boone’s finger instead of my tongue feeding me.

After cleaning up with an old bandana I keep for this very purpose, I pull on my white tank and underwear, heading toward the bathroom with a semi hard cock to take a final piss before hitting the hay.

The soft hum of the house feels heavy, like the air before a storm.

As I reach for the bathroom door, it swings open, and I nearly stumble into an almost-naked Boone.

He’s got a towel draped low around his waist, his hair slicked back from the shower.

Water glistens on his chest, lightly dusted with hair, and my dick twitches in my boxers, quickly springing to life.

He’s got this perfect body, not too muscular, with just enough heft to him to make him solid.

Like I could get lost digging my fingers into him.

My skin tingles from wanting to touch him.

His eyes meet mine, and for a second, neither of us says anything.

“Sorry,” he mutters, but his voice sounds lower than usual, rougher.

“I always need a shower before bed. Usually use the one closer to my room, but Benny was taking forever.” He clears his throat, and his voice returns to its normal cheerful tone.

“I’m a mess from cooking all day. And cleaning. And, well, it helps me relax.”

I step back, but not far enough to avoid the way his damp skin seems to call to mine, the steam from the bathroom and heat radiating off him, making it hard to breathe.

There’s a flicker in his emerald eyes, something darker, something like hunger—like he’s seeing me for the first time in a way that makes me feel exposed.

“All good,” I manage.

He shifts slightly, taking a step closer, almost without thinking. He smells like fresh pine and the faintest trace of sugar. “Need anything?” he asks, his words slow and deliberate.

Tension in the space between us, swirls thick as smoke. I shake my head, my pulse picking up. You . The word echoes in my head, then swims down to my throat, getting stuck.

His gaze dips down to my lips, then back up to meet my eyes. “I’m at the end of the hall,” he says, voice low. “My door has the spoon on it.”

My head tilts, and my lips purse, but nothing comes out.

“All the siblings have something to tell folks which room is ours. Beau’s got a lasso 'cause he’s in charge. Billie, a branding iron. We don’t mark animals here, but it gives tattoo vibes. Benny, a saddle.”

He motions to himself, his hand outlining his perfect pecs as he mimes stirring.

“A spoon. For stirring. Knock if you need anything.”

The air crackles with unspoken things, and I can’t tell if Boone’s giving me space or daring me to close the distance. Either way, the beat of silence stretches on, like we’re both waiting for something to tip the scales.

I want to step closer, but I’m afraid I’ll do something I can’t take back.

With a nod, I move past him and shut the bathroom door.