Home for a Cowboy (Windsor, Wyoming Book 1)

by Amy Aislin

  “Marco? Did you hear me?”

  “No.” Sand over rocks. That was his voice. Heat arrowed down into his dick until it’d be impossible for Las to miss. “If you want me to participate in this conversation, you’re going to have to put on a shirt.”

  Las froze, towel in one hand, eyes flying to Marco’s.

  He fully expected to have fucked up again. For Las’s eyes to shutter, to close himself off, to retreat. He was wholly unprepared when Las dropped the towel and edged into Marco’s space as if he belonged there.

  Chests met, bare against wet fabric. Las was warm and solid, cheeks flushed, mouth parted. Marco groaned at the contact, at the sensation of rough palms sliding over his wrists and holding tight. At Las’s proximity. At the lips barely an inch from his own.

  “Lassiter,” he whispered, nuzzling his nose into Las’s. “What are you doing?”

  “I have no idea.” Las’s words ghosted across Marco’s lips. A hand came to grasp Marco’s jaw. “But fuck, I want to kiss you.”

  “Just a taste. Please.”

  “Marco.” Las’s heavy-lidded gaze met his; fingers clenched on his wrist and jaw. “How do you not know yet that you can have whatever you want?”

  That was it. The rumbled words, the way Las leaned into him and closed whatever distance remained, the darkening of nearly black eyes, the hand that swept up his arm and over his shoulder to dig fingers into his hair.

  Marco was done.

  He met Las halfway, clutching his hips, fitting them snugly together as lips met and clung. He gasped into Las’s mouth. Las tasted slightly minty, like he’d popped a mint before bed, and also a bit like sleep. Marco’s beard was abrading Las’s face, but Las didn’t complain; he pressed closer, angling his mouth for better access.

  Tongues met, deepening an already wet and messy kiss. Arms sliding around Las’s waist, Marco clamped a hand onto Las’s ass and squeezed, hauling him up that missing inch so they were even in height. He wanted to trace every part of Las, inspect his beauty marks and the divots between his defined chest and sink to his knees and—

  With a groan, Las tore his mouth away and tucked his face into Marco’s neck as he rutted against him, desperate. “Fuck. Fuck.”

  Pressure built in Marco, veins on the cusp of bursting. His skin felt stretched and taut, oversensitive to the point of pain when Las nipped his throat.

  It was amazing. It was thrilling. It was everything he’d wanted with Las for a very long time.

  “Off.” Hands under Marco’s T-shirt, lifting it up and over his head. Las’s gaze settled on his naked chest and heated. Then he was back, kissing Marco like he’d never get enough, and the skin against skin, rubbing, sliding, made Marco dizzy. He threw a hand out, palm bracing on the nearest support post. Lifting his head, smirking at Las’s “No, more,” he walked Las backward a few steps until Las leaned back against a tall stack of hay bales.

  Marco nipped the underside of Las’s jaw, bit his throat, suckled the skin. Las’s head fell back.

  “Fuck yes, mark me.”

  Well, wasn’t that telling?

  Finished holding himself back, Marco wove his hands into the back of Las’s briefs, grabbing a fistful of firm asscheek in his palms. Las shuddered against him, and if Marco wasn’t already so hard he couldn’t see straight, the sight of Las with his mouth dropped open, eyelids lowered, nipples erect, one leg wrapped around Marco’s hip would’ve done it.

  Wanting to see all of him, Marco looked down to take off Las’s underwear and—

  “What?” Las asked breathlessly when Marco chuckled.

  Mirth overtook him. “Just realized we’re both standing here in wet underwear and soggy shoes.”

  Las shifted as if to remove his boots; Marco stilled him with one hand on his chest. “Keep them on. They’re sexy.”

  “No. Want to fuck you.”

  Marco would’ve sworn his eyes rolled back into his head. “Jesus, fuck.” He recited hockey stats in his head to calm himself.

  A hand clamped onto his jaw again. “Please tell me you bottom.”

  “I bottom,” he confirmed. Just that word—bottom—made his dick jerk behind his briefs. “But not without lube.”

  “Lube.” Las blinked, bleary-eyed, then looked around the hayloft as if a bottle of the stuff might magically appear.

  “It’s okay.” Marco swept a thumb over one of Las’s nipples, making Las sob a breath. “There’s other stuff we can do.”

  Behind him was a stack of hay bales roughly hip height. Perfect. Turning, he brought Las with him, grasped his hips, and hiked him up onto the hay.

  “What are you—Oh, shit.”

  In one swipe, Marco lowered Las’s tight underwear so that the band rested behind his cock and balls.

  A beautiful, beautiful set of cock and balls.

  He wasn’t overly hung, just proportional to the rest of him. A little bit of fuzz covered his ballsack; Marco swept his thumbs over it, lightly, gently.

  “Marco.”

  The treasure trail of fine hair that started under Las’s navel turned thick and curly, almost black, at his pelvis; Marco carded his fingers through it, scratching Las’s skin with his nails.

  “Marco.”

  An erection with a veiny underside, jutting proudly straight out in front of him, begging; Marco spat in his hand and closed a hand around it.

  Las bucked, hands braced behind him. “Marco, please.”

  Oh, that was a deliciously sweet please.

  Trailing his hand up and down, he glanced at Las’s face. Color tinted his cheeks, his hair was a wild mess, his chest rose and fell with his rapid breathing, sweat glistened. He was fucking spectacular.

  Marco kissed him stupid, swallowing Las’s gasps and moans, never stopping the motion of his hand.

  “Fuck,” Las said, wrenching his mouth away. “Please. Please make me come.”

  Groaning, Marco pressed his baton-hard dick against the hay, rutting. He’d wanted to finish off Las and maybe have Las return the favor, but there was no way he’d hold out. Las was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen, and his pleas weren’t helping matters.

  “When was the last time you got tested?”

  Las swallowed hard before answering, Adam’s apple working. “After Ben and I broke up. Negative. Haven’t been with anyone since—” He broke off and sucked in a sharp breath when Marco bent to lick a wet trail up his erection. “Since then. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck.”

  Marco circled the underside of Las’s cock head with the tip of his tongue, then closed his mouth around him while he massaged Las’s balls.

  “Fuuu…”

  A hand in Marco’s hair, gathering up the lengths, directing his head. Marco swallowed pre-come and sucked some more, saliva dripping out of his mouth and down Las’s erection. What a picture they must’ve made, the two of them horny as pubescent teenage boys, still in shoes, hay clinging to Las’s hair and back, Marco using the hay bale as a substitute for his own hand. He continued to rut, continued to suck, his jaw starting to ache, but no way was he giving this up for anything.

  Finally, with a yank to Marco’s hair, Las said, “Coming. Fuck, Marco, fuck,” and he went rigid, thighs clamping around Marco’s head. Marco pulled off and finished him off with his hand, sweat trickling down the side of his face as come spurted from Las’s dick. Taking himself in hand, Marco finished himself off too.

  Las didn’t know whether to kick himself in the ass for having sex with Marco or pat himself on the back. At the moment, it was leaning closer to a boisterous high five.

  Why had he waited so long?

  Oh right, because Marco wouldn’t be here in—

  Nope. No, no, none of that. He was seizing the day.

  He didn’t know when he’d decided to take Alice’s advice. It could’ve been as the days without Marco had dragged on. It could’ve been when Marco texted that he was ready to come home, to the ranch. It could’ve been when he’d been standing at a popcorn stand and seen Marco walk by with Reid
, duffel over one shoulder, hair loose, casing the party like he was looking for something. It could’ve been when Marco had opened the door to his cabin, seen Las there, and smiled so big it had nearly taken Las back a step. It could’ve been when they’d both been soaked to the skin, standing in the dusty hayloft drying off, and Marco had looked at him with such heated desire.

  One or all of the above. No right answer.

  He had no idea how seizing the day would benefit him in the long run, but he’d had enough of keeping Marco at arm’s length. Enough of the flirting. Enough of denying his desires and feelings.

  He wanted Marco and he’d make it work as long as he could.

  All of this ran through his mind as he sat naked on a blanket he’d rescued from the tack room, Marco in front of him, both of them shoeless, finally. He didn’t know what time it was. Midnight or four a.m. The rain still thundered outside, the sky pitch black. No doubt some—if not all—of the hiking trails would be closed due to mudslide concerns, meaning Marco would end up with an unanticipated day off tomorrow.

  That, however, was a later problem. Right now, Las ran a comb through the knotted mess of Marco’s hair, starting at the bottom and working his way up to the crown of his head. The dark locks were damp, clinging to Las’s fingers. The color wasn’t as dark as Las’s not-quite-black, more like a seventy percent cacao chocolate bar streaked with gold highlights from the sun.

  “Your highlights have mostly faded,” he remarked, carefully unsnarling a thick knot.

  Marco tilted his head back. “Hm?”

  “The ones you had a few months ago.” Marco’d had gold highlights similar to these natural ones that had matched his skin tone, just like they did now. His sister had experimented on him, he’d said, on a trip home to visit. The artificial highlights had been obviously chemically induced, more obviously chunked together. Las liked the natural ones better; liked how they shone under lighting.

  Marco didn’t answer. His strong back was to Las, wide and muscled, the knobbiness of his spine pronounced as he sat hunched slightly forward with his elbows over his bent knees. Was he enjoying the hair brushing Las was giving him? Did he think it was lame?

  Las didn’t think the latter applied. The expression on Marco’s face when Las had returned from the tack room with a blanket under one arm and brandishing an unused mane comb in the other had been endearingly shy.

  “No one’s combed my hair in a long time,” Marco said softly now, into the space between them. “Unless my hairdresser counts.”

  Las paused, comb held aloft. “I hope I’m not being compared to a hairdresser.”

  “No. This is much better.”

  Yes, Las could tell by the goose pimples blanketing the back of Marco’s neck.

  Once he was finished, Las ran the comb through Marco’s hair again, slowly, gently, in case he’d missed any knots, marveling at how the ends curled in on themselves like curlicues. And then he passed the comb through again because he felt like it. Because he wanted to. Because he didn’t want to stop touching Marco.

  “There better be lube next time,” he mumbled, mostly to himself.

  Marco chuckled, turned his head slightly toward Las. Seeking.

  Obliging, Las pressed his lips to Marco’s, slow and wet and heated. Desire coursed through his veins again, muted now that they’d taken the edge off. Less urgency, more comfort and closeness.

  Marco swept his tongue into his mouth. Las dropped the comb, sinking his fingers into Marco’s hair, the same as he’d done less than an hour ago. As he’d been dying to do for what felt like forever.

  Lips slid together lazily and clung. Marco turned the rest of the way, snuck his arms around Las, and hauled him into his lap. They fell onto the floor, Las on top, Marco solidly and enticingly beneath him. And they kissed like they couldn’t get enough, chest to chest, hands roaming to touch and pet, lips trailing over cheeks and throats to nuzzle and suckle as the rain continued to pelt the rooftop.

  When Las pulled away for some much-needed air, Marco held him close in a tight hug. Smiling to himself, Las tucked his head under Marco’s chin.

  “Sleepy,” Marco murmured.

  “Go to sleep.” Somewhere Las had a cell phone with an alarm preset on it. Possibly in his wet jeans several feet away; possibly in the truck outside. They’d either get woken by it or by the ranch hands coming in to saddle their horses bright and early.

  Or they’d sleep through everything and wake up when they felt like. Didn’t matter. For the first time in his life, snuggled into Marco’s arms, Las let himself forget everything and seize the day.

  BEFORE THE SUN HAD FULLY risen, Marco and Las trudged up the back steps of Las’s family home, wet jeans chafing, damp T-shirts stiff and scratchy. Marco knuckled the sleep out of his eyes.

  Las had woken him a few minutes ago. Whether the ceasing of rain hammering the roof or the sound of chatting ranch hands saddling horses woke him, Marco didn’t know and didn’t ask. After an intense few days at development camp followed by a mostly sleepless night, his body was lethargic, his steps slow, his mind unable to grasp concepts except for Coffee. Now.

  The steps led up to a wraparound porch that surrounded a sturdy Victorian-ish style house with many windows and cozy iron tables and chairs set up where one could see the horse barn, what was possibly a cattle barn, a third outbuilding of some sort, and the hilly fields to the north and south. It was quiet and peaceful. Exactly what he needed after the hectic pace of camp and Washington, DC.

  Las was yawning as he opened the door and stepped into the house, leaving his boots on a mat next to the door. Marco did the same with his shoes.

  “Pass me those,” Las said with a chin jerk at the blanket bundle in Marco’s arms. “I’m gonna put them in the wash.”

  Marco handed it over, careful not to disturb the second bundle in Las’s arms lest he lose his grip on the whole thing.

  “I’ll find us some dry clothes while I’m at it.” With another yawn, Las turned. “Be right back. Make yourself at home.”

  The Windsor-March home was vastly different than Windsor Ranch House. It was clearly a home, whereas the guest house was a showpiece.

  To the left of the back door: a dining room decorated in neutral greens and muted browns. Next to it, a hallway led somewhere Marco was too uncomfortable to investigate on his own. Then there was a staircase going up to what he assumed was the second-floor bedrooms. Directly to his right: a cozy living room, complete with a stack of board games piled on a low table next to the television, a pilling throw blanket casually tossed over the back of the couch, an empty water glass, and a half-eaten bag of chips. Beyond was a closed door leading to . . . a den? An office? A bathroom? Behind the living room was the kitchen, separated from the former only by an area rug.

  Everything was done in shades of green and brown with splashes of color thrown in: gold, black, yellow, magenta. The couch especially looked incredibly well-loved and cushiony. Marco’s eyes threatened to close just looking at it. Was there time for a nap before he had to lead his first hike?

  Footsteps on the stairs jolted him out of his daydreams. Damn. Las’s parents? He couldn’t meet them looking like this. Hair tied into a bun at the top of his head, wrinkled T-shirt, ungroomed beard. Not to mention he smelled like sex.

  Nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Windsor-March. I had sex with your son last night. Can I have some coffee?

  He supposed they could’ve been caught naked sleeping wrapped around each other in the hayloft. As it was, they’d managed to sneak out without any of the ranch hands seeing them. In comparison, this wasn’t so bad.

  He gave a surreptitious sniff of his armpits. Ah well. Nothing to do for it.

  Except it wasn’t Las’s parents.

  Alice descended the last step, spotted Marco, and stopped right there at the bottom. “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  She wore a pair of men’s boxers, an oversized T-shirt, fuzzy socks, and her long hair was loose and frizzy. She cocke
d her head. “What are you doing?”

  Marco beat his big toe against the mat he hadn’t moved from, still hovering by the back door. “Waiting for Las. He’s getting us dry clothes.”

  “Because you were playing in the rain?”

  “What? No, we were…” Sleeping in the truck? Catching up? Getting to know each other? “Stargazing. And we got caught in the rain.”

  “Okay.” She looked at him, looked out the window, where it was cloudy but very clearly not raining, then back at him.

  “It stopped raining.” Way to hit her with the obvious. “While we were in the hayloft.”

  Her brow scrunched. “What were you doing in the hayloft?”

  “Escaping the rain. We spent the night there.”

  “Okay,” she repeated, slower this time. “Why didn’t you just come into the house?”

  “I . . . don’t know?”

  Why did this feel like the most convoluted and difficult conversation ever?

  Shaking her head, Alice rubbed her forehead with two fingers. “Either you’re not making sense or it’s too early for anything to make sense.”

  Him. It was definitely him.

  “I need coffee. Want some?”

  “If I was straight, I’d marry you for coffee right now.”

  With a smile, she headed into the kitchen. “I don’t think Las would like that.”

  Speaking of Las, how long did it take to throw blankets in the washing machine and find clean sweatpants?

  Marco joined Alice in the kitchen, where she handed him a mug with a fading Santa on it and gestured to the coffee maker. The coffee was already brewed, thank fuck, it being one of those fancy machines you could set a timer for ahead of time. He selected a second mug from a cupboard in the open concept kitchen, this one with cartoon storm troopers with Pew Pew! written above them, and poured a cup for Las, doctoring it with milk and sugar.