Hard and Deep in the Santa Fe Barn

The gelding was still dripping when Cole's diesel came back up the ranch road. I had the hose in one hand, and the Santa Fe light was already going copper across the cottonwoods. He'd finished the last shoes at four, taken the check, and said Albuquerque was waiting before dark. Red dust lifted off his tires and settled on the aluminum trough.

I killed the water and watched him climb down. Cole Vargas was thirty-one and filled a doorway, thick through the chest, arms cut from swinging a hammer all day, black hair stuck to his forehead. His shirt was open to the sternum. Sawdust clung to his forearms, and he had a look I had been trying not to answer since noon.

- Thought you were halfway to Albuquerque.
- Left my rasp in the tack room.
- You didn't.
- No. I didn't.

He stopped a foot from me. I could smell iron, horse, and the salt on his skin. I run this place. I'm thirty-four, built on hay bales and fence line, and I am not a small man, but he made the yard feel tight. His eyes dropped to my mouth and stayed there.

- Anybody else on the place tonight?
- Cook's in town. The hands went to the bar after we shipped the yearlings.
- Then shut the barn door.

I hauled the slider shut. It groaned on its track and cut the yard to a stripe of dying light. Inside, the air was warmer, thick with leather and neat's-foot oil and the sweet rot of alfalfa. Cole walked me toward the tack room without touching me yet. I reached past him and flipped the latch.

- Say it if you want this, Jake.
- I want it. I've wanted it since you had your hands on my mare and wouldn't look at me.
- Good. Then stop talking.

He kissed me hard enough to knock my shoulders into the rack. That was the last thing either of us said. His mouth was hot and rough, stubble scraping my jaw, tongue pushing in like he had settled the argument hours ago. I got both hands under his shirt and dragged it up. His chest was dense, hair damp, nipples tight under my thumbs. He shoved his thigh between mine. The denim ridge of him pressed my cock, already thick and aching in my jeans. I ground down on that thigh and felt him smile against my teeth.

We got the shirts off. His back was sun and work, muscle shifting when I raked my nails down it. He bit my shoulder, a real bite that lit a line straight to my groin, then licked the sting. My belt clinked. He opened my jeans and shoved them to mid-thigh with my briefs. Tack-room air hit my cock for one cool second before his fist closed around it. Big hand, hard calluses. He stroked me slow, thumb slicking through the wet at the head, and I had to brace on the saddle rack or fold.

I dropped to the rubber mat. Concrete bit my knees. His belt came apart under my fingers. I yanked his jeans down and his cock sprang free, heavy, flushed dark, a vein standing along the underside. I took him in my mouth without teasing. Salt and skin. He filled my throat on the third stroke. I relaxed and took him deeper, nose in the coarse hair at his base, one hand working what I couldn't swallow, the other gripping the hard curve of his ass to pull him in. He held my skull, not forcing, hips rolling in a short grind that made my eyes water and my own cock jump against my stomach.

He hauled me up and spun me before I could finish him. My chest hit the smooth seat of a working saddle, leather warm from the day, the horn digging into my sternum. He kicked my boots wider. I heard him spit, then felt two wet fingers press at my hole, circling, pushing. The stretch burned clean. I pushed back and took them. He worked me open with those thick fingers, scissoring, curling until he found the spot that dropped my forehead to the leather and pulled a broken noise out of me. I was shaking, cock leaking onto the mat, thighs tight.

Then his fingers were gone and the blunt head of his cock was there, hotter and bigger. He waited one breath. I reached back, grabbed his hip, and pulled. He sank in slow, inch by thick inch, until his hips were flush to my ass and I was stuffed so full I could feel my own pulse around him. He stayed buried, one hand spread on my lower back, the other wrapped around my cock.

He started to fuck me. Long strokes first, dragging almost out, then driving back in until the saddle rack knocked the wall. The sound was obscene in the quiet barn, wet and heavy, his balls slapping my taint, my breath punching out every time he bottomed out. Sweat ran down my spine. He bent over me, chest to my back, mouth at my ear, silent, breathing hard, and changed the angle so every thrust ground that spot inside me. My vision went white at the edges. I fucked his fist and took his cock.

He got rougher, short and deep, one hand clamped on my hip, the other fisted in my hair to arch me. I reached under and stroked myself, slick and desperate, matching him. It hit low and hard. I came across the mat, clenching around him in pulses I couldn't control. That grip dragged him over. He drove in to the root and stayed, cock kicking, heat flooding my ass while he groaned into my neck and shuddered against my back. I stayed bent over the leather, wrecked and full.