Tinspur Saturday

“I want to kiss you again,” he said. “I want to get naked with you. I want your mouth on me, and I want mine on you. And if we both still want it after that, I want you inside me. Condom. Lube. Slow enough that I can tell you exactly what feels good.”

Doyle’s eyes went dark with want, but he did not move until Travis finished.

“I want all of that,” Doyle said. “And I want you to tell me if anything changes.”

“I will.”

“Promise?”

“Doyle, I work in events. Clear communication is foreplay.”

That earned him a real laugh.

The narrator would like everyone to appreciate that a man could build a reliable stair, patch a tent, and still lose all dignity because somebody made a scheduling joke at precisely the right moment.

Doyle tipped his head toward the ladder. “Hayloft?”

“Lead on, ranch boss.”

The loft sat beneath the barn rafters, warm and dim after the cold bright rain. Old bales lined one wall beneath dusty windows. A narrow strip of sunlight had broken through the clouds, turning the floating dust into tiny gold sparks.

Travis followed Doyle up the ladder, then found himself backed gently against a support post.

Doyle kissed him.

This time there was no careful first touch. There was care, certainly. Doyle had that built into him like good joinery. But there was hunger too. Travis opened for him, one hand sliding under Doyle’s shirt, feeling the strong plain heat of his skin.

*This is happening,* Travis informed the narrator.

The narrator, who had been aware for several hours, declined to gloat.

Doyle drew back just enough to search Travis’s face. “Still good?”

“Very.”

“Tell me what you need.”

“Less talking for about thirty seconds.”

Doyle obeyed beautifully.

They shed clothes in uneven stages, laughing when Travis nearly lost his balance trying to kick off one wet boot. Doyle caught him by the waist and steadied him.

“Careful.”

“I am being careful.”

“You are wrestling footwear while naked.”

“It was winning.”

Doyle pulled off his own boots, then his jeans. Travis had seen him in work clothes all week: broad shoulders under denim, strong hands around tools, long legs planted in dirt. Bare, Doyle was somehow more human and more dangerous. Scars crossed one hip and a pale mark ran along his ribs.

Travis rested his palm there. “Ranch?”

“Fence repair. Bad wire.”

“You and fences have a history.”

“Apparently.”

Travis kissed the scar, then looked up. “Can I?”

Doyle understood at once. “Yes.”

Travis sank to his knees on the old boards. Doyle’s cock was hard, flushed at the tip, and Travis took a second simply to look. Doyle’s hand hovered near his hair.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” Travis said.

“I will.”

Travis wrapped his hand around him, slow at first, enjoying the low sound Doyle made when his mouth closed over the head. He used his tongue, then took more, setting a pace that made Doyle brace one hand against the post.

“God,” Doyle said.

“Useful feedback?”

“Very.”

Travis smiled around him and kept going. Doyle’s hips moved once, then held still when Travis gave his thigh a warning pat.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Just tell me when you’re close.”

Doyle looked down at him with an open, stunned sort of pleasure that made Travis feel reckless in the best way.

“Close,” Doyle said after another minute.

Travis drew back, keeping his hand moving until Doyle caught his wrist.

“Not yet,” Doyle said. “I want to make you feel good too.”

“That is an excellent ranch policy.”

Doyle guided him upright and kissed him again, tasting himself on Travis’s mouth without apology. Then he lowered to his knees.

Travis had expected Doyle to be competent. The man could repair a chair with scrap lumber and make an arrow look authoritative. Competence was his whole brand.

He had not expected Doyle to be patient.

Doyle pushed Travis’s underwear down, held his cock in one hand, and looked up. “This okay?”

“More than okay.”

Doyle took him into his mouth. Travis’s knees nearly gave out at once.

“Oh,” he said.

Doyle glanced up, amused.

“You can’t look pleased with yourself,” Travis told him. “That is unfair.”

Doyle answered by taking him deeper.

Travis grabbed for the post, then reached down and placed his hand on Doyle’s shoulder instead. He felt the steady movement of Doyle’s mouth, the slide of his hand along Travis’s shaft, every careful change in rhythm.

“Right there,” Travis said. “Keep doing that.”

Doyle did.

Pleasure tightened low in Travis’s body, building fast enough that he had to tug Doyle gently away.

“Wait,” he said, laughing through it. “I want to come with you inside me. If that’s still what you want.”

Doyle stood, eyes bright. “It is.”

The old hay chose that moment to object.

Travis lowered himself onto the nearest bale, only to jerk upright with a yelp.

“What happened?” Doyle asked.

“Your romantic loft has a weapon in it.”

A stiff piece of hay had lodged in the middle of Travis’s bare back.

Doyle stared at it for one beat, then burst out laughing.

“You are laughing at my injury.”

“I am laughing because you called hay a weapon.”

“It has declared war.”

Doyle pulled the offending stalk free and kissed the spot it had attacked. Then he found a folded canvas drop cloth near the wall, shook it out, and spread it across a clearer patch of boards.

“There,” he said. “No more hostile agriculture.”

Travis lay down on the canvas. “You are very good in emergencies.”

“Only the important ones.”

Doyle reached into his discarded jeans and produced a condom packet and a small bottle of lube.

Travis lifted an eyebrow. “Prepared.”

“I am forty, not seventeen.”

“Thank heaven.”

Doyle sat beside him. “Condom?”

“Yes.”

“Slow?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me if you need me to stop.”

“I will. Doyle?”

“Yeah?”

“I want you to enjoy this too.”

Something softened in Doyle’s face. “I already am.”

Travis lay on his side, one knee drawn up. Doyle settled behind him, close enough that Travis could feel him without being crowded. He poured lube over his fingers and paused.

“Ready?”

Travis reached back and held Doyle’s wrist. “Ready.”

Doyle eased one slick finger inside him, gradual and careful. Travis let out a low sound, more surprise than pain. Doyle stayed still.

“Too much?”

“No. Just give me a second.”

Doyle waited. His free hand rested at Travis’s waist, solid and calm.

“More,” Travis said.

A second finger followed, stretching him with patient pressure. Travis relaxed into it by degrees, learning the shape of what he wanted. Doyle asked each time. Travis answered each time.

“Yes.”

“There.”

“More.”

When Travis finally pushed back against Doyle’s hand, Doyle withdrew and rolled the condom on. He coated it with lube, then pressed close behind Travis again.

“Look at me,” Doyle said.

Travis turned his head.

“You sure?”

“I am sure.”

Doyle entered him slowly.

The first inch made Travis grip the canvas. The next made him laugh once, breathless and astonished.

“You all right?” Doyle asked.

“Very. Stay there.”

Doyle stayed.

Travis adjusted, took a moment, then tipped his hips back.

“Now move.”

Doyle did, careful at first, then steadier as Travis met him. Every motion brought a deeper pleasure, a full bright pull that made Travis forget the rain, the fundraiser, and every carefully arranged item in his budget book.

Doyle’s hand came around him, closing over his cock.

“Tell me,” Doyle said.

“Faster.”

Doyle’s pace changed. Travis cried out and rocked into both sensations, held open and held close. Doyle kissed the back of his shoulder, then his neck, and Travis felt laughter threatening again because this was glorious and ridiculous and the hayloft had somehow become the best decision of his adult life.

“I’m close,” he said.

“Come for me.”

Travis did.

Pleasure broke through him hard and clean. He spilled across the canvas, shaking as Doyle held him through it. Doyle followed soon after, pressing close with a rough sound of release, his body tight behind Travis before easing loose again.

For a while, neither of them said much.

Then Doyle carefully withdrew, dealt with the condom, and returned to lie beside Travis on the canvas.

Travis turned toward him. Their knees bumped. Their foreheads nearly did too, but Travis settled for a kiss.

“So,” he said after a minute, “are we still saving signs?”

Doyle laughed softly. “We are.”

“Good. Because I have opinions about the auction table.”

“I know.”

“And the font on the raffle tickets.”

“I know that too.”

Travis studied him. “Tomorrow?”

Doyle’s hand closed around his. “Tomorrow, we make the plan together.”

“Partners?”

“Partners.”

They dressed slowly, trading smiles and stolen kisses as the barn cooled around them. When they climbed down from the hayloft, Doyle carried Travis’s shirt over one shoulder and Travis carried the clipboard with the poem.

Boss and contractor had gone upstairs.