Page 39 of The Banker and the Blue Collar Man

“Let’s go to your bunkhouse, then,” I said, and, as a reward, received another nibble on my neck and a long, slow, sweet kiss on my forehead.

We hustled back in the rain, in the growing dark. Jake led the way, checking in frequently to make sure I was keeping up. We crossed the bridge, trotting on the damp wood, and arrived at the half-circle of bunkhouses. Nobody was there. The rain was coming down like someone was pouring it from a bucket.

And it hit me, what I should have realized to begin with: it was raining. It was pouring. There was no way anyone could build a fire.

Wondering where Cameron and Dillon were, I looked across the road and the riding arena to the staff building where the dining hall was. Lights were blazing in the windows. That’s where they were. Having an impromptu party or something. Which meant we had the privacy we needed. Silence. Lack of interruption.

“It’s like a gift,” I said as I followed Jake to the little front porch of his bunkhouse. He opened it without entering a code. Because it was unlocked. Of course it was.

“You’re the gift,” he said to me as he gestured that I should go first, making me realize I had found the last gentleman cowboy in the entire state of Colorado.

“Thank you, sir.”

As he flicked on the light, reaching around me, I got another one of those small smiles. A curve of his mouth, his eyes dancing as he looked at me. “And you’re soaked,” he said. “I have towels.”

The bunkhouse that Jake had to himself was configured the same as the one I shared with the boys. Kitchen at one end, bathroom at the other. Wood paneled. Gingham-check curtains, red and white. Small lights in the wall meant to look like old-time lanterns, complete with amber glass in the shape of tulip bulbs.

The difference was the bed setup. There was an upper bunk, with Jake’s gear, I figured. The lower bunk had been removed, and in its place was a double bed. And in the small space below the window across from this was a tiny, Ikea-worthy drop-leaf table meant for two.

There were two chairs. One had a boot-polishing kit on it. The other had a well-worn green cushion. The table was bare. No stray receipts, crumbs, half-drunk cups of coffee. Jake wasn’t a neatnik, but he was neat.

He came to me with a white towel—of course it was white—that, though worn, was soft and clean. I brought it to my nose to smell. The scent was basic. Purposeful. “What about you?” I asked.

“Figured we could share.”

Did he have only one towel? I could find out later, but that meant now he came first. I reached up to blot his hair. Pulled hist-shirt off, damp from the shoulders to halfway down his chest, and buffed him dry.

We grappled over the towel, of course, but soon both our shirts were off. Boots and socks came next. That left us with bare chests and damp blue jeans. I shivered. Maybe the AC from the split had kicked in, but he was on it. He stripped me of my jeans, leaving me in my boxer briefs, and he buffed me from head to toe.

“Come on, now,” I said. “Don’t be shy.”

He flicked off the light and tumbled me onto the bed, and in the half-glow from the distant lights of the staff building, he took off his jeans, the belt buckle clinking as he tossed the garment to the floor of the bunkhouse.

We wove our legs together, the softness of the quilt against our skin. He took my head in his hands and kissed me until I was breathless. I had a feeling, as he tugged at the waistband of my citified boxer briefs, that I was about to be a great deal more breathless.

I was not wrong.

He draped himself over me, with his weight and his denseness and his muscle. On his elbows, like a gentleman, of course, but in the near darkness, he loomed. An outline that held me beneath him, and he kissed me and breathed on my neck for more nibbles. Sweet kisses. His chest shuddered with hard breaths, as if he’d waited for a moment such as this his whole life and could hardly believe it had arrived at long last.

I felt wanted. Cherished, even.

His kisses turned deep, and I met those kisses with my own. Salty sweet. Sweeping. Making me delirious. When he reached between our bodies, I sighed, my breath hitching. My belly did a jump and then went hollow, so as not to bar his way to where he was reaching. Between my legs where my hard and ratherinsistent cock was waiting. He pulled at my boxer briefs and, in a sweeping motion, removed them entirely.

“You,” I gasped into his mouth. “Too.”

“Okay.”

I helped him take off his white briefs and tossed them into the darkness.

His scent was all around me now. His beard growth rasped against my cheeks. As he stroked my cock, his calluses made themselves known. The warmth of his hand welcome. My cock, taut, was slick with pre-cum, and I didn’t mind the calluses.

But then I gasped when his whole body shifted and he slithered, there was no other word for it, down my body to clasp my hips, steadying me until he was between my legs, one warm hand on each thigh.

“Spread,” he said. And so I did.

Nestled between my spread thighs, he sucked me into his mouth in a single hard suck. I was more than ready. More needy than I could ever remember being. My breath held as he rolled his tongue around the head of my cock, a swirl of delight that made me arch and gasp. His hand was on my belly, gentle pets, a splay of his fingers.

I wouldn’t last long. Couldn’t last long, not in those circumstances. I came in a spill down his throat, full and then pulsing. And he swallowed, his throat working as I touched his shoulder, reaching for him in the darkness. Panting sounds in the dark. Sounds of his licking, his warm tongue swirling around the base of me, cleaning me with his tongue.