Calvin’s Cowboy (11 page)

“Patience. I’ll soon get back to that.” Calvin looked up at Brock’s straining member. Pre-seminal fluid was oozing out of the dark red tip, which was peeking out of its turtleneck collar. “Just want to pay a bit more attention to your BBF.”

“What the hell are you talkin’ about now? BBF? Don’t tell me, Brock’s Beautiful Feet?”

“Close,” Calvin smirked. “Brock’s Beautiful Foot.” Delivering a final lingering kiss to the sole, Calvin bent Brock’s leg and laid the foot flat on the bed before lifting Brock’s left leg and kissing the sole of that foot. “This is BB
O
F, Brock’s Beautiful Other Foot.”

You’re fucking
loco
. Now come on, get me off!”

Calvin kissed the tip of each toe before placing that foot on the bed, too.

Running the fingers of both hands up the insides of Brock’s legs, Calvin said, “Some people are all about instant gratification. They can’t appreciate that the buildup is half the fun.”

“More sucking and less jawing.”

“Your wish is my command.” Calvin bowed low, opened his mouth, and swallowed Brock’s entire length in one fluid movement.

“Oh, fucking hell!” Brock yelled. His legs crossed behind Calvin’s neck, and Brock’s hands—that had been pulling at the blanket—clamped themselves to the sides of Calvin’s head.

Normally Calvin objected to being manhandled when giving a blowjob, wanting always to be in control, but he knew Brock was so close to the edge he’d be able to finish him off in seconds. Calvin considered slowing down, but he knew he’d teased his beautiful cowboy enough. So with a combination of tongue action to the underside of his dick, repeated swallowing, a finger inside the still moist asshole and finally a couple bars of
God Bless America
hummed on the cock-head, Calvin was rewarded when Brock shot a massive load of cowboy come into his mouth and down his throat.

* * * *

Brock lay on his side. Calvin—needing to get closer and thinking Brock might be in need of reassurance—worked his left arm underneath Brock, and laid his right arm over the top of him. Calvin moved in close and pressed their chests and groins together. He hadn’t gotten off, but that didn’t matter.

When the post-orgasmic shudders stopped and Brock’s heart-rate slowed, Calvin expected the guy to say something. When he didn’t, Calvin felt he had to fill the silence.

“You okay?”

“Uh huh.”

Another silence descended, Calvin breaking it by asking, “You’re not freaked or anything?” The last thing he wanted was for Brock to run away from him again.

“I feel…”

Calvin waited several heartbeats before prompting, “Yes?”

Brock moved a little further down the bed and snuggled into Calvin’s chest, resting his head under Calvin’s chin. Calvin tightened his grip and tilted his face to kiss the top of Brock’s head.

“I feel…safe,” Brock whispered.

“I’m glad.”

The two lay together for the longest time, Calvin listening to Brock’s steady breathing. He wasn’t sure, but thought the cowboy had dozed off. To pass the time, Calvin began to write on Brock’s T-shirt-covered back with the index finger of his right hand.

“What are you doing?” Brock asked quietly.

“How’d you mean?” Calvin kissed the man’s ear.

“With your finger.”

“Writing.”

“Huh?”

“I’ll show you.” Calvin pulled away from Brock a little and resumed what he’d been doing, this time on Brock’s chest.

Calvin spoke the letters aloud as he drew them. “B-E-A-U-T-I-F-U-L.”

“Why?” Brock asked in a small voice.

“Why are you beautiful? That’s down to your genes, I guess.”

“No.” Brock sounded close to tears. “Why are you bein’ so nice to me? There are other folks out there you could have got to fix up the house, other men you could have brought here to your bed. Why me?”

“Why not you?” Calvin kissed the top of Brock’s head again. “It’s true back in high school I couldn’t stand you, but I’ve grown up since then, and so have you. Now I see what a great guy you are.”

“Great or not, I’m flat-assed broke.”

“Okay, you’ve got some financial troubles—”

“Some?” Brock laughed.

“And I want to help if I can.”

“Why?” Brock asked again.

“Why not?” Calvin repeated. “Don’t you think you deserve a break?”

Brock shrugged.

“You getting injured, stopping you from playing ball, wasn’t your fault. Your daddy dying wasn’t your fault. The hospital bills aren’t your fault. You’ve been doing the best you can, raising your son. I just want to help a little if I could. And it also benefits me.”

“How so?”

Calvin thought it high time he lightened the tone of the conversation. He moved down the bed until he was face-to-face with Brock. “I get the folks’ place fixed up by the studliest,” Calvin kissed Brock’s ear, “sexiest,” he kissed Brock’s cheek, “beautifulest,” he kissed the side of Brock’s mouth, “cowboy this side of Austin.”

Their lips met and Calvin put everything into his kiss that he was unwilling to say out loud.

“Thanks. Not sure I deserve it, though.”

At that moment, gazing into those sad blue eyes, Calvin determined he’d do everything he could to make his cowboy happy.

Your cowboy?
the voice asked.

Calvin swallowed. Yeah, for whatever time he had in Texas, Brock would be his.

The tender moment was shattered when Brock let out a loud fart.

“Fuck, man! That stinks.” Calvin pulled away.

“Sorry. Probably shouldn’t have had refried beans last night.”

“Ya think?”

Brock farted again. “Be back in a minute.” He rolled off the bed and went into the en-suite bathroom.

Calvin got off the bed and went to the window to let in some air. Then remembered. “Brock the—”

There was a crash. “Somebitch!”

“…toilet seat is broken,” Calvin finished more quietly. He raced into the bathroom. “You okay?”

“Fuckin’ toilet fuckin’ seat,” Brock said, sitting up on the floor, rubbing his hip.

Calvin tried to hold in a laugh, but failed miserably.

“Jesus Christ.” Brock levered himself upright.

“You okay?” Calvin finally managed to get hold of himself enough to ask.

“Where’s that fuckin’ replacement seat. I’m puttin’ it on right now before someone else lands on their ass!”

Calvin laughed again, but watching a near-naked Brock walk down the hallway and bend over to pick up his toolbox and one of the seats, had his chuckles replaced with groans of appreciation.

Following Brock back into the bathroom and watching him take off the old fittings, Calvin observed, “You know, if it got around that you did your work in nothing but a sleeveless T-shirt, you’d have a full order-book within days.”

Brock looked up at him. “Fuck off.”

“Just sayin’,” Calvin shrugged. “I thought you’d appreciate me giving you the benefit of my advertising expertise.”

“And this is me giving you the benefit of my plumbing expertise.” Brock picked up the new seat. Notice what shape it is?”

Calvin looked. “Ah.”

“The round one. To quote you, ‘I’m ninety percent sure I need the elongated one.’”

“And to quote you,” Calvin fired back, “‘Fuck off.’”

Chapter 6

“I’m done,” Brock called out, giving the last of the newly laid tiles a final wipe.

It was Thursday night, and he’d just finished another job on his list to renovate the Hamilton place. Saturday he and a crew would re-shingle the roof.

“Okay, meet you round back,” Calvin hollered from the other side of the house.

With the aid of the doorframe, Brock eased himself up from his knees. “Jesus, I’m getting old.”

“What did you say?” Calvin asked.

“Nothing.”

Admitting to himself that he was in pain from kneeling all day was one thing, telling Calvin—who most likely would insist Brock take a pill, or see a doctor, or whatever—was something else entirely.

Locking the back door, Brock walked around to the sliding glass doors of the master bedroom. Brock had not been entirely honest with Calvin when he’d told him that once the tiles in the hallway were laid, they couldn’t be walked on until the morning. In truth, they’d probably be okay after a couple of hours. As Brock had hoped, Calvin had protested at such a restriction. This was when Brock had played his trump card.

“Guess you’ll have to stay at my place tonight then.” He hadn’t been able to look at Calvin when he’d made the offer, partially out of fear that the man would be able to tell he was nervous, and partly because he didn’t think he could hide his disappointment if Calvin had refused.

“You know,” Calvin had said, forcing Brock to look at him anyway, “all you had to do was ask and I’d have slept in your bed without you having to construct such an elaborate ruse.”

“What? I—”

Calvin had silenced him with a kiss. “Just pulling your leg, beautiful. I’d welcome a change from the airbed.”

“Oh.” Brock had hoped Calvin’s agreement would be because of more than just not having to sleep on an air mattress.

“And besides,” Calvin had continued, “being in a proper bed with the most beautiful man in the county means we can get up to far more without the risk of punctures.”

Brock had blushed. Damn Calvin for always having that effect on him.

“You ready to g—” Brock halted mid-word when he popped his head through the sliding glass doors into the bedroom.

Calvin stood in the bathroom, brushing his hair. The green short-sleeved shirt he was wearing was stunning. It fitted his narrow shoulders perfectly, clung to and emphasized the slight muscles of his back.

Will I do?” Calvin smiled, turning fully toward him.

“Fuck!” Brock resisted the temptation to adjust the growing bulge in his cut-offs. The shirt matched Calvin’s eyes perfectly.

Earlier, when Calvin had agreed to stay overnight, Brock had instituted the second part of his plan by inviting the guy out on a date. Calvin’s eyes had widened in surprise, and his mouth had fallen open. Brock had decided to enjoy that moment, because he suspected there wouldn’t be many occasions when Mr. New Yorker would be lost for words.

“But I’ve nothing to wear to go out in,” Calvin had protested.

Brock had shrugged. “You don’t need anything fancy.”

“The hell I don’t. I want to look good when I’m on the arm of the most beautiful man in the state.”

“Thought I was the most beautiful man in the county?” Brock had started to get used to Calvin calling him ‘beautiful,’ although he still didn’t believe him.

“You got a whole lot more beautiful when you invited me on a date.”

Brock had shaken his head.

“Where are you taking me?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“Hello?” Calvin was clicking his fingers in front of Brock’s face. “Did ya space out there?”

Recovering quickly from his recollections, Brock shot back, “I got lost in how awesome you look tonight.”

Calvin blushed.

Score one for me,
Brock told himself. “Are you ready?”

“Sure am. You still not gonna tell me where we’re going?”

Brock walked back to the sliding doors. “Nope. Now come on, I need to get showered and changed at my house first.”

“Oh.” Calvin looked mildly disappointed. “I thought you might be going as you are.”

“What?” Brock looked down at his dusty construction boots, his equally dirty and frayed cutoffs, and tatty plaid shirt.

“You look hot in your construction gear, and the tool belt is the ultimate in macho accessorizing.”

Brock shook his head. “You’re fuckin’ loco.”

“Tell me,” Calvin sidled up to him, Brock backing away for fear he’d dirty Calvin’s clothes, “I’ve seen you as a cowboy and a construction worker, do you also transform into a leather daddy, a G.I., a cop, and an Indian chief?”

“What?” Maybe Calvin really had gone loco.

“My very own one-man Village People.”

“Oh, yeah.” Brock remembered now. “Nope, I don’t do Indians, soldiers or cops, but I’ve got a black leather motorcycle jacket somewhere in my closet. Does that count?”

Calvin looked as though he were seriously considering the question.

Brock sighed. “Come on, otherwise we’ll be late for the movie.”

“The movie?”

Shit!
Brock thought.

“You’re taking me to the movies?”

“Yes, but that’s all I’m telling you. Now come on, get your ass in gear and let’s get moving.”

“I’m moving, I’m moving.”

* * * *

Getting into his truck, and having Calvin remind him, again, to fasten his seatbelt, Brock turned the key. On the fourth try the engine caught and they rolled down the drive.

“What’s this?” Calvin bent down and picked up Brock’s hardhat from the floorboards.

“What do you think it is?”

“Why didn’t you wear it today?”

“Huh? I was rippin’ out then layin’ new tile.”

“Suppose.” Calvin put the hat on his own head.

“It’s probably dirty.”

Nah, it’s fine.”

Brock caught Calvin looking at his reflection in the passenger-side window. The man was such a goof. The hat sure didn’t go with Calvin’s dress shirt.

* * * *

Finally arriving at his place—hoping Calvin wouldn’t notice the sad state the house was in—Brock shut off the engine. Thankfully Calvin kept any opinions to himself. Letting them both inside, Brock was grateful he’d picked up the place the night before in hopes Calvin would be coming over. And thanks to Calvin, Brock had been able to afford a new pump for the washing machine, so had managed to reduce the mountain of dirty laundry. The rest was firmly squashed into the hamper and the lid tightly closed.

“Are you going to take off that hat?” Brock asked.

“Only if you’ll model it for me.” Calvin took the hat off, reached up, and put it on Brock’s head. Stepping back, Calvin clapped his hands. “Oh. My. God.”

Brock felt himself grin.

Calvin ran his hands down Brock’s bare arms. Brock knew how much Calvin got off on his arms. So the previous night he’d cut the sleeves off an old plaid shirt. The shirt had tears in the elbows anyway.

Well, that was Brock’s excuse, and he was sticking to it.