Laird's Choice (3 page)

"Excuse me?"

Race spun around and arched a brow. "Can I help you?"

"I'm looking for Winston…"

Race cleared his throat from the triple X show in his head. The man didn't look to be the type to be into ex-cons.

Rubbing a gloved hand against the back of his neck, he leaned the fork against the wall. Using his index finger, he pushed his Stetson up a bit from his eyes. "You Laird Anatolis?"

The man tilted his head—a look that caused his

shoulder-length, curly black hair to fall to the side. He looked even sexier that way. "Yes. And you are?"

"Race McKade." He suddenly felt as though he was unworthy to stand in the same room as Laird. He grabbed the fork, stabbed the hay again, and shook the fork.

"Winston went into town to grab some groceries. He'll be back in a few. You need help with your things?"

Why is it, all I can see is me throwing this man on a
bed and just drilling him?

"Not really. Just show me where I'm sleeping and I'll be fine," Laird replied.

Race nodded and leaned the fork against the wall

again. As he walked by Laird, he pulled the gloves from his hands and shoved them into his back pocket. He climbed the steps two at a time and held the front door open for Laird. As Laird stepped by him, Race had to hold his breath. The first whiff of Laird's scent sent Race's body into a tizzy and his heart racing inside his chest.

He released the door behind him and motioned

down the hall. "Winston says it's the same room you always sleep in when you come here."

"Ah, okay."

"Here we are."

He moved out of the way, standing on the other side of the door so he didn't have to be near Laird when he walked into the bedroom. "I'll be in the barn. I still have some stuff to do. When Winston comes back I'll let him know you're here."

"You don't have to do that, Race. I can come out—

besides I could help you work until he gets back."

"You're going to help me work? Outside? In the barn?"

"Yes."

"You do know you'll have to get your hands dirty right? I mean, you'll have to scoop out horse crap and all that good stuff. Are you sure you're up for that?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Race laughed. "I'm sorry, Mr Anatolis, but you don't look like you've done a hard day's work in your life."

"No offense, huh? Ass."

To his shock, Laird stepped back into the room and slammed the door. Race folded his arms over his chest and watched the closed door for a while before shaking his head and walking from the house. "Well, shit." He smirked.

* * * *

what his problem was. He barely knew the man and already Race was offending him. Frowning, Laird took a breath and rested his shoulder against the glass. He couldn't seem to take his eyes off the man below him. The moment he first saw Race, Laird felt something dance through him. It was a feeling he hadn't had in a long time—a feeling of overwhelming arousal that threatened to buckle his knees.

Race's long dark hair, deep green eyes, and sculpted muscles were enough to make his mouth water. The edge of a tattoo showed from beneath the folded-up sleeve of Race's shirt. But those were just a few of the things—the one attribute that tickled Laird in some dangerously hot ways was the fact Race hadn't shaved in a couple of days.

The facial hair did it for Laird in some good ways.

I'm sorry, Mr Anatolis, but you don't look like
you've done a hard day's work in your life
.

"I'll show him who hasn't done a hard day's work in his life," Laird muttered. A beep caught his attention, reminding him his cell phone was dying. Running a hand through his hair, he walked away from the window and rummaged through the side pocket of his bag. Pulling out his cell and the charger, he plugged the phone in. He then pulled his suit from his bag and hung it up. He wasn't sure why Rajan had insisted he bring a suit to begin with.

Brushing his hand over it to get rid of a few wrinkles, Laird finished unpacking his suitcase then shoved it beneath the bed. He wanted to be around Race again to see if he could figure the man out. But he was mad at the other man, and if he went out there, the jerk would no doubt think Laird would apologize. Instead he glanced at his watch, flopped to the bed, crossed his ankles, and folded his arms behind his head.

Race peeled his shirt from his body followed quickly
by his pants. Soon all the sexy cowboy was wearing was
that beautiful, perfectly built Stetson. Laird licked his lips,
watching Race walk away from him. His rounded ass
cheeks danced in beautiful rhythm, calling to Laird, daring
him to look away. At the other side of the room, Race
braced both arms against the wall and arched his back,
sticking his ass out. Laird eased from the bed and, in a
trance, walked to him. Bracing one palm against Race's
lower back, Laird used his free hand to caress over one
cheek. He allowed his hand to skim Race's ass until he
could slide a finger between the tight cheeks and brush
Race's hole. The cowboy whispered Laird's name.

Withdrawing his finger, Laird sucked it until it was wet
then found the hole again. This time, he slid the finger in,
deep and hard.

A loud knocking caused Laird to jerk upright with a gasp. He looked down at the slight twitching in the front of his pants. His cock was throbbing almost painfully. He groaned and looked at his watch. He'd fallen asleep.

Clearing his throat he shifted so that his cock wasn't noticeable. "Come in?"

The door opened and Winston stuck his head into

the room. "Knock, knock!"

"Hey." Laird climbed off the bed to hug his friend then sat again. "You into picking up strays now?"

Winston arched a brow. "What?"

"Your little farm hand."

"Farm hand? I don't have enough livestock for that."

"The man outside tending to the horses isn't your farm hand?"

"Oh, you mean Race? Nothing like that. I've known Race since I was a kid. He was just out of town for a while.

Besides, he loves being out there with the horses."

"I see…"

"Oh boy. When you take on that tone of voice something happened. What did you do?"

"Why do you assume I did something?"

Winston took a breath before turning to face Laird.

Laird couldn't stand the look in Winston eyes, so he shook his head and got up from where he was sitting to look out the window once more. Race wasn't there anymore and somehow that disappointed him. Turning to look at Winston, Laird released some air. "Nothing. He's just kind of full of himself."

"Race? He doesn't have an egotistic bone in his body. But then again, I don't want to have sex with him."

"I don't wanna have sex with Race McKade!

Besides the fact that he seems like a total tool—I just met him."

"I didn't say you did. You assumed I meant you."

"Who else were you referring to?"

Winston shrugged. "I don't know. I was simply making a statement. I never called any names. But you're going to tell me you haven't thought about it?"

"I'm not going to dignify that with an answer."

Laird wanted to yell when Winston smirked at him

and eased from the bed. "You two have to get along anyways. Race is the one I want you to help find a house."

"Really? He looks like an oily hobo!"

"Yes. That oily hobo is a multi-millionaire. Do this, Laird, please? For me? He's a good man and he's been through some stuff no one should have to in their lives. I just want to see him settled, happy, maybe with a good man?"

Laird wanted to cry. Still, he swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded. "All right. I'll help him. But the good man you're going to have to look for elsewhere."

"Are you sure?"

Glancing out the window, Laird nodded. "I'm not his type."

The days slipped by slowly. Race spent his days

with the animals and trying to get a look at Laird Anatolis.

Each time their eyes met though, he saw something flash through the man's gaze just before he looked away, muttered under his breath, and walked away. Race could only guess Laird was damming him to hell each time.

Finally Winston cornered him in the kitchen.

"You! Stand still," Winston ordered. "What did you do?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Damn it, Race!"

Race leaned against the counter and stared, wide-

eyed, at Winston. He wanted to laugh but knew Winston would only rip his hair out. Clearing his throat, Race licked his lips and took a sip from the bottle he was drinking from.

"Winston, really."

"You have to behave!" Winston warned.

"Or what? You'll spank me? Look, he's just being a big city, spoiled brat. I didn't do anything to him."

Winston sighed and walked to the fridge. "Just, behave, all right? He's my friend and since having your back I don't have many of those left over. Please."

Race held up both hands in surrender and shook his head, failing to hold in his laughter. "I'm sorry!" Race managed through his mirth.

Winston groaned and walked from the room with

his water.

"I'm sorry!" Race hollered but Winston didn't stop.

Race turned to the window then and stared out into the dark. He found himself wondering about Laird: how he tasted, how he felt pressed into a wall being taken from behind—had he eaten? Why did he care if the twerp couldn't even take a joke? Taking a breath he gripped the counter and reached out the window. He pulled the panes inward until there was a slight snapping sound of it latching, and then threw the small bolts into place. He pulled the blinds down and turned to stare at the pots on the stove. Trying to be good, he shared some of the dinner that was still warm on the stove and carried the plate, a fork, and a bottle of orange juice down the hall and knocked.

"It's open," Laird called.

Just the sound of his voice left Race trembling. He stopped for a moment to gather himself. The last thing he wanted to do was walk in there with his cock tenting the front of his pants. Sticking the bottle of juice beneath his arm, he opened the door and walked in. Removing the bottle, he stood in the shadow of the door watching Laird, standing by the window. Laird's long, dark hair was finger-raked backward and his shirt tightened dangerously around his arms as they were folded over his chest. Race took a breath and held it before pushing it out his mouth.

"You haven't eaten anything," Race spoke, like a nervous teenager. "I brought you some dinner."

Laird didn't move.

"Are you hungry?" Race asked.

Laird glanced back then and a smile tugged at his lips. The only bad thing was the moment that sign of sunshine arrived, it was gone like smoke on the wind. Race walked closer until he could smell the heat radiating from Laird's body. When Laird took the plate, Race felt fire tracing from the spot where their fingers grazed each other.

"Why are you doing this?" Laird asked.

"Because you haven't eaten." It wasn't all a lie. But Race wasn't about to tell him that he was secretly hoping when he opened the door Laird would be naked and turned on. "Just say thank you."

Laird smiled again before sitting on the chair by the bed. "Thank you…"

"See? That wasn't so hard."

"What kind of house are you looking for? Do you want a ranch? Does it have to be in Brydon?"

"I love the peace Brydon gives. But there are certain things I'd like to leave behind here."

"Some things? Like what?"

Race cleared his throat. For some reason he just

couldn't have Laird look at him as anything less than what he wanted to be. He couldn't tell Laird about his conviction—wrongful or not. Laird was a society type—

Race hung his head and took a breath. "It's a long story; one I don't really want to get into right now."

"All right. You don't have to tell me. You barely know me. But before you feel too down on yourself let me tell you one thing."

"What's that?"

"We all have our demons, Race. Most of us just hide them better than others."

Race hung his head and sat on the foot of the bed.

He watched Laird eat and couldn't help feeling a pang of tenderness as Laird's hair fell into his face. Race rubbed his palms against his thighs and eased from the bed. "I should go. I have to check on the horses once again before bedtime."

"Bedtime?" Laird questioned, glancing at his watch.

"It's barely… eight o'clock!"

"There's nothing else to do 'round here."

"Well, let's go out. Do something! I came here for a working vacation. I've been cooped up in this house for a week."

"Getting cabin fever?"

Laird laughed. "Trust me. If I was getting cabin fever, you'd know. So, what do you say?"

"I thought you didn't like me."

Laird chuckled. "Because you know, because you're a jerk doesn't mean I can't party with you. Jerks always seem to know how to party."

Race laughed. "I get it. You lead."

"Let me get dressed."

* * * *

shoes, and a dark blue dress shirt. He brushed his wet hair back and shook it out a few times before finger-raking it back. Glancing at himself in the mirror, he dropped some aftershave in one hand, rubbed his palms together then patted the liquid against his neck and rubbed the excess on his shoulders. He then tugged his shirt back in place, undid the top three buttons, and took a breath.

"Laird? What's taking so long?" Race hollered down the hall. "Pull the lead out!"

Laird smiled. He couldn't help it—it was as though they were a married couple. "Keep your pants on! I'm coming."

"Hurry up, I can feel myself getting older."

Laughing, Laird grabbed his wallet, cell phone, and car keys then exited the room. He walked down the hall and was bowled over by how good Race looked. He was

dressed simply in a pair of blue jeans and a black dress shirt with the sleeves folded up to his elbows. He was wearing a straw Stetson and his black hair was brushed back. Looking down, for the first time Laird noticed there were two shapes pushing out from where Race's nipples were supposed to be. He arched a brow but quickly looked away as his mouth watered. He knew they had to be piercings. Inhaling, he cleared his throat. "Where to?"