Page 29 of The Rancher's Mail-Order Husband

Ciarán’s eyes fluttered shut. He grasped the back of Graham’s shirt. Graham’s hands moved to the small of his back,pulling him closer. The movement of Ciarán’s hips against his forced a shuddering moan from his mouth. Nothing had ever felt so right—how soft his husband’s lips were, how sweet his mouth tasted, how lovely the little noises that he made as Graham’s hands roved his back—curious and greedy, eager to learn the contours of Ciarán’s body after so much time.

They surely would’ve kept kissing longer, but a twinge in Graham’s bad leg made him break away with a grimace.

“What’s wrong?” Ciarán asked.

Graham gave him a peck on the nose. “Nothing, sweetheart. Just my leg acting up.”

“Do you, um.” Ciarán glanced at the bedroom door then back up at Graham through his long, dark lashes. “Do you want to lie down? We could—continue, if you wanted. Oh, but your lunch—”

“Lunch will be there when we’re done,” Graham said, firmly. There wasn’t anything on the table that couldn’t be warmed, or eaten cold if they worked up enough of an appetite and didn’t want to wait.

And that was a very interesting thought.

Ciarán laughed. He grabbed both of Graham’s hands and led him to the bedroom. Their bedroom. The first time that Graham had been inside of it since their wedding day.

Before, it had been practically empty. Now, however, it was clean and tidy, with a little rug on the floor, a flowerpot on the windowsill, a number of drawings and paintings that Graham recognized as Ciarán’s adorning the walls, Ciarán’s trunk at the foot of the bed, with the bed itself covered in a great many more blankets and pillows than he remembered. Clearly, Ciarán had wasted no time in making himself comfortable and at home. The sight warmed his heart. A bedroom, lived in, comforting and warm and intimate.

Ciarán asked, “What now, Graham?” He was still flushed from their kissing, his lips wet, his eyes dark.

Graham swallowed hard. Then he shut the door behind them and took his husband to bed.

Chapter Nine

Graham was 36 years old. He’d had a lot of troubles and faced them all to the best of his abilities and with as much courage as he could muster. As a boy he’d walked slowly to the schoolhouse chalkboard, trying to figure out the solution to the teacher’s question before he got there so he wouldn’t look like a fool in front of his classmates. When he was a soldier he'd stood tall and steady during the war, even during rifle volleys, even when he was exhausted, and hungry, and aching, never once thinking of fleeing. When he had just started the ranch he’d dealt with ornery livestock of all shapes and sizes and fretted over crashing thunderstorms that seemed ready to rival Noah’s flood and prairie fires that threatened to turn everyone and everything to ash.

Now he thought, with not a little bit of panic, that unbuttoning his husband’s shirt was the most daunting task he’d ever faced.

They were tiny, delicate, shiny little brass buttons, and Graham’s hands shook as he fumbled with them. Their boots were already in a pile next to the bed. Graham had kicked his off with little fanfare and carefully unlaced Ciarán’s before moving on to the cufflinks, which he set on the bedside table, blushing as he held his husband’s wrist, Ciarán’s pulse frantic underneath his thumb.

And then, the buttons.

Never before had Graham felt as large as he did now, kneeling on the floor at Ciarán’s feet, undressing him with hands that were scarred from war and tough from labor and surely just too big and ungainly for such a task. With every new inch of Ciarán revealed Graham grew clumsier and flushed all the more red. There was his husband’s neck, his collarbone, the white cotton undershirt he wore against his skin—slightly sweaty from all his activity in the morning—and then, as Graham helped him shrug off both layers, his bare, freckled chest with rosy pink nipples.

When he moved his hands to Ciarán’s belt buckle, however, his husband gave a little gasp and grabbed hold of his wrists to stop him.

“Am I going too fast, sweetheart?” Graham asked.

A lovely blush bloomed on Ciarán’s cheeks. “No! Well, um, yes, actually. That is, you’re so much more heavily clothed than I am.”

Graham glanced down at himself. Somewhat stupidly, he replied, “I took my boots off.”

“I only mean that I want to see you as well, Graham.” The blush on Ciarán’s face deepened. He twisted the bedsheets between his fingers, looking so very sweet and shy for someone who had just requested that Graham strip down to nothing.

Flustered, he started to pull at his own shirt when Ciarán stopped him once more.

“Oh, Graham—I mean that what I really want to is—I’d like to do it myself, if you’d let me.”

“Yeah, of course. If that’s what you want.”

“Yes, please.” His husband, before a little bashful, a little stuttering, now smiled, clearly pleased and, by the determined glint in his eye and the way he deftly dealt with Graham’s shirt, clearly very eager.

The air was cool on his chest and Diamuid’s touch hot. He shivered as his husband ran his fingers through his chest hair with a hum, looking like the cat who had gotten the cream.

“You’ve seen me without my shirt before,” Graham muttered, embarrassed.

Ciarán brushed his fingertips over Graham’s nipple. He gave his pec an experimental squeeze, and then, apparently satisfied by what he found, did it again. “Oh, yes, but last time I was so mortified that I’d walked out in barely anything—I scarcely got a glance at you, really. It was all a blur.”

Graham recalled the morning when they’d accidentally spied one another in their respective shocking states of undress. He remembered the panic he’d felt, but he especially remembered the sight of Ciarán’s bare, freckled thighs. They’d stirred an interest in him then, and now, with his husband half-dressed and practically purring against him, Graham felt himself growing hard. He shifted slightly on the bed and admitted, voice low and husky, “Ever since I saw you that day I’ve been dreaming about your legs. And all the little freckles on them.”

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