Page 44 of The Rancher's Mail-Order Husband

With a deep breath, Graham reached out to trace one of the carved roses, his rough fingers skimming the delicate petals. He thought of Ciarán’s smile, of the way his face lit up when he was happy, and a quiet determination settled in his chest.

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As the hours passed Graham grew more nervous. At first, he’d thought his work good, and placed the bedrolls, pillows, and blankets onto the frame with satisfaction. But then he’d wandered back into their room some minutes later and stared at it, and decided it was an affront to their carpentry, art, and his marriage. Graham waffled between pride and despair and then, once Ciarán arrived home, filled with tea sandwiches and cookies and gossip, he only wished that his husband wouldn’t be disappointed.

“You had a good time?” he asked Ciarán as he led him back to the house.

“It was very nice. Liam’s relegated to the inside of the house—Ronan’s insistent on making him rest, and Liam said he’s been getting antsy with all the free time, so he was glad to have an afternoon tea. The blackberry jam went over very well,” Ciarán added, obviously pleased.

“Knew it would. You made it, after all.”

Ciarán chuckled. “Thank you, Graham. Both Liam and Ronan send their best. They want you to come with me next time.”

“I’d like that.” Graham cleared his throat. “Got a surprise for you.”

“Oh?”

He cleared his throat again, nervous, and motioned for Ciarán to accompany him to their bedroom. Graham opened thedoor with a flourish that he didn’t quite feel. “Well,” he said. “Here’s our new bed.”

By the sound of Ciarán’s gasp someone might’ve thought that Graham had presented him a mountain of gold and jewels. “Oh, Graham!” It seemed to be all he could say as he walked around the bed, marveling at the decoration, running his fingers over the flowers. “Graham!”

“You like it, then?”

“Of course I do! I can’t believe you’ve made this for me—for us! It’s so beautiful. I love it! I love you! I—” He stopped, eyes the size of saucers, his cheeks that lovely shade of pink. “Oh, Graham, I love you.”

Never in his life would Graham hear a lovelier phrase. What were songs and poems compared to those words from Ciarán’s lips? He thought his heart would burst from sheer joy. “Ciarán, I—” He swallowed. “I’ve loved you since—since I read your first letter to me.”

“Even then?” Ciarán asked, softly.

“Even then.”

Ciarán took his hands in his. “I knew you would be kind. I could tell that, just from reading that advertisement you put out. When I received your response I showed everyone in the boarding house, you know. I thought, here’s something. Here’s someone. Here’s a life for me. You said you would teach me, do you remember? That you’d take care of me as a husband should. All through the train ride I was so excited. And then—” He gazed up at Graham through his lashes. “And then I laid eyes on you for the first time and I knew there wasn’t a man luckier than I was. I didn’t expect you to be so handsome. I didn’t expect you to give me flowers.”

Gruffly, Graham said, “You wanted to see the flowers. In your letter. And you drew them in your sketches. I wanted—togive you what you wanted. I wanted you to be happy here. With me.”

“I am.”

“Can you say it again?” Graham swallowed. “That you love me?”

Not for the first time he admired Ciarán’s eyes—the shape of them, their color like that of dark honey, his long lashes. Now they shone. “I love you, Graham!” He cried out in surprise when Graham lifted him up into his arms. He wrapped his legs around Graham’s waist and rested his hands on his shoulders. When Graham kissed his neck and his beard brushed against his skin he laughed, and Graham laughed too, open and joyously.

“I love you,” he whispered, lips on Ciarán’s throat. He said it again and again and again, even as he brought his husband to lay in their new bed, even as unbuttoned Ciarán’s shirt and ran his hands greedily over his chest, his nipples, his stomach, even as he pulled his pants down and pulled his cock free from his underclothes and stroked it as Ciarán moaned his name.

“Graham—Graham—"

Graham pressed his lips to the tip, sweeping up a bead of precum with his tongue. It simply wasn’t enough to say the words. He needed to show his husband how much he loved him with his body. His hands, his mouth, his cock—all were to be used for Ciarán’s pleasure.

He hissed as Ciarán’s long, elegant fingers grasped his hair and tugged. Graham palmed at the front of his pants, trying to ease the ache of his arousal. Ciarán trembled beneath him as he continued to lick his cock with the flat of his tongue. His face was flushed and red, his curls damp with sweat. So beautiful, and his—his husband, his love.

Lord, let him forever be Ciarán’s.

With another cry, Ciarán arched his back, thrusting further into Graham’s mouth and spilling down his throat, salty and hot. His trembled as he came, breathing with small, sweet little gasps. “Graham,” he said again.

“Ciarán.” He barely recognized his own voice; it was so desperate and rough with wanting. He gently turned Ciarán onto his side and freed his own leaking cock from his pants to slip it between his husband’s legs. Ciarán squirmed as Graham fucked his thighs, smearing them with precum. He reached between them, brushing Graham’s cock with his fingers. Light, gentle little touches, as if he were trying to tease out Graham’s climax.

It was working.

Graham kissed Ciarán’s bare shoulder. When he thrust between Ciarán’s warm, slick thighs once more, he gritted his teeth and shivered when Ciarán cupped his hand around him. “Make me come, sweetheart, please.”

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