Page 48 of The Rancher's Mail-Order Husband

Ciarán beamed, the sight making Graham’s chest swell. He slipped an arm around his husband’s waist and kissed him gently. Ciarán laughed, his face glowing pink. “It’s a nice little amount, isn’t it? What should we spend it on?”

The question made Graham pause. He didn’t want Ciarán to think he had to earn his place in their home—it was as much his as it was Graham’s. But he also knew that Ciarán took pride in contributing, and ignoring that would only hurt him. After a moment’s thought, he said, “We could put some toward a fresh coat of paint for the house. Make it look real nice.”

Ciarán nodded enthusiastically. “I think that’s a wonderful idea!”

“It’s an idea,” Graham said with a shrug, giving Ciarán a squeeze. “But it’s your sale, so you ought to keep some for yourself.”

“Oh, I—” Ciarán hesitated, looking uncertain. “Are you sure, Graham?”

“Of course I’m sure. Isn’t there something you’ve been wanting? Something just for you?”

“Well,” Ciarán began, nibbling at his lower lip—a tell Graham knew well. “Yes, there is something I’ve been thinking about. But I think it might be best to discuss it later. At home.”

That piqued Graham’s curiosity, but he simply nodded. “All right. We’ll talk when we get back.”

As he tried to puzzle out what Ciarán might have in mind—something in the catalog at Mrs. Fournier’s store, maybe? Or a piece of furniture?—he held out his arm. “Come on. Let’s go to the restaurant and get something to eat. I’ve been wanting a glass of lemonade.”

Ciarán slipped his arm through Graham’s, his earlier nervousness nowhere in sight. Together, they started toward the restaurant, the warm sun overhead and a quiet satisfaction settling between them.

Chapter Thirteen

Between the two of them they shared half a pitcher of lemonade, perfectly sweet and extremely refreshing, a small plate of gingersnap cookies, and a platter of tiny cucumber sandwiches, cut into triangles. A light lunch with good company, made even better by how proud Ciarán was to pay their bill.

“I like treating you,” he said as they left. They linked their arms together as they walked back to the cart.

Graham enjoyed being treated, but it didn’t have to come at the expense of Ciarán’s hard-earned money. “I can think of a few different ways you can treat me,” he said. A fresh cooked meal at home would suit him just fine. A nice walk around the ranch. Or maybe Ciarán could read aloud to him after dinner—he had a wonderful voice.

Ciarán, however, interpreted his words differently. He smiled flirtatiously, cheeks turning that pretty pink, and replied “Oh, well—so can I, Graham.” There was something quite promising in his expression, and Graham hastened them to the cart, eager to get home and in bed.

The cart clattered down the road at a steady pace. They were barely halfway to the ranch when Ciarán leaned against him, heavy and warm, and kissed his cheek. Graham smiled, turned his head to catch Ciarán’s lips, then returned to driving the horses along the path.

Something tickled his leg. Graham glanced down and saw Ciarán’s fingers graze his knee. When he met Graham’s gaze he smiled wider and reached between his legs to stroke his inner thigh. A blaze of heat surged through Graham’s body. He asked, in a somewhat strangled voice, “What are you up to?”

“Whatever do you mean?” Ciarán stared at him with wide-eyed innocence. “I’m just enjoying the beautiful day with my husband.” Without an ounce of modesty, he palmed Graham’s cock, rubbing him through the material of his pants.

Sweat beaded on Graham’s forehead. He looked around. They weren’t too far away from the ranch, and the road wasn’t busy. He stopped the cart. “Maybe we should take a walk, then,” he said, sounding more nonchalant than he felt.

Ciarán preened as though he had won a great victory. He swung his legs over the side of the cart and hopped out, a small skip in his step. Graham eagerly followed him, leaving Ginger and Bó at the side of the road, nibbling on wildflowers.

Once underneath the shade of the trees Ciarán immediately undressed. He tossed his hat to the ground, kicked off his shoes, stepped out of his pants, and stood there clad only in his shirt and socks, surrounded by junipers and oaks. He looked like a forest sprite, mischievous, alluring, impossible to resist.

Graham practically threw his belt onto the grass. “Come here, honey,” he said.

The grove rang with Ciarán’s delighted laughter as Graham hauled him up. He hooked his legs around Graham’s waist, clasping his hands at the back of Graham’s neck. He was a bit heavier, Graham thought, trying and failing to hide a grin. Married life had been good to him. Graham guided them toward the trees, so that Ciarán’s back rested against the tree trunk. If anyone happened by, Graham’s block would block Ciarán from view. And, it provided just a bit more support for his bad leg.

“You good?” Graham asked.

Ciarán laughed again. “Very good.”

“All right, then.” He eased Ciarán down onto his cock, chest swelling with pride as Ciarán’s laughter turned to a low moan.

It was rough and quick and messy. It had to be. There was a chance that they could be seen—even when they’d made love in the fields, they’d still been on their own property. Here, anyone might pass by and see Graham taking his husband against a tree like they were a pair of insatiable newlyweds.

Which, he supposed, they still were. When did a couple stop being newlyweds? A year down the road, or maybe two. He’d never been told the exact time, only to enjoy the honeymoon period, as the more time spent in marriage, the less romance there was. Graham had never paid it much thought before—he’d never imagined he’d find himself married and in love and happy. But as Ciarán clenched around him, lashes fluttering, nails digging into his back, moaning his name, Graham was sure that the bloom would never come off this rose. What could be better than being with his husband?

“You feel amazing, sweetheart.” He gave a sharp thrust into Ciarán’s tight heat.

Ciarán shivered in his arms. “Oh! Oh, Graham—" His words quickly dissolved into sharp cries as Graham hammered that spot over and over again. He writhed against him, stockinged feet pressing at the small of Graham’s back.

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