Page 63 of The Rancher's Mail-Order Husband

They made a silly pair, each of them fretting over different things. Graham’s mind was focused on getting everything just right for Rory, while Ciarán worried about his father’s journey and the possibility of something going wrong. But despite the anxiety, they found comfort in each other’s presence. Ciarán rested against him, sighing softly, and Graham kissed the top of his head.

“I just worry about him,” Ciarán murmured. “I hate thinking of him alone, especially with the weather turning cold.”

“You made the trip alone,” Graham reminded him gently. “You got on that ship by yourself. You found your way in New York by yourself, and then you came here to me—alone. You’re strong, Ciarán, and if your father’s half as strong as you, he’ll be fine.”

Ciarán smiled, a little softer now, the weight of his fears lightening. “Thank you, Graham. Do you think—maybe we could make a special dinner for him when he arrives?”

“Of course,” Graham replied immediately.

Ciarán’s face lit up, and he began to rattle off ideas for a welcome meal: a roast with a nice cut of beef, mashed potatoes, fresh bread with herb butter, pickled beets, and an apple cake made with the apples from the cellar. The thought of it all—comfort food, made with care and love—brought a warmth to Graham’s chest. It wasn’t just the meal that mattered. It was the gesture of bringing his father-in-law into their home and showing him that he was wanted, cared for, and loved.

“That sounds perfect,” Graham said. “It will be a wonderful way to welcome him.”

Ciarán smiled, his voice full of confidence. “And we’ll make stock with the leftovers. That will be good to have when it gets really cold.”

As his husband continued to plan for Rory’s arrival, Graham sat at the kitchen table, content to take a small break from his work. The house was filled with the promise of something beautiful on the horizon. Soon, the three of them would be together under one roof, and it would feel like home—not just for Ciarán and Rory, but for Graham as well.

???

Graham woke one day to the first snowfall of the season. He didn’t see it, but he felt it; the dark of the morning with thesun behind snow clouds, the chill in the air, how comfortable and warm he was bundled up under the covers with Ciarán. As his eyes adjusted, he considered the day’s chores.

There wasn’t as much to do in winter. No crops to tend to. The animals were safe and sound in their shelters, only needing to be fed, brushed, and otherwise cared for. The eggs would still need to be collected and the cows milked, but there’d be less overall. The main chore for winter was to get through winter, and everyone, human or beast, put all their energy into seeing spring once more.

Beside him Ciarán stirred. His snores stopped with an abrupt snort and his large brown eyes were still drowsy as he blinked himself awake.

When he focused on Graham he smiled. “Dia duit, mo ghrá,” he murmured.

Graham’s Irish still wasn’t anything that might be called good. But he understood that just fine.

“Hello, sweetheart,” Graham said.

They kissed, slow and tender, until Ciarán pulled away with a mischievous expression. He said, “Warm me up, please,” and so Graham was, of course, helpless to do anything but pull him into his arms and rock against him until they grew too hot and flushed and sweaty for their night clothes and swiftly discarded them onto the bedroom floor.

There wasn’t a prettier sight in the world than Ciarán, blushing pink, naked, and laughing underneath the blankets as Graham tickled him with his beard, kissing and nuzzling every part of him, from the delicate, sensitive skin of his neck to his soft belly to his beautiful, freckled thighs.

With an impatient wriggle, Ciarán said, “In me, Graham.”

Graham laughed. “You’re bossy this morning.” He rolled away to grab the bottle of oil on their nightstand. It was gettingrather light, he thought as he gave it an experimental shake. He felt Ciarán’s lips against his back, wet kisses pressed along his spine, and roving hands rubbing his shoulders and gliding across his ribs.

“Get ready, honey,” Graham said. Ciarán fell back against the pillows, legs spread, as Graham slid his oil slicked fingers inside him.

Ciarán moaned. “Oh, Graham.”

God, he loved it when Ciarán said his name like that. Soft and breathless, his chest heaving, lashes fluttering, mouth open and inviting.

Graham crooked his fingers just so and Ciarán cried out, scrabbling at the sheets. “Oh!” Another cry was cut off as Graham surged forward to kiss him, panting against his lips, sucking on his tongue. Ciarán whimpered when Graham poured more oil onto his hand and stroked his aching cock, precum spurting onto Ciarán’s stomach.

He’d never have his husband beg for him. Graham eased himself inside Ciarán with a groan. Every time they made love it was just as exciting, just as wonderful, just as sweet as that first time.

“Mo ghrá,” Ciarán gasped as Graham began to thrust. “Mo ghrá—”

He was just so gorgeous. Graham nibbled on his lower lip. His voice thick with arousal, a desperate rasp. “That’s right. I’m yours. I’m your love. I love you—I love you, Ciarán—”

Ciarán grabbed his ass, tried to pull him in further, closer, and Graham came as he kissed him, sucking a bruise onto his neck. He felt it—hot cum leaking from where they were joined, smearing on their skin, on the sheets.

“How do you want it?” Graham asked. He stroked Ciarán’s sides, kissed him again. “Tell me how you want it.”

“Your mouth,” Ciarán said. He smiled when Graham kissed him, moaned when Graham took him into his mouth. He swirled his tongue around the head of Ciarán’s shaft, greedily swallowed the taste of him, that mix of precum and sweat. He massaged Ciarán’s thighs while he sucked, marveling at their softness, and then he pinned Ciarán down and took him to the root, moaning as Ciarán yanked at his hair and cried, “Graham, Graham, Graham—”

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