The radio hissed static. Frank adjusted the dial with a thick finger, knuckles scarred from barbed wire. "Damn thing's possessed," he muttered. Outside the bunkhouse window, dust devils spun across the parched yard. A tumbleweed bounced against the fence like a lost thought.
Silas leaned against the doorframe, polishing a silver dollar with his bandana. "Heard they're legislating the water rights again. Up in Santa Fe." His voice was gravel in a tin can.
Frank grunted, not looking up. The static crackled, resolving into a nasal preacher condemning sinners. Silas flipped the coin. It caught the afternoon light, flashing bright enough to make Frank squint. "Magic tricks won't fix the well, old hand."
"Neither will that racket." Silas pocketed the dollar. "Water rights. Means they'll siphon what's left right out from under us. Dry us out like jerky." He pushed off the frame and crossed the creaking floorboards. The bunkhouse smelled of sweat, leather, and despair. He stopped at the tin washbasin, its water murky from days of use. "Smells like defeat in here."
Frank finally tore his gaze from the useless radio. Silas stood silhouetted against the window, naked from the waist up. Dust motes danced in the shafts of dying light, catching on the thick, dark hair covering his chest and trailing down his taut stomach. Sweat glistened in the furrows between slabs of muscle earned from decades of wrestling steers and hauling hay.
Frank’s throat tightened. He’d seen Silas like this a thousand times, but today the sight punched him low in the gut. "Defeat ain't the half of it," Frank rasped. He stood slowly, joints protesting. His own chest, thickly matted with greying hair, rose and fell faster than the heat warranted. The silence stretched, thick and charged like the air before a storm.
Silas didn’t turn. He dipped his fingers into the murky water, tracing patterns on the surface. "What else is there?" His voice was low, rough. "Dry land, dry wells, dry futures." He finally looked over his shoulder, his dark eyes holding Frank’s. There was no accusation there, just a weary kind of resignation that mirrored Frank’s own. "Thirty years bustin' rocks out here. For what?"
Frank took a step closer, the worn floorboards groaning beneath his boots. He could smell the sharp tang of Silas’s sweat mingling with the stale water, the faint leather scent from his discarded belt nearby. The preacher’s tinny voice still droned from the radio, distant now, irrelevant.
"For this," Frank said, his own voice thick. He gestured vaguely at the bunkhouse walls, the dusty window, the vast emptiness beyond. "For us."
Silas turned fully now, water dripping from his fingers onto the warped wood floor. His dark eyes swept over Frank, lingering on the thick grey hair covering Frank’s chest, the powerful shoulders slumped with more than just fatigue. A flicker of something ancient passed between them — decades of shared fences, shared fights against drought and rusted machinery, shared silences heavier than words. The preacher’s condemnation faded into meaningless static.
"For us?" Silas echoed, his voice scraping lower. He took a deliberate step forward, closing the scant distance Frank hadn’t realized remained. The heat radiating from Silas’s bare skin was a palpable force, hotter than the desert sun baking the bunkhouse roof. Frank could see the pulse hammering in the thick vein at Silas’s throat, smell the honest sweat mingled with dust and sunbaked leather clinging to him.
Frank didn’t flinch. He met Silas’s dark, weary gaze head-on. Decades of unsaid things hung heavy in the air – the shared burden of failed crops, the silent understanding when a prized steer went lame, the bone-deep fatigue etched into every line of their faces. The preacher’s static-filled rant dissolved completely, swallowed by the thick silence. Silas’s calloused hand, still damp from the basin, rose slowly, hovering near Frank’s chest. Frank saw the tremor in it, not from weakness, but from something raw and unnamed.
"Thirty years," Silas breathed, his eyes tracing the familiar landscape of Frank’s face, the greying stubble, the deep-set eyes. "All we got left is sweat, dust, and each other."
Frank felt the damp heat radiating from Silas’s palm hovering near his chest. It wasn't a question anymore, just a statement hanging thick as the bunkhouse air. He covered Silas’s trembling hand with his own rough one, pressing it flat against the thick grey hair over his pounding heart.
Silas’s breath hitched, a sharp intake that echoed louder than the preacher’s static. His fingers curled slightly against Frank’s skin, calloused points digging in with a desperate anchor. Frank leaned in, the scent of sunbaked leather and honest sweat filling his nostrils, overpowering the stale water smell. Their foreheads touched, a rough, sweaty connection that felt more binding than any handshake. Decades of unsaid words dissolved into the simple press of skin on skin.
“Thirty years,” Frank murmured against Silas’s temple, his voice thick with dust and something deeper. “Seems like yesterday we were greenhorns arguing over fence lines.” He felt Silas’s chuckle rumble through his own chest, a low vibration that stirred the thick hair between them.
Silas pulled back just enough to meet Frank’s eyes again. The weary resignation was still there, but beneath it flickered a spark Frank hadn’t seen since the rains failed last spring – a raw, hungry thing.
"Greenhorns," Silas rasped, his voice rough as sandstone. "Argued 'bout whose damn fence post wobbled worse." His free hand, calloused and trembling slightly, drifted upwards, fingers tangling in the thick grey hair at Frank’s temple. "Thirty years later, Frank ... still wobblin'." His thumb brushed the deep furrow beside Frank’s eye, a groove earned squinting into dust storms. "Still standin'."
Frank’s breath shuddered out. "Standin'." He tilted his head, rough stubble scraping Silas’s knuckles. The preacher’s static was a world away. The only sound was the frantic drumming of his own pulse against Silas’s palm still pressed firmly to his chest.
Silas’s dark eyes held his, the spark flaring brighter, burning away the resignation. It wasn’t just hunger Frank saw now; it was recognition, a fierce, desperate affirmation of *them*, stripped bare like the land.
"Standin'," Silas repeated, his voice thick. His fingers tightened in Frank’s hair, pulling him closer with a sudden, undeniable force. Their mouths crashed together – not gentle, not tentative, but a collision born of thirty years of pent-up silence and shared struggle. Frank tasted dust, salt sweat, and the faint metallic tang of desperation.
Silas’s lips were chapped, rough against his own, the kiss less about tenderness and more about claiming, about grounding themselves in this one undeniable truth amidst the crumbling world. Frank groaned, deep in his chest, his hands flying to Silas’s hips, fingers digging into the dense muscle flanking his spine, pulling him flush against his own aching hardness.
Their hands fumbled urgently at each other's waists. Calloused fingers, thick and clumsy with decades of roping cattle and hauling fence posts, scrabbled at stubborn brass buttons. Frank’s knuckles scraped against Silas’s sweat-slicked abdomen as he fought the worn denim of Silas’s jeans. Silas mirrored the struggle, his own hands tugging at Frank’s belt buckle, the leather stiff and unyielding. There was no grace, only desperate efficiency, the rasp of denim against denim loud in the charged silence. Neither man wore underwear beneath the heavy work pants – a practicality on the ranch that now felt startlingly intimate. With a final jerk, buttons popped free, flies gaped open, and rough hands shoved denim down thick thighs past knees, pooling around booted ankles.
Their thick hard-ons sprang free simultaneously, the sudden release a physical gasp. Hot, heavy, and fully engorged from the decades-simmering tension, they slapped wetly against each other’s lower bellies. The contact was electric, a jolt that made both men freeze for a split second, eyes locked, breathing ragged. Frank felt the slick heat of Silas’s rigid flesh against his own, the coarse hair at their bases tangling, the sheer, solid weight of it a shocking reality after a lifetime of glances quickly averted.
Silas groaned, deep and guttural, a sound pulled from the earth itself. His hand instinctively wrapped around Frank’s thick shaft, his grip firm, testing the pulsing heat, the taut skin stretched over iron-hard muscle. Frank mirrored the motion, his own rough palm encircling Silas, feeling the urgent throb beneath his fingers, the slick bead of pre-cum already welling at the tip.
"Frank," Silas rasped, his voice shredded sandpaper. He pressed his forehead hard against Frank’s, eyes burning with a fierce, undeniable need. "Need you ... inside. Deep. Now." His hand tightened, guiding Frank’s cock firmly against the tight furl of his asshole.
Frank shuddered, a tremor running through his entire frame. "Christ, Silas," he breathed, voice thick with lust and something deeper, a profound ache. "Yeah. Want that ... want you buried in me." He met Silas’s desperate gaze. "After. You take me after."
Silas nodded sharply, a quick jerk of his chin. "Deal." He turned, gripping the edge of the washbasin stand, knuckles white. He bent forward, powerful back muscles rippling, presenting himself. Frank’s breath caught. He spat thickly into his palm, slicking himself thoroughly, the sound obscenely loud in the stillness. He pressed the broad head of his cock against Silas’s opening, hot and impossibly tight.
Silas hissed, pushing back urgently. "Do it, Frank. Don't hold back."
Frank braced a hand on Silas’s hip, the other guiding himself. He pushed steadily, feeling the incredible resistance give way inch by agonizing inch. Silas groaned, low and continuous, his muscles clenching fiercely around Frank’s invading girth. The heat was intense, enveloping Frank completely. He bottomed out, hips flush against Silas’s ass, balls tight against skin. Both men froze, panting heavily. Frank felt the incredible clench and pulse around him, the sheer intimacy overwhelming.
He pulled back slowly, almost all the way out, then thrust forward hard, burying himself deep again. Silas cried out, a raw sound of pleasure-pain. "Fuck ... Frank!"
Frank settled into a rhythm, deep, deliberate thrusts, each one drawing a ragged gasp from Silas. The slap of flesh on flesh echoed in the bunkhouse, mingling with their harsh breathing. Sweat dripped down Frank’s spine, pooling where their bodies met. Silas pushed back onto each thrust, meeting Frank’s power with his own, his fingers clawing at the wooden stand. Frank watched the powerful muscles of Silas’s back flex and release, felt the tremor running through him, the desperate clench that threatened to unravel him. He leaned forward, pressing his sweat-slicked chest against Silas’s back, burying his face in the thick hair at Silas’s shoulder, breathing in the potent mix of dust, leather, and pure male sweat. "God, Silas," he groaned against damp skin. "Feels ... like home." Silas’s answering groan vibrated through Frank’s chest, a wordless agreement.
Silas shifted his stance, widening his legs slightly. "Harder," he rasped, his voice strained. "Don't hold nothin' back." Frank obliged, gripping Silas’s hips tighter, driving deeper with each powerful surge. His own cock throbbed, impossibly hard, buried in that incredible heat. He could feel Silas trembling, not with weakness, but with the sheer intensity of sensation.
Frank slid a hand around Silas’s hip, his calloused fingers finding the thick, slick shaft jutting out. He wrapped his hand around it, pumping firmly in time with his thrusts. Silas cried out, arching his back, pushing hard against Frank’s chest and hand simultaneously. "Frank! Oh, goddamn, Frank!" The cry was raw, primal, shattering the last remnants of preacher-static silence.
The rhythm became frantic, desperate. Frank felt the coil tightening low in his belly, a familiar pressure building towards an inevitable, shattering release. Silas’s cock pulsed hotly in his hand, pre-cum slicking his fingers. "Close," Silas gasped, the word barely audible above their panting and the wet sounds of their joining. "So damn close."
Frank gritted his teeth, driving deeper still, his own climax roaring towards him. He felt Silas’s muscles clamp down like a vice around him, triggering his own eruption. Silas shouted, a hoarse, guttural sound as his cock jerked violently in Frank’s grip, thick pulses of sperm splattering onto the dusty floorboards beneath them. Frank followed instantly, buried deep, his hips jerking uncontrollably as he emptied his own sperm into Silas with a long, shuddering groan that ripped from his chest.
They stayed locked together, breathing harshly, trembling as the aftershocks rolled through them. Frank slowly withdrew, the sensation intense. Silas sagged against the washbasin stand, his legs trembling. Frank turned him around gently. Silas’s eyes were dark, intense, pupils blown wide. He reached down, his hand trembling only slightly now, wrapping it around Frank’s still-hard, slick cock.
"My turn," Silas murmured, his voice rough but filled with a fierce tenderness Frank hadn't heard in years. He guided Frank backwards towards the nearest bunk. "Lie down." Frank obeyed, sinking onto the thin mattress, his heart pounding not just from exertion, but from the raw intimacy and the promise burning in Silas’s eyes.
Silas spat into his palm, slicking himself thoroughly, his gaze never leaving Frank’s. "Ready?"
Frank nodded, spreading his legs. "Been ready thirty years, Silas."
Silas knelt between his thighs, positioning himself. The broad, blunt head pressed against Frank’s opening. Frank took a deep breath, bracing himself. "Do it."
Silas pushed steadily, the resistance immense. Frank grunted low, gripping the thin mattress beneath him. Inch by agonizing inch, Silas breached him, stretching him wider than he’d ever imagined. The burn was fierce, a deep ache radiating through him. Frank gasped, sweat slicking his brow.
Silas paused, buried halfway, his breath hot on Frank’s neck. "Alright?" he rasped.
"Keep goin'," Frank gritted out. "Feels ... full. Good."
Silas pushed deeper, slowly filling him completely. Frank groaned, a deep rumble in his chest, as Silas’s hips pressed flush against his ass. The sheer thickness inside him was overwhelming, a profound pressure that bordered on pain but settled into a heavy, consuming heat. Silas stayed buried, letting Frank adjust.
"Christ, Silas," Frank breathed. "You’re built like a damn stallion."
Silas chuckled, a rough puff of air against Frank’s shoulder. "Told you I’d take you proper." He began to move, pulling back almost completely before thrusting deep again. A slow, deliberate rhythm. Frank cried out sharply at the withdrawal, the emptiness sudden, then gasped as Silas filled him again. The drag was intense, friction igniting sparks along Frank’s nerves. Silas’s hands gripped Frank’s hips hard, fingers digging into dense muscle. Frank felt every ridge, every vein of Silas’s thick cock plunging into him. The bunk creaked loudly with each powerful thrust.
Silas leaned forward, his sweat-damp chest pressing against Frank’s hairy back. His breath hit Frank’s ear. "Tight," he murmured, voice thick with strain. "So damn tight." He shifted his angle slightly.
Frank gasped as Silas’s cockhead brushed something deep inside, sending a jolt of pure electricity up his spine. "There!" Frank choked out. "Right there!"
Silas growled, low and satisfied. He focused his thrusts, driving hard against that spot with relentless precision. Frank’s cock throbbed painfully against his belly, leaking freely onto his own skin.
The sensations built rapidly – the deep stretch, the friction, the sharp, exquisite pressure inside him with every plunge. Silas’s breathing grew ragged, his thrusts faster, harder. Frank matched his rhythm, pushing back onto each stroke, meeting Silas’s power. The slap of flesh echoed – Silas’s hips against Frank’s ass, Frank’s own heavy balls swinging against Silas’s thigh. Sweat pooled where their bodies met.
Silas’s hand snaked around, wrapping Frank’s slick shaft. His rough palm pumped firmly, perfectly timed with his deep thrusts. The dual sensation – the hard cock plunging deep inside him and the tight fist stroking him outside – was too much.
Frank’s vision blurred. "Silas ... I’m gonna —"
"Me too," Silas gasped, his thrusts turning frantic, losing rhythm. "Now, Frank!" Frank felt Silas swell impossibly thicker inside him, pulsing. The hot rush of Silas’s sperm flooding deep within him triggered Frank’s own climax instantly. He shouted hoarsely as thick pulses shot from his cock, splattering across his chest and Silas’s fist. Silas groaned, a long, shuddering sound, burying himself deep as he emptied.
They collapsed together onto the narrow bunk, slick and panting. Silas slid out slowly, making Frank gasp again at the sudden emptiness. Silas rolled beside him, throwing a heavy arm over Frank’s chest. The bunkhouse smelled sharply of sex, sweat, and dust.
Outside, the wind moaned softly against the walls. Silas traced a calloused finger through the mess on Frank’s belly. "Whaddayaknow," he murmured, exhaustion and wonder in his voice. "Still got some life in us."
Frank chuckled, a deep, tired rumble. "Reckon we do." He turned his head, meeting Silas’s dark, sated eyes. "Water rights tomorrow?"
Silas snorted. "Tomorrow."
Frank watched the dust motes pirouette in the fading light slanting through the window. The scent of sex hung thick, mingling with sweat and the ever-present grit. His stomach growled, loud in the quiet. "Hungry," he stated. "Real hungry. Ain't had nothin' but jerky since dawn." He pushed himself up on one elbow, muscles protesting pleasantly. "Dinner. My treat. At Rosie's."
Silas blinked, surprise flickering across his sweat-damp face. "Rosie's? That dive fifty miles east?" He shifted, wincing slightly as he stretched. "That's a damn pilgrimage."
"Exactly," Frank grunted, swinging his legs off the bunk. The wood groaned. "We need more than dust and despair tonight. Need steak. Need whiskey. Need to see something besides these damn walls." He stood, muscles stiff but humming with spent energy. "My treat. Get dressed."
Silas watched him, a slow grin spreading across his weathered face. "Rosie's whiskey could strip paint." He pushed himself up, wincing only slightly. "But her steak? Worth the drive." He scooped his jeans off the floor, the denim stiff with dried sweat and dust. Frank did the same, pulling his shirt over his thickly furred chest.
They dressed in silence, the intimacy of moments ago settling into a comfortable, practical rhythm honed by decades. Belts buckled, boots pulled on. Frank grabbed his hat from a peg, jammed it low on his brow. Silas did the same. The battered Ford truck outside coughed to life, headlights cutting through the twilight gloom as they bounced down the rutted track towards the distant highway.
Rosie's Diner was a beacon of greasy warmth fifty miles east. They ate thick steaks bleeding onto plates, drank whiskey sharp enough to cauterize doubts, and swapped stories with other dusty souls at the counter. Frank paid, slapping bills down with a decisive thump. The drive back was quieter, the whiskey buzzing warm in their veins, the shared meal a tangible anchor against the encroaching desert night. The bunkhouse loomed dark against the star-strewn sky as Frank killed the engine.
Silas reached for the door handle, but Frank’s hand closed over his wrist. The calloused grip wasn’t restraining, just grounding. Silas turned, the dash lights etching deep shadows under his cheekbones. Frank cleared his throat, the sound loud in the sudden stillness. "Silas," he began, rough voice softened by whiskey and the night. "Stay with me tonight. In the big bed. Not just … after." He gestured vaguely towards the bunkhouse, meaning the narrow cots and the lingering scent of their earlier desperation. "Sleep. Together."
Silas’s eyes widened fractionally. Thirty years of separate bunks, separate rooms in the crumbling ranch house. Privacy was a luxury they’d never afforded themselves, yet intimacy beyond shared labor or raw need was uncharted territory. He stared at Frank’s hand on his wrist, then slowly turned his own hand to clasp Frank’s. His thumb rubbed the thick ridge of scar tissue across Frank’s knuckles – a barbed wire souvenir.
"Yeah," he breathed, the word thick with surprise and something warmer than the whiskey. "Alright, Frank. Together." He squeezed Frank’s hand once, firmly, before releasing it to push open the creaking truck door.
They crossed the dusty yard, boots crunching gravel louder than usual in the quiet night. The bunkhouse door groaned its familiar protest. Inside, the stale air still carried the faintest trace of their earlier exertion, layered now with dust and old wood.
Silas didn't hesitate. He bypassed the narrow cots entirely, heading straight for the door at the back that led to Frank’s small, private room – a luxury afforded only because Frank ran the place.
Frank followed, flicking on the bare bulb overhead. The room was sparse: a worn rug, a sturdy oak bureau, and the big iron-framed bed dominating the space, its quilt faded but clean.
Silas didn't pause. He strode straight to the bed, shedding his hat and dropping it onto the bureau with a soft thud. His boots came next, kicked off carelessly, thumping onto the rug. He turned, facing Frank, already unbuttoning his flannel shirt. "Took you damn long enough to ask," Silas stated, a faint smirk playing on his lips as he shrugged the shirt off, revealing his thickly furred chest again. "Thirty years sleepin' alone in this rattletrap house ... figured you preferred the solitude."
Frank snorted, pulling off his own hat and shirt. "Solitude's overrated. Especially when the bunkhouse snores like a busted tractor." He watched Silas push down his jeans, stepping out of them. The sight of Silas naked again, under the harsh bulb – powerful thighs, the dense hair trailing down his belly – sent a fresh wave of warmth through him, different from the whiskey buzz. Comfortable. Right.
Silas slid between the cool sheets, patting the space beside him. "Well, c'mon then. Ain't got all night. Sun comes early." Frank climbed in, the mattress groaning softly under their combined weight. Silas immediately rolled onto his side, facing Frank, throwing a heavy arm across Frank’s waist and pulling him close.
Frank felt the solid heat of Silas’s chest against his back, the wiry hair tickling his shoulder blades. Silas buried his face in the crook of Frank’s neck, inhaling deeply. "Smells like dust, whiskey, and Rosie’s fryin' grease," Silas mumbled, his voice muffled against Frank’s skin. "Better than preacher-static."
Frank chuckled, settling back into the solid warmth enveloping him. Silas’s breathing evened out quickly, deep and slow against Frank’s neck. Frank stared at the water stain on the ceiling, listening to the familiar creaks of the old house settling. Silas’s arm tightened slightly around him, possessive even in sleep. Frank closed his eyes.
The weight of Silas, the shared heat, the simple rhythm of his breathing – it felt like shelter. Like something solid built against the drought and the dying land. Water rights were tomorrow’s battle. Tonight, for the first time in decades, Frank wasn’t alone in the dark. He drifted off, anchored by the steady thump of Silas’s heart against his spine.
Deep in the thick velvet of sleep, Frank surfaced slowly. Not to sound, but to sensation. A pressure, rhythmic and insistent, low in his belly. A familiar heat radiating up his spine. And a hand – rough, calloused, unmistakably Silas’s – wrapped firmly around his cock, already thick and stiffening rapidly beneath the worn cotton sheets. He blinked, disoriented, the bunkhouse shadows deep and unfamiliar from this angle. Then he registered the other sensation: something thick and hard, slick with something cool and wet – spit, maybe – sliding slowly, steadily, in and out of his ass. Each withdrawal pulled a soft gasp from his throat; each inward stroke filled him with a heavy, stretching warmth.
He lay perfectly still, heart hammering against his ribs. Silas’s arm was still draped heavily across his waist, pinning him slightly. The breathing against the back of his neck was deep, regular. Too regular? Frank strained his senses. Was Silas awake? Dreaming? The movements weren’t frantic or clumsy like a dreamer’s fumbling; they were deliberate, almost languid. The slide in was slow, deliberate, filling him completely before withdrawing almost entirely, only to sink back in with the same unhurried pressure. The hand on his cock tightened fractionally, thumb rubbing the sensitive head where pre-cum slicked the skin.
Frank shifted minutely, testing. Silas didn’t stir, didn’t pause. The deep breathing continued, ruffling the hair at Frank’s nape. The rhythm remained steady, deep, almost meditative. Frank closed his eyes again, letting the sensations wash over him – the incredible fullness, the rough grip, the sheer, unexpected intimacy of it. Awake or asleep, Silas was claiming him again, wordlessly, in the deep heart of the night. He relaxed back into the pillow, pushing his hips back slightly to meet the next slow, deep thrust. A low groan escaped him, muffled by the pillowcase.
Silas’s breathing hitched, just for a second. The arm across Frank’s waist tightened, pulling him closer.
"Awake?" Frank murmured into the pillow. His voice was sleep-thick.
Silas’s thumb rubbed another slow circle over Frank’s slick cockhead. "Might be," came the low rumble against Frank’s neck. The deliberate slide inside him paused, buried deep. "Problem?"
Frank pushed back against the thickness filling him. "Nope." He lifted his hips slightly, inviting. "Just … surprised."
Silas chuckled, the vibration traveling through Frank’s spine. "Thirty years waitin'. Figured I’d start collectin’." His hand resumed its slow, firm strokes on Frank’s shaft, perfectly timed with the renewed, unhurried thrusts. "You sleep like the dead. Easy pickin’s."
Frank groaned, pushing back onto each deep glide. The languid pace was maddening, deliberate. "Thought maybe you were dreamin’." He gasped as Silas shifted angle slightly, brushing that electric spot deep inside. "Christ, Silas."
"Dreamin’?" Silas’s voice was rough velvet against Frank’s skin. He pressed a kiss to the knob of Frank’s spine. "Nah. Just … takin’ my time." His thrust deepened, holding Frank immobile for a breathless moment. "Properly." His hand tightened fractionally on Frank’s cock. "Like I shoulda done years ago."
The slow, possessive rhythm built a different kind of fire – not the frantic desperation of earlier, but a deep, smoldering certainty. Frank felt himself yielding completely, anchored by Silas’s arm and the relentless, deep penetration. Pre-cum slicked Silas’s palm, making the strokes smoother, hotter. Frank’s breaths became ragged pants muffled by the pillow.
"Gettin’ close," Silas warned, his own breathing deepening, the thrusts gaining a subtle urgency. "Want you with me."
Frank nodded frantically against the pillow. "Yeah. Now." The coil in his belly snapped. He cried out as his cock pulsed violently in Silas’s grip, thick ropes of sperm spilling onto the sheets beneath him. The clenching deep inside triggered Silas’s own release. Frank felt the hot flood deep within him, Silas’s groan vibrating against his back as he buried himself impossibly deep, hips grinding against Frank’s ass.
They lay locked together, panting, Silas’s softening cock still nestled inside, his hand resting loosely on Frank’s spent shaft. The scent of their release mingled with sweat and the cool night air drifting through the cracked window. Outside, the desert wind whispered secrets against the clapboard walls, a soft counterpoint to their slowing breaths.
Silas finally withdrew slowly, making Frank gasp softly at the emptiness. He rolled Frank onto his back, his dark eyes searching Frank’s face in the faint starlight filtering in. Silas traced a calloused thumb over Frank’s lower lip. "Still surprised?" he asked quietly.
Frank shook his head, reaching up to cup Silas’s jaw. "Just wonderin' what took you so damn long." He pulled Silas down into a kiss, slow and deep, tasting salt and sleep and shared whiskey. Silas settled against him, his solid weight a comfort Frank hadn't known he'd craved. The water rights battle loomed at dawn, but wrapped in Silas’s heat, Frank felt a quiet certainty bloom. They’d face it together.
Silas broke the kiss, resting his forehead against Frank’s. "Reckon we wasted enough time." His thumb brushed Frank’s cheekbone. "Shoulda done this when we were spry enough to bounce off the walls."
A chuckle rumbled in Frank’s chest. "Still bounced plenty," he countered, tracing the muscle ridge along Silas’s shoulder. "Just takes longer to recover."
Silas snorted softly. "Speak for yourself." He shifted, pulling the quilt higher over them. "Sun’ll be up soon."
Frank grunted, tightening his arm around Silas’s waist. "Let it wait." He felt Silas relax against him, his breathing deepening almost immediately. Frank stared into the darkness, listening to the wind’s low moan against the eaves. The silence wasn’t empty now; it was filled with Silas’s presence, the steady rhythm of his breath against Frank’s throat, the lingering warmth where their bodies pressed together.
Outside, the wind shifted, carrying the distant, mournful cry of a coyote. Silas stirred slightly against him. "Hear that?" Frank murmured. "Sounds like old man Henderson’s hound. Always did sing like his heart was broke."
Silas made a low sound of agreement, his voice thick with impending sleep. "Told him that mutt needed a wife."
Frank smiled into the darkness. "Maybe he found one." He felt Silas’s arm tighten around him.
"Or maybe," Silas mumbled, "he just learned to sing louder."
Frank closed his eyes, the coyote’s cry fading into the vast desert night. He drifted off, anchored deep in Silas’s warmth, the grim future momentarily held at bay by the simple, solid truth of the man beside him. Tomorrow could come. They were ready.
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