Spurs: Book 2 (Part 1) Cowboy lust, hot—dirty, and unstoppable

How far are these wranglers prepared to go to fulfill their rough stock lust?

Garrett had been quiet for much of the six-hour drive, only turning his attention away from the road ahead when I cranked the stereo and started singing or suggested we stop somewhere and have something to eat—or have a fuck break.

My sexually insatiable buddy was always up for a good fucking.

And I was happy to oblige him.

The last stop we'd made, though …what had unfolded between us had been unexpected. Incredibly hot—but surprising …and confusing.

The restroom of a diner. We'd finished eating, paid our check, and finished up at the urinals. While I'd been washing my hands, Garrett had stepped up behind me, his breath ragged—hesitant almost, his heated intention cascading then faltering against the back of my neck.

My breath quickened.

Garrett had watched me intently in the mirror, his eyes locked on mine as he'd tossed our hats onto the countertop and pulled me backward into a restroom stall.

His movements had been urgent but gentle, his tongue wetting the fine hairs at the base of my neck, his mouth savoring my skin—groaning, panting, his teeth teasing the back of my ear, his hands securing me tight against his chest.

I'd reached back and grabbed a handful of his hair, overcome by my desire for him to possess me as he'd done the day before, bent over the hood of that Gator—riding me, devouring me.

I licked my lips.

In that diner's seedy, dimly-lit restroom stall, he'd caressed my cock through my jeans with the heel of his hand as he thrust up against my ass, his cock growing and firming—hardening.

He'd unlatched my buckle and button, unzipped my fly, and taken a firm grip of my cock, stroking it until my hard flesh had filled his fist.

Then he'd released me and made his way back to the truck without explanation. He'd left me standing there with a raging erection.

I shifted in my seat, adjusting my cock.

…much like the one I had now.

"Eyes on the road, Dirk." Garrett reached over and turned the radio off. The light was fading, but we'd decided to drive straight through and not stop for the night.

Now I wasn't so sure. It had begun to rain, and the wet road ahead was reflecting the bright lights of every passing car into my eyes.

Garrett tossed the toothpick he'd been chewing on for the past hour into an empty cup-holder. "Let me drive for a few hours. You can close your eyes for a bit." I could practically hear him grinning. "I promise I won't hurt your baby."

 He patted the dashboard of the new F-450 Diesel I'd picked up last week to haul my new horse trailer and home on wheels. The Lakota Bighorn with four-horse capacity was overkill for just the two of us, but my side business breeding and training working stock horses and those used for stock horse competitions was doing well—really well.

I figured Garrett and I deserved a little comfort when we were out on the road engaging in our new favorite pastime—cruising for straight guys on the rodeo circuit.

I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. We would need to stop and tend to the horses soon. We'd brought Mason, my prized wrestling and roping quarter horse, and Garrett's bronc, Apollo, a quarter horse he used primarily for bucking.

"Maybe," I replied.

Garrett leaned forward in his seat and pointed out through the front windshield. "Those hazard lights up ahead …does it look like a truck and trailer to you?"

"Yeah, definitely." I scanned the right-hand side of the road. There wasn't much room to pull off, but I couldn't with good conscience roar past a guy and his horse trailer on the side of the road. The fading light had disappeared, turning an eerie, pitch black, and the rain was pelting down heavier than before. It would make for a miserable night if the guy had to hunker down roadside.

I smirked. Perhaps we could brighten up the cowboy's night on a few counts.

I flicked my blinker on and pulled over in front of his truck, ensuring the entire ass-end of my thirty-six-foot trailer was off the road. Garrett grabbed his hat and coat, leaped out of the truck ahead of me, and made his way toward the guy climbing out of his battered, pick-up truck.

Walking toward the two of them, my flashlight illuminated them both, and a low purring growl passed my lips. He was older, late-thirties. Rugged. Sleek afternoon shadow—black with flecks of gray, deep lines etched into his face after years of living on the range, and a well-worn, oilskin cowboy hat and duster, darkening with rivulets of water, clinging to his muscular frame.

My gut warmed at the sight of him. We needed to have him.