May 24th, 2010 | 
Author: "I'm a mess," you say, "I'd better wash some of this range dirt off me, and pheeee-yew, I smell!"
I take you gently by the shoulders and, turning you around, guide you into sitting on the bedspread. You're too tired to resist. "Lie down, Hunter, and let me worry about that." I take your stetson and place it on the chair, then bend to lift your legs onto the wide bed, forcing you into a prone position. Your left hand rises to your stomach and scratches lazily. I pour some water from the pitcher to the basin and wet a linen towel, which I bring back and start wiping your face gently. The sunburn and windburn have taken their toll over the years: there are lines at the corner of your eyes that weren't there the last time I looked into them, and I can sense that not all of them are laughlines. Your lips are parched, cracked and split, parted a bit. Your damp hair clings to your head in sweaty ringlets where your hat was. I look into your eyes while I work, and see a combination of exhaustion, relief, and want. You bring your right hand onto mine as I wipe your brows and, gently, your eyelids. I tell you quietly, "Don't talk...there'll be time for that later." Then I balance myself by putting my arm on the bed on the other side of your waist and--eyes open and looking warmly into yours--lean down to your face. My tongue gently wetting your dry lips first to keep from hurting you, I press more firmly then, feeling the give in your soft lips and listening to the small sounds you begin to emit, a quiet combination of whimpered need and exhaled tension. You move your big hand up to the back of my neck, brushing the hairs there, and press me down into a deep, satisfying kiss. We lock there, eye to eye, and I try to force my strength through that contact into your tired body.
When we break our kiss, we're both a little breathless. I know your strength and can tell by the way your hand has pressed me into the kiss that your fatigue means I'll lead tonight...just as I want it to be. As I sit up, I drag my fingers across your face and chin, down over your adam's apple and into the silky hairs below your neck. Your bandanna gets in my way, so I slowly untie it and push it aside. My hands stray down the front of your shirt, feeling the bulk of your muscles underneath. I open the top three mother-of- pearl buttons and lean forward to lick lightly at your warm, dusty skin. While I'm doing that, my hand moves lower, over your gunbelt buckle and on to the rougher leather of your trousers. No foolin' around; I find what I'm searching for and cup my hand firmly to it. It's obvious that our kissing has caused some arousal. Me, too.
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