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  Frenchman’s Cowboy

  Copyright © 2014 by W.M. Kirkland

  ISBN: 978-1-61333-677-9

  Cover art by Fiona Jayde

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Decadent Publishing Company, LLC

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  www.decadentpublishing.com/

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  Frenchman’s Cowboy

  A 1Night Stand Story

  By

  W.M. Kirkland

  Chapter One

  Cowboy.

  Dustin Gerke set his bronc saddle in the corner and tossed his cowboy hat onto the chair. Exhaustion tugged him toward the bed and, when he sat, he propped his dusty Tony Lama boots on the duvet or comforter or whatever the hell it was. Tony always knew fancy crap like that, but he hadn’t seen him in months.

  He dragged his fingers through his hair and grabbed the remote. The e-mails between him and Madame Eve seemed so long ago, before his torn triceps muscle and the fucked-up meniscus in his knee. His body ached. Throbbed, really. It’d be questionable if he’d be up to doing anything that night.

  His cock twitched at the thought of some lanky, sexy stud coming through the door to ride him hard and fast. Okay, so maybe he would be up for the evening. He had to be. Anything to get the thoughts of Tony and what they’d shared out of his mind. The memory of the man had stuck to him like a burr and affected his game. The standings might show him on top, but he sure didn’t feel like it.

  This stop in Vegas put him off the schedule for the weekend. He hadn’t had one off since before he’d done that reality show. One of the hardest-working men in rodeo, a commentator had called him. He competed in only one event, which meant he busted his ass all the more. Thankfully, his lead in the world standings could take a weekend off right now, but the sex had better make up for the loss of dough. He found GAC’s channel on the lineup and watched the replay of a Texas rodeo.

  Dustin leaned back against the headboard and willed his aching body to take the weekend off, too. . Too damn much, if the truth were told, except he couldn’t admit that to the world. Sure, everyone might guess rodeo was a tough sport. One of his buddies had broken a leg and been told he had the joints of a seventy year old. He’d been pushing thirty-five, which made him crazy old in this sport. Dustin’s body hurt all the time. Old injuries, fresh injuries, it didn’t matter. And, honestly, if he got the gold buckle that year, he might retire. Use his significant savings and buy a ranch somewhere. Maybe raise some roughstock, or perhaps trail ride for the rest of his life.

  Could he live without a thousand pounds of pissed-off equine beneath him every weekend? He wasn’t sure he could.

  He wished he could blame his slump on Tony’s memory; but he couldn’t. He’d been interested in the reality show about jousting so he could make some cash without battering his body. Dustin laughed out loud at the thought. Yeah, like riding draft horses and getting shoved off of them with a pointy wooden stick wasn’t battering his body. He grinned and suddenly wished he had a beer.

  Meeting the high-rolling Frenchman during the show’s taping hadn’t been in his plans. He’d had to get back on the circuit, and Tony’s having to get back to his underwear ads and his polo hadn’t helped either. Dustin had cowboyed up and done what he’d needed to on the television shoot, then left, as his contract had required. Nights like these, he wondered what the hell he’d gotten out of the bargain.

  Except, glancing around at the posh hotel room and folding back the edge of the comforter to run his hands over the super soft sheets, he had his answer. A chance to have a one-night stand—the perfect one-night stand if his bull-riding buddy was to be believed—and get his mojo, and his career, back on track. Funny how he could sit there as the top saddle-bronc rider in the world and not feel like he was on track. Maybe he’d lost his course, and needed to forget that fact for a few hours.

  Really wanting that beer, he slid his legs over the edge of the mattress and stood gingerly, before hobbling over to the mini bar. He opened it to see that the resort stocked a good variety of expensive brews. Grabbing a label he recognized, he twisted off the top. By the time he made it back to the bed and had his leg settled, he’d drunk half of the beer He set it on the nightstand.

  With a grumble, he shifted enough to pull off his boots, then contemplated putting the bolster pillow beneath his knee. He took another pull from the bottle instead. He wasn’t about to meet his one-night stand like a cripple.

  When he checked the television again, the roping events were on and he turned down the volume. Those guys were good and it took talent. Somehow, he didn’t think it as exciting as the eight-second ride the roughstock athletes gave. He shrugged and finished the beer.

  A key card clicked in the lock. Good, he didn’t feel like getting off the bed. Must be his date, or fuck buddy, or whatever he should call him. Why hadn’t he thought to grab two bottles out of the mini fridge before he’d sat down.

  The door opened. His heart raced like it did during the scant seconds before the chute opened and the bronc reared out. He held position, like holding his mark out—no use getting caught at the gate—and waited for his date to enter.

  Shock sucked the air from his lungs. “Tony?” The stunning blond man, whose perfect hairstyle had to have come from a salon, strode into the room. He turned, stared at the bed, and stopped.

  “Shit,” he whispered, and Dustin startled. Big words filled Tony’s vocabulary, not the coarse, four-letter ones he’d just used. Had Tony meant to be heard?

  The latch clicked shut, the overnight bag he’d been wheeling into the room forgotten.

  The man stood there. His jaw didn’t drop, but clear surprise filled his expression. Dustin hadn’t gotten to the top of his sport by being emotional. Where other cowboys slammed the chutes or stomped their hats, he remained stoic, good ride or bad. That talent served him well right then.

  The man who’d walked through the door was the last one he’d expect.

  Pierre Anthony Archumbault III, professional polo player, appeared as he did in one of his many commercials for expensive cologne or fancy watches. The whit
e shirt tucked into a pair of expensive and tailored navy pants set off his smooth, tanned skin. The shoes were Italian leather—he’d would eat his hat if they weren’t—and the bag carried a label that said it couldn’t be bought for under four figures.

  He’d been “Tony” the week they’d spent at an expensive resort, riding jousting horses for a reality show. Tony had been knocked off on the first round; he’d gone out in the second. He probably would have lasted longer, but a certain sexy Frenchman kept invading his thoughts and his bed.

  If he thought he would get Tony off his mind by having a one-night stand with him…. He released a breath he hadn’t realized he held, knowing he wouldn’t get his mind off of things tonight. And yet, maybe he needed exactly this. Get Tony one more time, then he could move on. Yeah, that sounded good. He’d go with that theory and, if anything changed, he’d figure it out in the morning. He’d treat their encounter like a ride. Stay on, get to the clock, get a score, and head out to the next town.

  “Dustin?” Tony asked in that accented, rich voice of his. Of course everything about the man was rich. His daddy owned a vineyard famous the world over for its expensive, exquisite wines. Dustin preferred his drinks with more hops and his men closer to his social circle. Still, they’d spent one hell of a week together. That meant tonight would be one hell of a night.

  “You think Madame has a sense of humor?” he drawled. Hell, he really needed that second brew. Swinging his legs off the bed, he stood, leaving dirt on the bedspread from when his boots were there earlier. He opened the mini fridge, grabbed another bottle of fancy beer, and popped the top with the bottle opener on the front of the fridge. “Isn’t this something?” He took a swig.

  “They say Madame is never wrong, and I regretted my hectic schedule that kept me from contacting you.” Tony released the handle of his bag and strode toward him. “You’re injured. You should be in bed.”

  He needed a cold pack, at least a couple bottles of ibuprofen, and a few weeks off to heal. Not that he’d get the meds or the time off at the moment, though maybe he could rig an ice pack. He shrugged then winced as his triceps protested. “I rodeo every weekend. I doubt we could have gotten together. And at the risk of sounding like an old cowboy, these days I’m usually either tending to a new injury or making the old ones feel better. It’s part of the game.”

  The weeks they’d spent together the year before had been fun, and the television exposure had netted him a couple more sponsors, but they didn’t make up for the big rodeos he’d missed. Taking nearly three weeks—including travel and prep time—out of his busy schedule had cost him the world title. He refused to let that slip away again.

  Hence his e-mails with Madame Eve. He’d been thinking a one-night stand would put his lack of a love life out of his mind so he could focus on business. On the circuit, he could get a night of sex whenever he wanted. The straight cowboys had buckle bunnies. He had to look a little harder, but he’d never had a problem finding a partner when he’d wanted one. Until Tony….

  Dustin sat on the bed again and set his beer on the nightstand. He started to pull off his boots, then remembered he’d done that already. One of his socks had a hole in it, not exactly designed for seduction. It served another purpose, though, highlighting the difference in their social status. His battered duffel sat beneath his saddle. Early in his career, he’d learned not to leave his equipment in his truck. From cut straps to missing pieces, he’d gone through a lot. Some of the cowboys didn’t like one of their own, especially one as good as he, being gay. The vandalism had stopped about when the dollar figure behind his name turned into six and seven figures, but the habits never stopped.

  “We could have figured out something.” Tony went to the other side of the king-sized bed and stretched out alongside him. “We are resourceful men, after all.” He started to unsnap Dustin’s shirt. The action was so natural, so reminiscent of the days they’d spent together, it took him a moment to register it. A hint of cool air across his nipples brought him back to the moment and the man in the bed with him.

  They’d been resourceful, all right. The crew and other cast members hadn’t been supportive of their relationship; most of the guys had wives or girlfriends waiting for them and weren’t that comfortable with a gay man living amongst them.. So, stolen moments in the hayloft or late at night discussing strategy or the day’s events had been all they could have. The weekends, where the men could get out for some R&R, had been their reprieve and they’d made the most of them. One night together might be the distraction he needed.

  Except Tony brought with him quite a few more problems. Because now, Dustin would have new memories, fresh ones, to lay over the old thoughts that kept him warm at night. The difference in their lifestyles bothered him. It shouldn’t. His bank account and investments were getting fat from prize money. He would never have the kind of wealth the Archumbault family boasted—who did?—but he also could drop four figures on some new luggage if he wanted to. Instead, he preferred his dust-and-denim lifestyle and, from what he could tell, Tony preferred Ralph Lauren and Rodeo Drive.

  Still, it felt good to lie back, let Tony’s manicured fingers dance across his skin as he finished unbuttoning his shirt. He tugged the shirttails free from Dustin’s jeans and frowned at the bruises across his ribs, the calling card from an unruly bronc’s hoof. Gently, he traced circles around his nipples.

  Tony leaned in for the kiss. The gentle brush of lips started off nothing like the reunion of two longtime and heated lovers. Then, the kiss deepened. Dustin opened his mouth to moan and Tony filled the space, slipping his tongue inside and increasing the pressure. Only two points of contact, mouth, and chest, and yet, the kiss rocked him to his marrow.

  He reached up and grabbed Tony’s shoulder and slid his other hand into the man’s luxurious hair, the strands smooth from expensive product. Flexing his fingers, he drew Tony closer until he sprawled across him. He didn’t mind the wince in his aching arm or the stab of pain as a knee bumped his bad one.

  Like when he rode a bronc, adrenaline rushed through his system. He shifted, using weight and speed to flip Tony over onto his back. His aches and pains were forgotten for the time being. Covering him, he settled his belt buckle below Tony’s navel. The tails of his shirt billowed behind him like a redneck cape, and he laughed inwardly at the image. Some kind of superhero, banged and battered. His cock didn’t mind, didn’t care about his injuries.

  “Clean?” he asked when he pulled back to draw air. Better ask now. As heated as his blood was getting, he wouldn’t be cognizant enough to ask in a few moments.

  “Yeah, but you know me.” Tony shrugged toward his carry-on bag.

  “I do,” he muttered, not minding the safety, but damn, to feel Tony’s hot body clenching around his bare cock would blow his mind and his wad. He reached into his rear pocket and pulled out the empty chew can in which he stashed his condoms and tossed it on the nightstand. He’d never succumbed to chewing tobacco; it was nasty. The telltale white ring on his back pocket was kind of a cowboy trademark, a worn spot on his jeans like a badge of honor. When he’d started on the circuit, he’d bought some to carry in his back pocket, thinking it would help him to fit in more. Hard to beat up the gay guy when he had the same Skoal ring as you did, or something like that.

  Tony laughed and grabbed the tin. He pulled it open. “You’re the only guy I’ve ever seen who carries his condoms in a Skoal can. Think we’re going to get through all of these?” He set the strip of condoms down then pulled his shirt free.

  Dustin sat back to give him room, his knee screaming at him. Tony revealed his model’s physique. Smooth and hairless, sculpted with muscles, but not overly bulky, tanned and oh-so-touchable, his body epitomized masculine beauty. Dustin flipped open his belt buckle, and pulled the leather strap free of the loops. He dropped it to the floor with a clank then unbuttoned his pants.

  They’d never had any problems in bed. Out of it, oh hell yeah, but in it, never. The chemi
stry still sparked between them, and he moved away to remove his jeans and socks.

  He glanced up to find Tony watching him, a new hunger in his gaze. Want. Need. Raw lust. He’d seen those expressions countless times. But the hunger, as if watching him take off his clothes were the very air the man breathed. That startled him. His hands stilled, his clothes forgotten.

  “That’s not going to work too well.” Tony said. He unfastened his belt and undid his pants, shoving them and designer briefs down his legs. The socks joining his clothes on the floor had to be expensive, and that showed one of the problems. When the reality show had aired with interviews from friends and family, his friends had joked about the model not being manly enough, and Tony’s friends couldn’t hide their disgust at his very rough cowboy edges.

  Dustin kicked off his jeans to keep from thinking about those fancy duds. He lay down and rolled on his back. “So who’s on top first?”

  Tony grinned and tore a condom off the strip. “I’ll be gentle, I promise.” Taking out the condom, he rolled it onto his erection, then leaned forward to explore the landscape of Dustin’s pecs with his fingers.

  He closed his eyes at the touch. Tony used his hands well, probably from his work as a polo player. Then, his mouth took over, and Dustin bit back a groan. His dick twitched, balls tightening in anticipation of further pleasure. He tunneled through the perfect hair, the strands silken and perfect, as if he’d come from some kind of magazine ad. And maybe he had. He held Tony, thinking that if this were a dream, he’d bottle it and save it for the lonely nights on the circuit. Beat a bottle of José or Budweiser any night.

  Tony’s talented lips and tongue moved across his skin, making it easy for him to let his mind go dormant as he lost himself in the sensations. Tony always had fucked well. That had never been their problem.

  Even aching ribs and knee ceased to plague him as Tony’s hand closed around his dick. He stroked, squeezing with the right amount of pressure and using his thumb to swirl the drops of pre-cum. Dustin rocked his hips. Yeah, this was why he’d agreed to a one-night stand. Just to get laid. Maybe a few strong orgasms would blow the trash out of his head.