About Riding the Silverado
by Kate Roman
94 pages / 25500 words
ISBN: 978-1-61040-213-2
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html, lit, Adobe and Sony optimized pdf, prc, epub
When Clay Garcia's truck breaks down by the side of a deserted road, the last thing the young cowboy expects is an erotic encounter with a tall, dark stranger -- especially when he turns out to be the county's new sheep shearer, Lee Warshaw. Despite the difference in their ages, and the Garcia family's suspicions, what's between the two men only gets hotter. Clay's afraid that he wants more than Warshaw's prepared to give, but after a terrifying encounter with a mountain lion, Clay realizes that Warshaw's feelings run deeper than he'd ever dared to hope. Can these two cowboys make it past their fears and find a way to be together?
Review
Kiernan Kelly, author of Cornfed, writes: Clay is a young man who comes from a sheep ranching family where hard work is demanded, good food is abundant, and family is cherished. Gifted with dark good looks by virtue of his Mexican heritage but by the same token, prisoner to its traditions, he is unable to be honest with his family about his sexual preferences.
When his Silverado pick-up breaks down in a deserted area near a reservoir on a blistering hot day, Clay decides to go skinny-dipping, never thinking anyone might be watching him, especially someone like older, sexy cowboy Lee Warshaw.
What begins as a simple sex-buddy arrangement deepens into something more, presenting Clay and Lee with a serious problem as they try to figure out their emotions, their places in each other's lives, and a way to stay together.
Kate Roman has penned a fascinating peek into a May/December romance in
which each page sizzles. From captivating descriptions of life on a small
sheep ranch full of rich detail to sex scenes that practically fry the
eyeballs, this is one story not to be missed!
Sample
"Looks like you got a little trouble with your truck,
junior."
Clay looked up, startled.
At the top of the riverbank, next to the roadway, stood a tall, dark figure
in a cowboy hat. Clay stood his ground, holding his jeans in front of him,
hiding the way his stubborn cock filled at that low, raspy voice. "Don't
believe I've had the pleasure," Clay called.
"Naw," said the stranger with a raspy chuckle, "not yet you ain't." He
turned away, disappearing behind the spread green canopy of a sycamore,
boots raising ghosts in the dust with every footfall.
Clay quickly donned his jeans and boots and started towards the mystery man,
T-shirt over one shoulder. He found the stranger perched on the bumper of an
elderly olive-green Ford, long legs stretched out in front of him, black
ten-gallon pulled low over loose, salt-and-pepper hair that brushed the
shoulders of his plaid work-shirt. He stood and stretched as Clay
approached, extending a worn, calloused hand.
Clay stood and glared. How long had the guy been watching him?
"Now now, that's no way to be neighborly. Name's Warshaw. Just hired on down
the road aways at the Lone Manzanita. Saw the steam coming off your ride
here and wondered if you needed anything."
Clay flushed, already regretting his surliness. He stepped forward and shook
Warshaw's hand firmly. "Clay Garcia. Double-D."
Forty if he was a day, Warshaw had the lean, sinewy look of a lifetime of
ranching. Warm brown eyes regarded Clay with amusement over a wild mustache
the same color as his long hair, barely hiding a wide, generous mouth.
Clay realized he'd been staring at that mouth only when it broadened into a
gentle laugh. "See something you like, junior?"
Clay scowled and turned away with an angry shrug. Something about this man
had gotten under his skin already. His rock-hard cock nudged the stiff seam
of his jeans, and Clay knew exactly what had gotten to him about Warshaw. He
just didn't have the faintest idea what to do about it.
Dropping his T-shirt in the back, Clay pulled the tailgate of his own truck
down and sat, just to have something to do besides make an ass of himself in
front of a man twice his age. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder and
ignored Warshaw's question. "Radiator's busted. As soon as she cools down,
I'll be on my way."
Warshaw jammed his hands into the front of his tight, faded jeans. "Guess
you don't need me for...anything, then. That right?" His expression was
thoughtful and, if Clay wasn't mistaken, his eyes held interest of a most
welcome kind.
Clay shifted as he sat spread-legged on the hot metal and his stubbornly
persistent cock nudged his leg, trapped in his jeans.
Warshaw ambled over and took a seat next to him on the tailgate and the old
truck bounced. The rough wool of Warshaw's shirt brushed Clay's bare
shoulder and despite the heat of the day, he fought a shiver.
"Well," Warshaw said, "seems time passes more quickly with company." He
turned to Clay and ran his tongue over his lips. "That is," he said softly,
"if the company's acceptable."
Clay swallowed. He was pretty sure he recognized that as an invitation, and
he hoped he was guessing correctly as to the kind. "The company's very um...
that is, you're more than welcome to sit awhile. I'd appreciate it." Clay's
voice cracked.
Warshaw just gave another gentle chuckle. He began unbuttoning his shirt,
and the precise movements of Warshaw’s thick, blunt fingers mesmerized Clay.
He could think of quite a few other things he wanted those fingers to do.
The pressure from his hard-on was nearly unbearable and he shifted again.
"Calm yourself, Clay, I'm just getting comfortable. You'd prefer it if I ask
you if you come here often?"
Clay looked over at his new acquaintance. All he could think about right now
was the closeness of him, the smell -- sweat tinged with an indefinable musk
and some type of aftershave. Clay closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. He
wanted to taste the big ranch hand's skin, along his jaw line, get his hands
all over the tight, firm ass those jeans were promising.
He wanted to know if that mustache felt as good as it looked.
Biting back a shiver of excitement, Clay said, "At least you didn't ask me
for directions."