My muse for the Scot Rory Drummond is the model whose riveting eyes you see on this photo album art:
I’ve kept everything: the piercing green eyes, the ginger hair and beard, the barely concealed swag…and I’ve added much more. He’s far more complex than each of his endearing, um, parts. What follows is the raw beginning of Chapter 2:
Out of Tartans, into Levi’s
Castle Drummond grounds
Ethie Wood near Arbroath
By all rights, I shouldn’t feel so foogin frisky.
A brisk wind had kicked up in fits and starts. Rory clamped the brown suede Stetson down again over his head and grinned at no one and nothing. Under his ass, Duffy kept a measured pace, letting the wolfhound race around him twice for every two or three steps. He wanted to take off at a clip, race the perimeter of Ethie Wood, give the black gelding his head, but he’d gentled both of them to a slow canter. His mind was still on his too-short morning with Alex.
Mother wanted him to find a likely spot for a flower garden…as though the grounds did not hold enough natives to satisfy her need for beauty…and so he’d by-god find the ideal location.
Not too close to Hunter’s Point, of course.
Anywhere near the small stone “bungalow”—och, he’d once thought of it as a “hovel”—anywhere close to Alex’s home away from home was definitely out of the question. Buried among Scots pines, the place was close enough to Castle Drummond to be part of the grounds, but not close enough to be obvious. He and Alex had made a covered kennel for the dog behind the house, an unused summer shelter for small-game hunters.
He thought again about his mother and her precious plot of flowers. Kathleen Drummond loved Alex too, but her garden had no business sitting anywhere near Hunter’s Point. There was no reason she should hear their random rutting while tending her plant babies. It was bad enough that their shared dog Thistle was forced to listen.
The fleeting image of Alex Dominguez sprawled face down across the worn four-poster… not a soul deep in the woods to hear their love song…made his cock jump under the tight Levi’s.
Will I ever not want to bury my dick in his ass?
He knew the answer to that. Alejo was the first and only man he’d ever desired and loved at the same time. And the only man he’d ever allowed to ride him, a foogin bull rider in their own private rodeo.
A stray thought snagged him like a devil’s claw, the hooked seed pod he’d met once in Nevada. How long will he want to sleep at Hunter’s Point when we get married?
Without thinking about it, shifting the weight of his butt back in the saddle, he’d given Duffy the subtle signal to stop. How many married couples change beds every night, and bedrooms and households too?
An impatient bark reminded him that Thistle had not outrun her need to fly with the errant wind.
She ran to him, their big-as-a-damned-colt wolfhound, and he hardly had to bend in the saddle to fondle her silver-gray head.
“When Alex gets home, we’ll run wild. Aye, lass?”
Her long-suffering stare seemed clear. Wild, yes. Wait…not so much.
With a gentle squeeze of his calves, Rory told Duffy to move ahead while his mind played with the past.
One late afternoon he’d arrived home to find his lover had moved out of their huge bed. Not just away from the comfort of Castle Drummond, but to an isolated shack in Ethie Wood where no one could even see the lights go on at night. He’d been devastated. But Alex hadn’t even given him time to sulk about it.
He’d never forget that night…after Alex maneuvered the Levi’s down his shivering thighs, while he lay belly down, helpless as a bairn, already close to tears, on a small alien bed…
Alex’s voice had echoed in the near-empty room.
“I love you. I fucking love you.”
And then he’d felt a large calloused hand strike his naked butt, so hard he cried out in a convulsion of pain and ecstasy.
“But you don’t believe me, do you?” The tone was savage.
“Aye. Lad, I believe you…”
Smack! Another slash of pain across his buttocks. This time his own foogin belt. He felt the jolt all the way up his asshole.
“Never lie to me.”
Rory could not staunch the sobs, the welling up of jizz from his balls. “Please, I believe you.”
“Yes, yes, yes.” He was croaking into the pillow.
“Before I fuck you cumless, goddammit, tell me this. Do you think the man who loves you wants to leave you? Ever?”
A long time later, Alex had murmured in his ear.
“It’s okay, love. You never have to say it. How you feel. But don’t ever fucking forget…what I do, I do for both of us. This is my bedroom for a while. Hunter’s Point. So point your dick here and hunt for me.”
To be continued~~~ here, on this blog: https://bit.ly/2tk22jQ
The final passage above is slightly altered from the original, in THE KILT COMPLEX. The series is here:
The image of the horse is from whitespiritwolf.
The collage below shows some of the flowers destined for Kathleen Drummond’s garden. No thistle, of course. That iconic flower had wounded their dog, and they would give it no second chance.