Duet by Cattraine

Disclaimer: Not mine, they belong to each other.

Warnings: OW PWP

Rating: Slash. Male/male sex.

Pairing: C/V

Notes: So there I sat, minding my own business, stuffing my face with Cheez-Its, when this...Vin Voice...popped into my head...

Chris has damned sharp teeth. He didn't show them a lot. Not in that sly little smirk, or his rare, surprisingly shy smile. The one only Vin ever saw. You only saw them in that shit eating grin of his. The one where he was genuinely amused, or about to blow somebody's head off. Or both.

Small sharp bites peppered over the top of his shoulders, stinging the tender lobes of his ears, nuzzled into the nape of his neck...

Vin shifted on the hard caneback chair, resisting the urge to lift a hand to rub his tender nipples. The bite on his left ass cheek chimed in with a tingle that went straight to his groin. He leaned farther back into the shadows of the porch overhang, long legs propped up on a post, tipped his hat farther down, to shade his flushed cheeks.

The sunlight seeped through the small window stippling first Vin, then Chris' back with leaf shadow. Only their sounds in the shack, the rasp of skin on skin, wet slurp of lip to lip, the rhythmic creak of ropes supporting the thin straw tick, low murmurs and grunts, moans and laughter...

Chris' eyes are the color of moss agate. Everchangable. Green and gray, and honey gold swirl around the dark pupil. They can narrow in a heartbeat, stare a strong man down as cold as a rattlesnake. Vin has seen more then one cowpoke lower his head, and cross the street to avoid Chris' gaze. That same gaze makes Mary Travis stammer like a girl. When he turns that white hot look on Vin, his skin reflects the heat. Chris teases him for every blush.

Vin is a man of long silences. Quiet in his own mind, still as deep water. Chris' quiet is more volitile, heat lightning on the horizon, flickering, ready to burn. Somehow they blend. Vin pulls his battered harmonica from his shirt pocket and blows lightly across it. A tune to blend with the summer breeze. Peso and Pony stand head to tail in the corral, tails flicking lazily in the heat.

Chris' hands are hard and calloused from gun and rein. Strong on an axe handle, ready in a bar fight. Steady as they carve a tiny wooden horse, a toy for a lonely little boy.

Chris' hands cup Vin's face like a chalice, holding him still under the smoke whiskey tang of his seeking tongue. Those big, calloused hands and wet mouth have charted Vin from the roots of his hair to the soles of his slender, arched feet. There isn't an inch of Vin that Chris doesn't know. They spread Vin wide open, so Chris can dive deep.

Chris steps from the cabin, drops his hand to Vin's shoulder. Vin nods, knowing that touch says more than words, that their connection runs far more than skin deep.

Cattraine@aol.com