It's risky, sneaking upstairs while the saloon's still open, but risk does have its pleasures. At ten-thirty, the place is merry—that fine mood between dull and rowdy—and it makes Ezra merry too, riding high on all the drinking and laughing and exchanging of money. Up in the darkness of his room, the sound is muffled only a little, and he puts his gun on the night table and softly taps his toe to Buffalo Gals.
A few discreet minutes later, the beat is heavy footsteps climbing the stairs, skipping over the creaky seventh step. Fingertips drum against the door, almost too quietly to be heard over the din downstairs.
He lets Josiah in and closes the door and then jams a chair under the doorknob for good measure. Hands settle on his waist, and he can feel the heat of them even through three layers of clothing. A smile tugs at his lips, and when he turns, he sees Josiah's grin flash in the dark.
"Anyone see you?"
"Not a soul."
One good push sends Josiah up against the wall, and Ezra presses up against him, kissing him hard. Josiah smells of cigar smoke, and his mouth tastes of rye, and he's just drunk enough to be rough, clutching at him, kissing back so hungrily that Ezra can hardly breathe.
Rough's good. Rough's really good. It's teeth around his lower lip and fingers digging into his hips. He gets a hand between them, rubbing Josiah's cock through his pants, feeling him stiffen up to satisfying heft. It makes him hard just to feel it, his stomach giving an anticipatory twist.
Josiah huffs a soft laugh in his ear. "Get your pants off."
God only knows what makes a preacher so glad to sin, but as for himself...well, as for himself, he's learned during his time in this town that life's just not worth living unless he's getting away with something that could see him hanged.
He shrugs off his suspenders and toes off his boots as they stumble their way over to the writing desk. The bed has a tendency to creak, and even the deafest rummy downstairs knows that sound. Funny what living in a town with five men to every woman does for a fellow's hearing.
His hands find their way under Josiah's shirt, fingers curling in a crisp thatch of hair. "Catch up, Mr. Sanchez."
Josiah's belt lands unerringly on the bed, the mattress softening the thump of it. A whisper of cloth comes next, and then Josiah is roughly tugging at his flies. Ezra's pants come down with a hard yank, and he sucks in a breath as they catch on his cock, but Josiah makes up for it with a firm-handed stroking.
Ezra shuts his eyes and wets his lips. Josiah has very good hands, great hands, and on previous occasions the two of them have been quite happy to hole up for an hour or more like libertines, stroking each other off between leisurely conversation—but one of the others could notice their absence any minute now. Any minute now there could be that knock at the door.
He kicks his pants off and turns, getting one knee up on the desk. Warm hands give him an eager squeeze, and then the desk drawer quietly slides open. A faint metallic sound as the jar of ointment loses its lid—followed by the lewd, lubricious sound of Josiah slicking himself up.
Then it comes: the hot push, slow at first, but insistent. He opens for it, clutching at the desk. Each time, he's certain that he can't—it won't—but, burning and hungry at once, his body submits to it. Smooth. Thick. Searing.
That's when he lets a low groan slip from his throat and Josiah's hand claps over his mouth. Oh, yes. Josiah has great hands, big hands, and they're at their best when one of them is stroking his cock and the other is keeping him quiet. He's caught fast between them, and it makes his blood run hot, makes his breath come shallow as he pants in time with the firm, quickening thrusts. Josiah's fingertips dig into his cheek, and he arches his neck to steal a sip of air. He does so like a little dizziness, a little danger.
He feels it in his hands first: numbness overtaking them, making him relinquish his grip on the desk and give himself up entirely to the harsh rhythm. The faintness in his head almost makes him swoon as bursts of blue flowers bloom before his eyes. He holds on, his leg trembling and his cock throbbing hard, the tremulous thrill building to a merciless crescendo.
—when it's nearly swallowed him up, when it's nearly dragged him under, he wrenches his mouth free of Josiah's hand and sucks in an almighty gulp of sweet, cool air.
He shudders, shakes, shoots with a force that nearly steals his breath away all over again. He shivers over peak after peak, the touch of Josiah's hand near-excruciating as it wrings every last drop from him. He slumps forward, still rocked with Josiah's hungry thrusts, trembling from head to toe.
His thoughts are shooting stars flitting around the cool darkness of his mind, too bright and brief to hold any meaning. There's only the pure relief of a man who's just had the noose taken off from around his neck. He grins like a damned fool in the dark as Josiah grasps his hip and gasps a hard, hitching breath.
Afterwards, they both wash up in the basin and make a muddled check that all items of clothing are present and accounted for. Josiah heads down first with a borrowed book, and Ezra sits on the floor for several minutes to fully regain his wits before straightening his tie and combing his hair and putting his gun back in its holster.
Buck is waiting with a fresh bottle at the table when he comes down, regaling Nathan with a story involving someone named Bitsy. Ezra sits down and pours himself a drink—Buck owes him five dollars after all—and listens to the room buzz. He taps his toe.
"What're you grinning about?" Buck asks, pausing from his story, his hands still cupping a crude figure in the air.
Ezra shoots him a salute and lifts his glass. He glances across the table at Josiah, who's slumped smugly in his seat, and straightens up, still tender and tingling in the best of ways.
"Just glad to make it through another day alive, gentlemen."
He puts the glass to his lips and drinks deep.