The Winter Courtship Rituals of Fur-Bearing Critters (9 page)

“Rance?”

“Hmm?”

“How early do we have to wake up?”

“’Bout eight, if we’re going to feed our critters.”

“Mmm….” Ben pushed his shoulders up, and Crawford rolled over to let him, sliding out of his body as he did so. Ben turned to face him and scooted until they were cuddled together in the faint chill of a room at night in late autumn in Granby. “What time is it now?” he asked, kissing Crawford’s chest the way Craw had kissed his shoulders.

“’Bout nine, why?”

Ben pulled back and looked at him, those green eyes that spoke of the sea, both salt water and grass glinting wickedly in the dark. “Because we can do all sorts of things before we go to bed,” he said happily, and Crawford nodded his head yes and then started round two with a kiss.

The next day was a fog of exhaustion and tending the stock and then cooking and preparing for the celebration of thankfulness that both of them would give their whole hearts to. But that was the day.

The morning was waking up with Ben plastered against his back, both of them tired and smelling strongly of sweat and sex and in sore need of a shower.

And very, very happy.

“Rance?”

“Yeah?” Craw rolled over and stretched out his arm, the better for Ben to lay his head on Crawford’s shoulder.

“How hard would it be to put my bunnies in your barn and my sheep in with yours?”

“Not hard at all. Chickens too?”

“Yeah.”

“Today?”

Ben’s artfully tousled hair was now tousled for real, and it was no less charming for that. He looked at Crawford from his position on his shoulder and rubbed restless patterns on his chest until Crawford caught his hand and tangled their fingers. “Not today. When it’s handy.”

“It’ll be handy next week,” Crawford said, feeling warm and full, and almost like it was Thanksgiving but better, just waking up next to Ben. “You sure?”

“You sure you want me?”

Crawford chuckled dryly and kissed Ben’s forehead. “Wanted you since before I knew you,” he said softly. “You think I knit for just anyone?”

“You don’t?” Naked vulnerability there, and Crawford put that to rest right there.

“Only folks I love,” he said, trading naked heart for naked heart.

“How’d you know so soon?”

And Crawford didn’t have an answer for that. He couldn’t put into words the expression on Ben’s face when he’d first stood on his land and held his face to the wind, or the winsomeness of his smile, or the absolute joy Crawford found in watching him charm the world at large. He couldn’t express how happy he would be to have a man at his side for Thanksgiving, at his table, with his friends, one who made him proud to be himself.

“You looked like my kind of critter,” he said, and then buried his nose in Ben’s shoulder until he giggled like a child. “Smelled like him too. I just don’t know why you’d want to get poked by a grumpy fucker like me.”

Ben reached out a hand then and rested it on his cheek. “It could have been your eyes,” he said lightly. “I’m a sucker for deep-brown eyes and the red hair to match—mm. Just fucking mm. It could have been the fact that you went out of your way to be nice to me. Or that you can make me laugh. Or that you seemed to get me without even trying and that you liked to hear me talk. Hell, it could have been that any idiot can see you’re hung like a walrus.”

“I am?”

“Hey,” Ben laughed, “Stanley’s words, not mine!”

“Oh God!”

“But that wasn’t what pushed me over the edge.”

“No?”

“No,” Ben said firmly, pushing himself up so he was perched on Crawford’s chest, smiling down with happy-evil eyes. “It was the knitting.”

Crawford laughed. “The knitting?”

“Yup. You courted me with alpaca-fur woolens. How could I resist?”

Crawford rolled his eyes. “It was all I had,” he confessed, feeling foolish.

“It was perfect,” Ben said, suddenly very, very sincere. He kissed Crawford on the mouth then, morning breath and all, and Crawford’s arms tightened around his shoulders. Later there would be friends and food and cooking and joy, but right now, he was just very thankful.

Thankful indeed.

Rance Crawford’s Pattern
for an Above-Average Cock Cozy

(also fits neatly over a tube-shaped bottle of lubricant)

Yarn: Worsted weight, colors of choice.

Needles: Size 6 DPN

Gauge: 5 stitches per inch

Shaft:

C-O 24 stitches; distribute stitches along three needles.

Work in stockinet stitch for, uhm, six inches is average. (Eight or ten if you’re lucky, I guess. But if it’s eight or ten, you may want to C-O another four stitches. Just saying.)

When you get to the head, increase four stitches.

Work 1 round even.

K5 stitches k2 tog

Work 1 round even

K4 st. k2 tog

Work one round even

K3 st. k2 tog.

Work one round even

K2 tog. Around

K2 tog. Around.

Break yarn, thread through remaining stitches twice, and pull tight, tie bigass knot at the base of the yarn, and trim the little trickle hanging off, for good humor.

Scrot sac (these directions are for the big-balled. For the average-balled, feel free to lighten up on the increasing):

At the base of the shaft, pick up and knit 12 st.

Working back and forth (for the moment) purl one row.

Increase to 24 st. in the next knit row.

Work back and forth for eight rows; end with a purl row.

At end of row, pick up six stitches FROM THE PURL SIDE TO THE KNIT down the side of the flap, pick up 20 st. on the bottom, and pick up ten stitches up the other side. (Yes, this will gather a bit. So does the equipment it’s meant to cover.)

Work back and forth on the 32 stitches for about 2-3 inches. Bind off, leaving a 12-inch tail. Fold the side stitches (the ones picked up after the flap was knit) together and sew together with tail. Finish off. Take another 12-inch length of yarn and do the same thing for the other side stitches. Finish off.

Come home for holiday romance.
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About the Author

A
MY
L
ANE
is a mother of four and a compulsive knitter who writes because she can’t silence the voices in her head. She adores cats, knitting socks, and hawt menz, and she dislikes moths, cat boxes, and knuckle-headed macspazzmatrons. She is rarely found cooking, cleaning, or doing domestic chores, but she has been known to knit up an emergency hat/blanket/pair of socks for any occasion whatsoever or sometimes for no reason at all. She writes in the shower, while commuting, while taxiing children to soccer/dance/ karate/oh my! and has learned from necessity to type like the wind. She lives in a spider-infested, crumbling house in a shoddy suburb and counts on her beloved Mate, Mack, to keep her tethered to reality—which he does while keeping her cell phone charged as a bonus. She’s been married for twenty-plus years and still believes in Twu Wuv, with a capital Twu and a capital Wuv, and she doesn’t see any reason at all for that to change.

Visit Amy’s web site at

http://www.greenshill.com
.

You can e-mail her at

[email protected]
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