The more often Hank saw him, the more he noticed the little things. When Richard first moved in, he hadn't thought much about his height, besides noticing he was a little on the short side. Even at a distance it had been obvious, but now he was seeing him more regularly, it drew his eye. A foot didn't seem like much on paper, but seeing Richard up close really brought it home. The man barely reached his chest and with his tight clothes, he looked half as wide. It made him seem delicate, calling notice to his obvious bone structure. He wasn't starving himself by any stretch, but the man lacked any extra fat besides the gentle curve of his ass.

Not that he spent an inordinate amount of time staring at said ass. He didn't see him often enough for that. Even if he did, he wouldn't spend his time ogling it, though he couldn't deny it was a fine specimen. Hank wasn't sure if he worked out or if it was just a by-product of all the riding, but his ass and thighs were good and strong. The way he bounced in the saddle was almost hypnotic as he trotted along, a steady up-down beat that could be counted to the second. Although he seemed lethargic on the ground, he was full of energy in the saddle. He'd often heard him whooping and yelling as he rode, leaning low over the horse's back to pour on some extra speed. Sometimes, he wobbled so much Hank thought he might fall, but he never did.

In contrast to his control on horseback, he seemed almost clumsy on the ground. Carrying a bucket of feed seemed to throw him off balance, and he was forever tripping over his own hens as they skittered about his feet. He was also prone to stumbling whenever he heard Connor barking, and it would be a lie to say Hank didn't encourage it a little. His wide eyes and the vulnerable look on his face always stirred a foreign feeling in Hank's chest, something he hadn't felt in years and was determined to ignore.

Unfortunately, it wasn't that easy. Having noticed all these things, his brain kept drawing attention to them. The sight of Richard wearing his riding slacks had become something of a treat. If he timed it right, he'd step out just as Richard was returning from the stables, flushed from a good ride with his hat and gloves in hand as he headed to the garage. He'd shortly return to his coop with the feed bucket, oblivious to his prying eyes as he watched him fumbling around and bending over to fill the trough. If he was lucky, Nines would be feeling energetic and issue a challenge, sending Richard stumbling backwards. It was always entertaining to watch. The man had no idea how to assert his dominance, not over Nines anyway.

There was something almost sinful about the way those riding pants hugged his ass and thighs, and the sharp cut of the quilted jacket sitting rigid on his shoulders. The knee-high boots really topped off the look, the heels giving him an extra half an inch of height. His posture was excellent, giving him straight shoulders and an almost delicate curve to his spine. Hank didn't even think he noticed how he held himself, looking almost regal as he straightened his riding jacket and strode up to the house. There was a vague sway to his hips when he walked, automatically drawing Hank's aged eyes lower. He'd think he was doing it on purpose, only he didn't always know he was watching.

The feel of his skin still haunted him sometimes. The roughness of his palms where he held the reins, and the softness of his knuckles. His hands were small and delicate compared to his own, his fingers thinner and less worn. Where the veins on his own hands popped, Richard's were hidden beneath the skin, only standing on those hotter or colder days, or when he'd just returned from a good workout. Hank still remembered what it felt like when he'd dug those short nails into his knee. It was barely a pinch. He could probably snap him like a twig.

From there, it didn't really take much for his mind to wander to other areas. Being so much smaller, he'd probably weigh nothing at all if he picked him up. Those thighs would stretch wide over his hips, feet barely locking around his large waist. He could probably pin both wrists in one hand to watch him squirm and writhe beneath him. Being a jockey, he'd probably be an excellent rider, enthusiastically bouncing on his cock as his larger hands tanned that pretty little hide. From the whimpering sounds he'd made while treating his wound, he could well imagine the needy little squeals he might encourage.

Hank rolled onto his back, quietly cursing as he kicked the sheets lower. His room was pitch black, the world outside quiet as he lay sweating in the heat. It had been cool enough for sweats and a light sheet when he went to bed, but all that tossing and turning had worked him up. He was almost embarrassed to note he was solid in his pants, especially since he knew the cause. Thoughts of Richard's ass in his hands were still fresh in his mind as he tugged the waistband lower and let his cock spring free.

A quiet groan slipped out as he palmed the rigid muscle, savouring the feeling of silken flesh against his palm and gathering the pearly droplets at the tip. His cock was bigger than average, almost nine inches, more than enough to split that pretty little ass wide open. He wasn't even sure Richard could stand to take something so big, though he was pretty sure he swung that way. There was something about the way those dark eyes lingered, roving over his body and straying to his large hands that made Hank think he might be in with a shot.

In with a shot was probably the wrong phrase to use. He wasn't naïve enough to think he was looking for something that would last, but a good hard fucking? Hank would be more than willing to provide that. Was Richard even into that sort of thing? Something about his prim and proper attitude made him think he was probably pretty vanilla in the bedroom. That might be even better. What would it be like to open him up and teach him how good it could be? To take that little prude and get him on his knees until he was gagging for it? To watch the nervous fear shatter into shameless lust and wanton need?

The thought made him croak in the darkness as he tightened his grip and bit his lip. How he got him there wasn't important, but he could almost feel the silken strands of hair between his fingers as he closed his eyes. He hadn't touched it, but it looked soft and glossy, and Richard seemed the type to like a little pulling. The Richard in his head did, anyway. His name slipped out as a needy little plea, lips parting to gorge himself. Hank took a shuddering breath as he tightened his hand and pumped, keeping a slow pace as he imagined how Richard's smaller hand might feel. Barely able to close his fist around him, he'd give a tentative lick over the tip before sucking him down. Would he choke? He didn't seem the deepthroating type, but fuck, he could teach him.

Laying him on the bed, he'd feed his cock in nice and slow, teasing his neck and tweaking his nipples as a little reward for every inch he took. Richard's skin would be soft, but he knew he had a healthy growth of dark curls on his chest. The thought spurred him on, and he ran his fingers through his own soft fuzz, imagining Richard's would be even softer. Unlike his own pecs, Richard's would be firm from all that riding, and his abs lightly toned. Rocking his hips slowly, Hank imagined how wet and warm Richard's throat would feel. The muscles would clench around him as he rocked, his gag reflex making him choke with each quick thrust.

Hank cursed under his breath, speeding up as he imagined what it would be like to bury his face in that ass. Had Richard ever done that before? Being in his forties, it was possible, but it was his fantasy, so why not make him a brimming virgin? His soft cheeks would flush in mortification as he flipped him over and dragged him to his knees, swatting the plump flesh to make him stay still. Fuck, the colour he could put in that ass. He'd leave handprints for days, and Richard would squeal and beg the whole time. By the time he finally parted those cheeks for his first taste, Richard would hiss at the lingering sting, brown eyes glistening as he looked over his shoulder. Nothing stirred him quite like making a grown man cry.

Pumping faster, Hank imagined how those teary eyes would widen as he finally pushed inside. He'd probably never been stretched like that before, lips parted in wonder and disbelief as Hank dragged him closer. Once fully sheathed, he'd hold him flush against his body, stroking his hips and stomach, teasing his nipples and kissing his shoulder as he adjusted. A needy whine would stick in Richard's throat, body quivering at the filling sensation until he was ready, squirming on his cock as a sign to finally move. His passage would be impossibly tight at first, hugging his cock like a sheath, muscles twitching in protest. He'd go slow, murmuring little assurances that it would get better as Richard hissed and whined.

Pulling his cheeks wide, Hank would watch himself sliding in and out, and shove Richard's face down on the mattress, where he'd claw the sheets in bliss. He'd get louder after that, openly begging for more. Hank moaned as he imagined how it would sound and what he'd say. Maybe he'd turn him over and slide in from the front, lifting him in his arms to fuck him on his feet. He was pretty light, so it would be no challenge to hold him up by the window and enjoy the fucked out look of bliss on his face as he dug those short nails in his shoulders. When he came, he wouldn't say his nickname. Oh no. For something so intimate, he'd let him call him Henry. Fuck, it would sound so good rolling off his tongue in that needy little whine.

Hank spilled with a curse, shamelessly moaning and snapping his hips as he clung to the sound of his name on Richard's lips and the feel of that warm passage clenched around his cock. Fuck, the sight of his load spilling would be a sight to behold. Maybe he'd drop him on his knees again and pull his cheeks apart to watch, snapping a picture to relive it later. Richard would look aghast, of course, worried about him sharing it. He wouldn't, of course, but the worry in his eyes would fuel a host of future meetups.

Spent and breathing heavily, Hank slapped a hand over his face. This was getting ridiculous. He was a grown ass man! How many of these little fantasies was he going to have? They'd kept him up almost every night that week, ever since he'd fixed his damned hand! What was so special about him, really? He wasn't the first guy he'd been around, and certainly not the best looking. Richard was pretty average, though by no means ugly. He looked to be in his early forties, so obviously losing that youthful glow and growing in a few stray wrinkles around the eyes. His hair was still brunette, but when his stubble grew in, on the rare days Hank saw it, there were grey hairs creeping in. There was nothing really out of the ordinary, though some might notice his nose. Hank sort of liked it. It brought something notable to his otherwise unremarkable features.

Fuck, give it a break already! If he was so plain and unremarkable, then why did he keep thinking about him? His libido was up like he was back in high school! He wasn't sure he'd ever had it this bad. Is it some sort of mid-life crisis? Is this what happens when you go cold turkey for too long? There wasn't much choice out there on the farm, and most of the ladies he knew in town were married, too young, too old, or they'd been friends for years. He'd never looked at the men twice. Being farmers, they were mostly big and burly like him, so he'd never considered it.

Trying to shake it off, he climbed out of bed and went to the bathroom, trying not to feel too dirty as he cleaned himself up. If it was later, he'd probably shower, but it was still early. Upon returning to the bedroom, he threw the curtains open and leaned on the sill, looking through the open window. The grey of the distant morning was just creeping in on the horizon, the first rays barely visible beyond the far-off hills. Hank took a deep breath, enjoying the dewy morning smell of late spring. Everything was calm and still. Even the chickens were still sleeping.

The quiet of his thoughts was broken as a light clatter sounded somewhere below. It must have been Richard's back door, because moments later he was off, walking through the yard towards the stables. That explained why he didn't seem to be bothered by Nines' crowing, and why he never saw him leave in the morning. His brow furrowed in disbelief as he looked at the clock and found it was barely four twenty. What the fuck is he doing up so early in the morning? Sure, he had a lot of horses and shit to tend to, but at four thirty in the morning? That seemed a little excessive.

He wasn't dressed in his riding gear yet, just some jeans, boots, and a long-sleeved top to ease the morning chill. It wasn't chilly to Hank, but Richard was a lot smaller and lacked his soft layer of fat. Curious, Hank watched as he disappeared around the corner and headed off to the stables. It was a little early to be mucking out the horses. He'd be surprised if they were even awake. With a shrug, Hank settled in place and returned to looking out over the fields, soft gaze settling on his fluffy white flock. He played a game with himself, trying to spot Sixty among the sheep, but it was pretty much impossible to tell from so far away.

Getting bored, he was about to return to bed when he heard the gentle rumble of a barrow being pushed along cement, the wheel squeaking softly as Richard appeared. He was heading into the rear field with a shovel, the old gate opening with a squeak. Hank remained in place and watched as Richard wheeled around and stopped on various patches to shovel what looked like dirt into the barrow. On reflection, it made more sense that he was cleaning up after the horses, clearing the field for them to enjoy without stepping in their own shit. It was the sort of dirty work Hank would have expected him to hand off to someone else. That he did it himself was actually sort of admirable.

That was another thing he could add to the list of useless shit he knew about Richard Perkins. A list that was growing rapidly, and it was troubling how much more he wanted to learn. There were pressing things he wanted to know. Is he single? He seemed to be, considering he lived alone, and he'd never seen anyone else up at the house. Does he date, or at least sleep with, men? From the look in his eyes sometimes, Hank was pretty sure he did. Was he in with a shot? Again, judging by his physical reactions, he was pretty sure he was. But what the fuck am I supposed to do with that? How did one broach the subject? They were neighbours! He didn't want to make things weird, though his cock very much believed it was worth the risk.

Perhaps the best approach was the direct approach. No matter the answer, he was pretty sure the look on his face would be priceless. The direct approach was probably best utilised a little later, when he was sure he'd get a positive answer. Before that, he needed to gauge his interest, maybe make a few subtle moves. He scoffed at the thought. Making moves? Who did he think he was, Casanova? He had about as much game as a castrated ram, though at least he could still get it up. Getting it up was the least of his worries. Getting it up is the fucking problem! Maybe he should just ignore the problem and hope it went away. It might just be a fad. The novelty of having someone new around. With a small nod, Hank returned to bed. In a few weeks, he was sure this little infatuation would pass.