Page 47 of Cattle Stop

Whit grabs Cooper’s wrist and sets his palm flat against the wall, above the headboard where it was. He thrusts and Cooper grunts. Whit’s hand slides firmly down Cooper’s forearm, tracing over the flex of muscle there as Cooper tries to dig his fingers into the wall, straining with the push of Whit into him. Whit’s hand slips away, and then there it is, wrapped around Cooper’s cock with a squeeze, and oh fuck yeah, Whit’s done this before.

Cooper’s breath catches. It’s a relief. It’s torture. It’s horribly wonderful. That sure, firm grip on his cock, the twist of Whit’s hand, the way his fingers tighten with each slow tug. The circle of Whit’s grip draws down and back up, and pleasure sings through Cooper’s gut. Another firm, unhurried thrust into him, Whit’s thighs pressed to the back of his own, Whit’s hips flush with Cooper’s ass. Cooper lets his head bow down, his mouth open, and his arm flexing to take the slow momentum of the way they move together.

Whit’s knee shifts forward and he thrusts, and Cooper’s head jerks up, a hot spike stabbing the base of his spine. That’s it, that’s the right angle. And Whit apparently knows it, ’cause he does it again. Fuck yeah, that’s good. So goddamn fucking good. A hand closes over Cooper’s shoulder, yanking him back onto Whit’s hard cock.

More, he wants to say, but his cheeks burn at the thought. He wriggles instead, trying to shift Whit’s cock inside of himself.

“Stop.” Whit’s hips flex slowly.

Cooper’s toes curl. “You,” Cooper gets out. He’s panting. “Are so annoying.”

Whit’s fingers wrap into Cooper’s hair, press him facedown into the pillow, and Whit starts up a short, hard rhythm. Heat flares through Cooper’s stomach. It should hurt, that grip Whit has on him, but instead he likes it. He really, really likes it. The sensation lights up his thighs until they shake and centers on Whit’s hand tugging on his cock, the spot he hits with each firm thrust. Pleasure hooks deep in Cooper’s gut, and maybe Whit had a point about going slow, because now Cooper doesn’t want this to end, wants to live his life right here, Whit’s cock inside of him.

No, not yet, Cooper thinks, but that hot, deep pleasure flashes outward in a sharp rush, and Cooper’s fingers scrabble against the quilt as he comes. He bites at his lip and groans as his blood hums and his pulse pounds. Cooper puffs into the pillow, his eyes screwed shut. His skin’s tingling. Whit’s fingers dig into his hair, and then Whit grunts once, softly, his hips shoving fast and hard into Cooper, and then stilling as Whit lets out a slow, long breath and his body relaxes.

Get up, Cooper tells himself. But he just slips down onto his stomach, his knees giving out when Whit shifts back. Cooper licks at his lips. Slowly, Whit pulls out of him. Cooper’s fingers cramp, knotted too tightly in the quilt.

This bed is too small for both of them, no matter how Whit nestles between Cooper’s back and the wall. A breeze shifts through the window, tickling over Cooper’s slick skin, the freshness cooling him. His breath slowly evens. Whit’s warm, pressed up behind Cooper, breathing hard but otherwise silent.

A floorboard creaks in the hallway. Cooper jerks, tensing.

“Goddammit,” Drew mutters, his voice pitched low enough he’s got to be talking to himself. Cooper squeezes his eyes shut, and behind him, that looseness is gone from the press of Whit’s body.

The door to Cooper’s old room creaks open. The rain, he thinks. It’s still battering wet slaps against the windowpane and probably dampening the wall his bed used to be set against.

Cooper clears his throat, sounding loud enough to him that Drew can certainly hear it. All of it. What he and Whit just did. He can’t hear, Cooper tells himself. Not over the pounding rain. Still, he gets a knee under himself and then a foot on the floor, peeling himself upright. There’s his wet shirt, and beyond it, the edge of his mattress, his blankets still a mess from when he kicked them off that morning. How goddamn long ago that seems now, waking up at Whit’s alarm to drag himself up for a day of fencing.

Cooper wants to run the sink in the bathroom to clean himself off. Or shower. Wash away the churn of uncertainty, and the deeper, surer guilt of a bad mistake with steaming hot water. Though the idea of Drew sticking his head in here, asking what’s up at this hour…and he can’t shower, anyway, not with the power off and the well pump therefore not working. Cooper wipes himself off with his shirt the best he can and tosses it into the corner.

Whit’s bed shifts, the blankets rustling. Cooper swallows. He should say something. Or Whit should. Instead, Cooper lays down on his mattress and rests his arm across his eyes. It’s enough to block out the flash of lightning, though it hardly does anything at all to drown out the sound of Whit breathing just there across the room, and Cooper’s own racing pulse, only beginning to slow.

Chapter Nine

Morning dawns with the glare of the summer sun, and it shines straight into Cooper’s headache. The room’s empty. And Whit’s bed is neatly made. Cooper shoves his hand into his hair, his head throbbing. He feels gross, all sticky and tacky and sweaty after a night of tossing and turning.

And he feels good. Amazingly, bone-deep good.

Well, that happened. Years of imagining, wishing, wondering and…yeah. He and Whit fucked.

And it was awesome.

It’s even better that Whit’s cleared the hell out of here so Cooper can sprawl on his tiny bed and spend a long, happy moment basking with no Whit staring at him.

Though fucking hell. He’s going to have to see Whit today…and Penny and Drew—with the knowledge that he so recently, so deliciously had Whit buried deep inside him. Awkward, he thinks and kicks at the blankets twisted over his feet. Let’s do it again, crosses his mind next, immediately on the heels of the deep churn of reservation in his stomach. But, no. Once was a bad idea. Twice is real fucking stupid.

Cooper tests the lights and with the power apparently back on, he showers slowly, touching his waist where Whit had gripped. But there’s no mark to trace over, no sign at all beyond the deep looseness in his muscles and the zip in his stomach. Which is good. One drunk tumble and back to normal.

When he turns off the shower, he listens for any sounds above the drip of water down the drain, straining to hear a shuffle from their room that would mean he’s not alone. Very normal, he tries to think and makes his way downstairs carefully, like the steps will creak any less if he moves slowly. In the kitchen, the screen door rattles and his heart jumps. But it’s just the wind banging the frame against the wood.

Cooper rubs his palm over his face. What the fuck did he think would happen if he and Whit ever finally fell into bed together? That Whit would just magically disappear into the ether, and they wouldn’t have to dance through an uncomfortable morning shuffle? Maybe Cooper can just slip away and live in the woods for the next forever, and he’ll never have to see Whit again. Or deal with every memory that flashes through his mind, of soft lips and a wet mouth and the strong touch of long fingers.

“Coop!” someone shouts from the barn. Cooper jumps.

Though it’s just Drew’s voice, thank God.

But still, even the sound of his own name makes Cooper want to duck behind the counter, where Sadie’s sprawled in a beam of sunshine. Maybe he can hide out with her for the day and not have to actually see Whit, let alone talk to him. Drew and Penny won’t mind stepping over a Cooper lump as he holes up next to the fridge, his face buried in Sadie’s fur, daydreaming over memories that by all rights he shouldn’t have.

Cause he…he regrets what they did. Or it was the best idea ever. He rubs at his forehead, where that twinge of too much beer is sitting like a dull, pulsing reminder that without that last drink and the blunders it brought, this morning might be like any other.