Page 71 of Cattle Stop

Cooper tugs Whit into a faster pace. “C’mon.”

“Shut up and let me—”

“No, like that, I—”

Whit kisses him. Slows his pace further, elbows away Cooper’s hand, and presses him in to the side of the shower stall. And fucking hell, that’s something, to be held so still, water beating at them, and Whit jerking him slowly.

Which works so fucking well. Cooper bites back his whine, and when he starts panting, frustrated and so goddamn turned on he wants to crawl out of his skin, he turns his face away from the curl of Whit’s mouth. This shouldn’t be so good. It can’t be so good, slow and just with Whit’s hand, but it is, and Cooper wants to scream or squirm or fuck blindly into Whit’s fist, but every time he moves, Whit just holds him tighter.

Cooper comes on a high, keening cry he’s going to be embarrassed about later. Oh God. Oh, fucking hell dammit, that was better than any hand job has any right to be, the hot blaze of pleasure, the burst low in his stomach, the chase of his hips in Whit’s grip.

Whit kisses Cooper before he’s caught his breath, and he smacks at Whit’s back, trying to grab purchase on Whit’s slippery skin. But Whit just keeps holding Cooper, kissing him even as Cooper’s lungs burn, and he comes down off the high of his orgasm, slumping into Whit’s body.

Good. So, so good. And he could just stay like this, Whit kissing lazily over his skin, his arms hooked around Whit’s neck, and their world shrunk to the flow of the shower and the rise of steam curtaining their bodies.

Above the patter of the shower, Cooper’s phone beeps. He blinks water from his eyes.

Right, his phone.

The city.

Cheese, he thinks dimly and nudges the curtain aside to tip his phone so he can read the screen.

Your mom’s around if you’re here by lunch, Terry texted.

So probably, he still won’t see her. But maybe. Maybe.

Whit bends and kisses the back of his neck.

Cooper shrugs him off. “We gotta go.”

“Right now?”

“I’ll give you a shampoo hairdo another time. C’mon, get a move on.”

Cooper jumps on one foot to tug his jeans on over skin he dried too hurriedly. Whit fusses with his hair in the bathroom, his eyes drooping with that post-sex haze he gets. Cooper smacks the flat of his palm against the doorjamb and jerks his chin toward the door. They have time later to linger over a longer shower, and he ushers Whit toward the stairs, yanking the keys out of Whit’s hand and checking his watch.

Chapter Thirteen

On the train into the city, Whit stares out the window, his eyes tracking across the landscape and his thumb rubbing against a crease in his jeans.

Cooper leans into him, bumping their shoulders together. “What’re we looking at?”

“I can’t remember the last time I was down here.”

“Ooh, buildings, pretty.”

“Did you always take the train?”

“I know you’re a glutton for punishment, so I’m sorry I spared you the experience of driving into Manhattan,” Cooper says. He’s close enough, he could rest his chin on Whit’s shoulder, though he draws back an inch before he can give in to the urge to cuddle up to Whit’s warm, broad back. “Yeah, Grandpa’d drop me off at the station upstate.”

“And your mom would pick you up?”

“Smarty-pants here.” Cooper taps a finger against Whit’s temple. “But I’d just take the subway back to good old Brooklyn.”

Farm boy in the city, Cooper thinks. And maybe in some other life, Cooper would tease Whit, press a kiss to his cheek, and whisper into his ear about being a country bumpkin.

But no. Cooper sits up a bit straighter and says, “Which is the train that goes from Grand Central to where I grew up.”