Cattle Stop by Kit Oliver

Chapter Eight

A pillarof smoke rises above the back hedgerow, gray against the darkening blue of the sky and the tower of clouds outlined in gold as the sun slips behind them.

“Coop!” Drew shouts as Cooper ducks through the fence.

In the quickly gathering dusk, Cooper can make out empty beer bottles scattered over the top of a cooler, an open bag of marshmallows, and the detritus of hot dogs and buns. A plate smeared with ketchup catches the light of the fire.

Drew cups the hand not holding a beer bottle around his mouth. “Coop! Tell Penny that hot dogs are better than burgers!”

“Burger lovers for life,” Cooper says, and Penny bumps her fist into his. “Sorry, Drew.”

“I don’t know why you guys are so down on dogs. Whit! Whit, tell them.”

Whit just picks up a branch lying at his feet and tosses it on the fire. Ah, so he is here. Cooper keeps his eyes on the fire, not the play of the light across Whit’s white shirt.

“Are you sure that branch is big enough?” Cooper asks. “’Cause you could just drag a tree over.”

“But like, dogs. Hot dogs.” Drew waves his beer around, and it must be mostly empty, or Penny’d be sopping wet with the circle he draws in the air. “Fucking superb.”

He’s tipsy, clearly. And happier than he’s looked in so goddamn long now. Cooper opens a beer and drains half of it in a long swallow. Hanging out together is what he misses about Drew’s farm when he’s off working somewhere else: Drew laughing, Penny grinning up at him, and even Whit filling out the rest of the scene.

Cooper rolls his sore shoulder and takes another swallow. The storms might still be lingering over the edge of the trees with no break in the day’s humidity yet, but the air’s sweet with the smell of fresh grass and the promise of rain to come, and the beer’s cold and Drew’s smiling.

Penny tucks her leg under herself and sets her bottle on her knee. “How was dinner?”

Cooper shrugs and takes another sip, ignoring the pointedness of how she’s looking at him. “Fine.”

“Fine?”

Whit adjusts the hem of his T-shirt where it hangs loose over the waist of his jeans. “There’s more wood that we should get,” he says.

“We can toss it on with the tractor tomorrow,” Cooper says. The air smells so good, that snap of woodsmoke in the humid stick of summer, and he just wants to linger here, basking in a truly gorgeous evening. “It’ll still be smoldering.”

“Not if it finally rains.” Whit plucks at his shirt again, his eyes on the hedgerow. Cooper snags another bottle of beer and twists it open.

“Here.” When Whit doesn’t take it, Cooper pushes it into his hand. “Relax for once. It won’t kill you.”

Hard worker, hadn’t he just been telling Brad? He tries not to watch as Whit wipes a drop of water from the bottle onto his pants.

“Dinner was fine.” Cooper drops down next to Penny on the cooler. “Drew, that ricotta. Sold and sold.”

“My man!” Drew shouts, arms pumping again.

Penny leans her shoulder into Cooper’s arm, her weight warm and a little sweaty in the swamp of the evening’s air. “Just fine?”

“Fine, full stop.” He bounces his shoulder against hers, jostling her lightly.

Whit sets his beer on the cooler on Penny’s other side. “I’m going to get some more wood.”

“God, Whit, chill.” Cooper reaches over Penny’s lap and tips Whit’s bottle to the side, examining the level of beer in it. “Though I guess that’s a start.”

“That’s his third,” Penny whispers loudly.

“No.”

“Yes.” She bounces their shoulders together again.

“Whit, having fun? Is he okay? Are we learning tonight that drunk Whit hauls wood from hedgerows?” Cooper cups a hand around his mouth and shouts, “Lightweight!”

Above the trees, lightning flashes. Whit pretends not to hear him, just bends down and gathers another armful of wood. It gets his T-shirt dirty, a smudge of wet bark across his stomach and on the inside of his forearm, which he brushes off. The fire sends up a shower of sparks when Whit tosses the wood on the pile and a red and orange glow plays over his arms as he wipes his hands clean on the thighs of his jeans. Cooper sets the rim of the bottle against his lip and swallows hard.

“How was it?” Penny asks. “Really?”

“Oh.” Cooper clears his throat. Firelight always does funny things, dancing across Whit like that. Cooper shouldn’t be looking to begin with. “Yeah. Cheese. Brad’s going to give selling it a try.”

“So fucking awesome.” Drew tips his bottle up for a long drink. “Thank you, my dude.”

“I suffered through a night of hanging out with Brad for you.” Cooper lifts his own bottle in a salute. “True friendship. Talk about sacrifice.”

Whit scrapes his thumbnail over his palm. Cooper wonders if he’s even listening, over there on the edge of the group, probably still pissed that Cooper made a damn sale. Well, whatever. Let him linger just outside the fire’s glow if he wants to.

“I still can’t believe Brad quit farming,” Cooper says. “To just throw in the towel like that and move on.”

“Still looking for a farmer boy, Coop?” Drew claps his hand over his chest. “I like to think it’s aching, unrequited pining for yours truly.”

Cooper throws a marshmallow at him. “You’re too fucking goofy, Drew. Nice try.”

“Me?” Drew grabs the marshmallow from the ground and pops it into his mouth. “Look at you.”

“Did you eat that?” Cooper asks. “You ate that, didn’t you?”

“Tastes better off the ground, you weird little—” Drew circles the fire and grabs Cooper in a headlock, scrubbing his fist across Cooper’s head to mess up his hair.

“Get off, you giant—”

“Your bony-ass elbow, Coop, you—”

“If you fucking think about spilling that beer on me, Andrew, I swear to—”

“You’re going to light yourselves on fire.” Whit’s voice is as calm and deep as ever. Trapped in Drew’s headlock, Cooper can see Whit still working his nail into his palm, but there’s a curve to his lips that isn’t normally there, like he’d almost smile given another half of a beer.

“Well, Whit, wouldn’t you like it if we did?” Cooper asks.

“All that extra work,” Whit says, watching Drew. “I don’t think so.”

Drew wrestles him halfway off the cooler, and Cooper lets him, twisting for another look at Whit. That smile on Whit’s face—he seems happy. Huh. Happy that Drew’s happy. That’s…sweet.

And, that’s enough staring at him, cause now Whit’s looking back. Catching his eye and Cooper feels his cheeks flush.

Quickly, he shoves Drew. And he might be shorter than Drew, but he’s stronger, dammit, and he gets his shoulder against Drew’s waist and stands, lifting Drew clear off his feet. “I’m gonna leave you in the hayloft. Make you sleep with Socks.”

“Sadie!” Drew hollers toward the house, and he must’ve had plenty to drink, too, ’cause the only fight in him is smacking at Cooper’s back. “Sadie, come save me!”

“Make me a s’more, Andrew.” Cooper dumps Drew in a pile on the ground at Penny’s feet. “A good one. No burning the marshmallow.”

“You’re working for me. I’m your boss these days,” Drew says from his back, like a giant, drunk turtle.

Penny leans down and gently pats the top of his head. “And landlord. You’re very impressive, and we take you very seriously. I want a s’more too. With extra chocolate, please.”

But Drew just sits up enough to slump against the cooler, and Penny keeps running her fingers through his hair. Cooper leans down and snags his beer. He holds out Whit’s, too, which Whit only glances at.

“Gonna bring the rest of the forest over here?” Cooper wags the bottle toward him.

“A tree fell last winter. I was just cleaning up the brush along the fence line.”

“Oh my God, I wasn’t really asking.” Cooper walks over to Whit, shoves the beer into his hand, and steers him back around toward the glow of the fire. “Try enjoying yourself. See if having fun really is as bad as you seem to think it is.”

Whit’s stiff. And his skin’s warm. It must be the heat from the fire, though there’s a tackiness of sweat, too, the back of his neck dewy, and a shine to his collarbone where his shirt is tugged down a little.

Cooper lets him go and steps back. Whit smells like sweat and woodsmoke, and Cooper wants to press his nose into his neck and inhale.

And Whit’s eyes are on him again, the fire reflecting in that steady dark-brown gaze. Another night rises in Cooper’s mind, a memory of a fire with the crackle of sparks in the darkness, coolers, and beers, and—

Cooper licks at his lips and backs away from Whit.

“S’gonna rain,” Drew mumbles, arching into Penny’s fingers running through his hair. “S’gonna rain, and there’s a giant hole in my house.” Drew tips his head back against the edge of the cooler, his eyes closing. The firelight plays over his cheeks, burnishing his hair and beard copper. Penny rubs her thumb gently over his forehead. Cooper looks away from the sight. She touches Drew differently than she does Cooper or even Whit. There’s something intentional about it. Slower and more careful.

Too much beer, he decides, frowning at his bottle, though it hardly seems to blame for how empty he feels, especially after pacing himself at dinner so he could drive home.

“There’s a small hole in the attic wall that’s covered with a tarp,” Whit says. “It’ll be fine.”

Cooper leans down and pats at Drew’s cheek with the flat of his palm, shaking his own head like he can clear it. “Go back to being happy.”

“The house is just really well ventilated.” Penny scratches her nails over the back of Drew’s neck. “Breezy. I like it.”

Drew tosses his arm across her thigh and lays his forehead on her knee. “I love you guys,” he says.

It’s a good thing Cooper didn’t invite Brad. The four of them here, an evening in the fields they spend their days working in, the comforting weight of company so well-worn…it fits. Cooper crouches next to the fire, heat blasting over his face, and pushes a marshmallow onto a stick. It’s home here, as much as anywhere is.

The rain starts in a gentle patter on Cooper’s shoulders before thunder cracks the sky. A fat splash falls on the back of his hand, next to a smear of chocolate. Drops darken Whit’s shirt. One lands right on Whit’s cheek, glittering against his skin. And then the blowing coolness of fresh air they’ve been waiting for comes, heralded in on the storm. Above them, thunder claps with a peal that jumps under Cooper’s skin and the world flashes white.

“Drew,” Penny says. “Let’s go.”

“Yeah.” Drew tips his face up. Another clap. Across the fields, a cow calls out. “Yeah, we should go.”

Cooper jogs after Penny with the bag of marshmallows tucked under his arm, juggling a handful of empty bottles. He breaks into a run when the rain really starts pelting. It smacks his back and soaks into his hair, and the thighs of his pants grow stiff with water. Down, across the field, through the barway in the far stone wall, up the road to the barnyard, where puddles are already forming. Cooper splashes through them, the other three just behind him, and the breaths he pulls in are full of raindrops.

“Shit,” Cooper says, fingers slippery wet on the doorknob and clumsy from drinking. Inside the farmhouse, Sadie barks back at the thunder, and with a sing of a lightning bolt and a pop, the power goes out. Cooper blinks in the dark.

Drew pushes the door and it creaks open and there’s Sadie, all scratching paws and wet, humid breath as she shakes and shivers against the cluster of their knees, all of them caught together in the doorway. Whit turns on his phone for light. A hand on Cooper’s back pushes him forward. He goes, and it was Whit touching him, Whit’s hand dropping back to his side.

“Sadie, you’re all right.” Penny pats at her knees. “C’mere, hon.”

Cooper fumbles his way toward the sink, catching the back of a kitchen chair with his thigh. He dumps the bottles down in a clatter of glass.

“It’s just a storm,” Cooper says as Sadie jogs over to him. “You’re okay, it’s a storm, it’s going to be fine.”

Sadie circles, panting, then lopes back to Penny again, tongue hanging nearly to the floor and her nails clicking on the wood.

“Anyone grab the hot dogs?” Drew asks.

“How are you still hungry?” Penny asks.

“Sadie.” Cooper whistles and she totters over and noses his hand. “Sadie, you’re a good girl. It’s just a storm.”

“I’ll take her. She can sleep with me.” Drew hooks a hand under her collar, his cheeks a ruddy red in the white light of Whit’s phone.

“I’m going to bed,” Whit says.

Cooper follows Whit’s light up the creaking stairs and down the hall. Behind him, Penny swears once, then tugs her door closed.

“I don’t think sprinting and beer are a match made in heaven.” Cooper presses their door shut, touching his fingers to his stomach through his soaked shirt. “That, or I’m getting old.”

“Or both,” Whit says.

“I’m rolling my eyes at you right now.”

“I’m sure you are.”

Cooper tosses his shirt onto the floor with a wet smack and feels for the closest piece of furniture. The dresser, it must be, and there’s the foot of Whit’s bed.

A body bumps into his. Wet and humid and too close, damp cotton against Cooper’s bare chest and arm.

“Sorry,” Whit says, his footsteps sounding awkward, as if he’s stumbling.

“S’fine.” Cooper pushes his foot out across the floor, feeling for his bed.

It’s farther away than he’d expected, despite how he and Whit trip over each other half the time, stuck too close to each other in this room of theirs.

Cooper sits down on the edge of Whit’s bed, and his eyes adjust slowly, until he can see Whit standing by the window. Cooper’s cheeks buzz with all that beer he drank and he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, but it pulls at the muscle in his back. With a groan, he reaches around to try to rub his shoulder.

“Are you okay?” Whit asks.

He jerks his hand back. “Oh. Yeah. Fine.”

“That’s my bed.”

Cooper just scoots backward, his shoulders against the wall and his feet tossed out in front. He wiggles a little to further muss Whit’s quilt. “Do you ever think about the fact that you’re a grown-ass adult, sleeping in a twin bed?”

“Takes one to know one.”

“Ouch. Hard truth to hear, man.”

Whit’s still hovering over there across the room, though when he catches Cooper looking, he turns around and tugs at the window, trying to close it. Lightning flashes and lights him up, his arms raised, and the shape of his body is dark against the panes of glass.

“Gotta jiggle it,” Cooper says.

“I know. It’s my window.”

“Just sayin’.”

One of these days, Cooper’s going to find that Whit’s packed his duffle bag and set a route in Cooper’s phone that ends at the Pacific Ocean. Well, joke’s on Whit, ’cause there’s probably no getting all the hay Cooper’s tracked into the bedroom out of the floorboard cracks. Cooper’ll be a permanent stone in Whit’s shoe, no matter when he finally leaves.

Which isn’t a bad idea, actually. Tossing a pebble into Whit’s work boots and seeing if he even notices, or just works all day with a sore foot, stubbornly powering through.

Probably the latter, just like he’s pulling mulishly at the window without the little shimmy it needs to slide closed.

“Give it a shake. I’m serious.”

“Are you seeing Brad again?”

“I never saw him to begin with,” Cooper says. “Penny’s got all sorts of ideas in her head.”

“She doesn’t.”

“Does,” Cooper says, mostly to see if Whit’ll take the bait and throw doesn’t across the room again.

Though of course, Whit just tugs at the window again. The flash from a lightning bolt falls across the sharp angle of his jaw and the wet curls of his hair.

“You had dinner with him,” Whit says.

“I have dinner with you, Penny, and Drew all the damn time. I know it’s your handwriting that added me to the dinner rotation on the whiteboard, and then you go complaining I always make pizza. I hope you know I make it special, just for you, ’cause I love the dulcet tones of your complaints.”

“You’re not interested in him?”

“What does it even matter?” Cooper tries to reach his sore shoulder again, but the most he can do is poke vaguely near that knot. “Is this revenge for me asking about your booming love life? Nosing into my own?”

“Forget it.”

Why’d you ask, then? Cooper nearly starts, but he just keeps rubbing his shoulder instead. Whit can do what he likes. Always does. Hell, Whit’s probably enjoying watching the parade of Cooper floundering with his own life like he does year after year, when Whit’s got some sort of plan hammered out that he’s thought about and thought about again, until it shines perfect and bright, just the way Whit likes it, same old after same old.

“Need some dating advice from yours truly?” Cooper scoots over and sets his shoulder against the footboard, trying to rub at that sore spot. There, that feels better, something firm working into the tightness of his muscles. He’s getting Whit’s quilt wet, though. Well, Cooper can toss over his own blanket and trade for the night, if it gets Whit all worked up.

“When was the last time you even dated anyone?” Whit asks.

Cooper snorts. “Probably more recently than you, Don Juan.”

That’d be a hilarious sight, Whit trying to date someone. He’d have to be nice to them, and Cooper would pay to see that. Though he can’t even picture it, someone here hanging out with Whit after work and on the weekends. The idea turns his stomach. It’d ruin it, is the first thing he thinks. Drew, and Penny, and Cooper, and Whit, this thing the four of them have going here. A fifth person hanging around…no, Cooper doesn’t like that idea at all.

“That’s not an answer,” Whit says.

“Don’t want to make you feel bad. Coworker solidarity. Gotta share a room with you and all.”

“Did you leave a trail of broken hearts in Vermont?”

“I told you. I was in Maine all winter.”

Whit stares out the window, apparently back to ignoring him. Cooper drops his chin to his chest and keeps working at his shoulder. Whatever, Whit probably knows the truth without Cooper needing to let his cheeks heat and stammer it out, that he hasn’t dated anyone, not seriously at least, in…a long time. He refuses to let ever rise to his mind. It’s too embarrassing to admit. Pathetic, he thinks in the privacy of his own thoughts, though he’s reminded all over again that one-off nights with men he doesn’t know has turned out to be a lonely way to go through life.

Cooper clears his throat. “Just waiting for someone to sweep me off my feet.”

That sounds right. Flippant. Casual. Like he doesn’t care. And he doesn’t—maybe he had once, all those years ago, when he’d spun out those dreams about Whit being the one. Drew’s handsome friend who sailed into Cooper’s life like a rough-handed, broad-shouldered fantasy. But how dumb to nurse that idea, to give it more than a passing thought. He knew it then and knows it now, that to Whit he’s a pest and always will be. Embarrassing, to even entertain the idea.

“What’re you doing to my bed?” Whit asks as Cooper shifts farther back against the footboard.

“What’s it look like I’m doing?”

“You look ridiculous.”

“Don’t care.” Cooper finally gets the angle of the wood perfectly against that sore spot and groans.

“Stop.” It only takes Whit two steps to walk over with those long legs of his. “Seriously.”

“I am serious.” Cooper lets his eyes close.

Whit grabs him. Steers Cooper right around too, settling next to him on the mattress, a thigh pressed to Cooper’s. Whit’s thumb digs in under Cooper’s shoulder blade.

Cooper groans again, without quite meaning to. “What’re you doing?” he asks.

Whit rubs harder, and Cooper tightens his lips over the sound that wants to come out.

“You clearly need a lesson on how to throw hay bales,” Whit says, “if this is what you do to yourself.”

“Oh, ow, God, don’t stop.” Cooper tips his head forward. “Do it yourself if you know so much.”

“I do. Often. And hardly have these problems.”

“Asshole.”

“And you want to get even bigger bales.”

“Size matters, baby.” Stop, Cooper should say, but he just presses back into Whit’s touch. Hands on him, after what’s been a…a really, really long time. Warm and strong, and Whit clearly knows what he’s doing. Cooper shifts his hips, wanting to squirm backward into that touch.

Enough, he tries to tell himself. He should stand up, get some distance, get some air. His skin feels too tight. And Whit’s far too close to him, the space between their bodies warm and humid. Outside, rain splatters against the windowpane.

When Whit rubs circles into the knot in his back, Cooper’s voice comes out low. “The nights you do take off,” he asks, “are you really leaving the farm to go see some guy?”

“Actually never.”

“Tell the truth.”

“I am,” Whit says and turns Cooper around and kisses him.

Cooper jerks in surprise, but Whit’s hand on his shoulder holds him in place, their lips still pressed together. Whit smells like woodsmoke and rain and the day’s sweat. Whit’s nose brushes Cooper’s cheek and his lips tug softly at Cooper’s and then press again, firm and slow. Cooper blinks, forgetting to close his eyes. Whit slowly pulls back and Cooper sucks in a breath, too sharp in the quiet of the room.

“Is this okay?” Whit’s murmur rings loud in Cooper’s ears, a deep rumble to the words like the peal of thunder that rolls through his chest.

No, Cooper should say. Whit’s hands fit to his shoulders, his touch heavy, and something about it so certain. Cooper should stand up, find his own bed and lay down, his back to the room and his skin cooling. His head spins and his cheeks prickle. Cooper’s sure he’s bright red in the dark. He should take his pants off. Slide out of his jeans and let Whit touch him.

“Yeah, it’s okay,” Cooper says and Whit kisses him again, tips Cooper down onto the mattress and climbs over him, a warm, damp weight. Whit’s wet shirt brushes Cooper’s bare stomach, and Whit’s thighs trap Cooper’s hips, his knees pressing tight to the outside of Cooper’s waist.

Cooper’s thought about hooking up with Whit for years. Imagined it, touched himself thinking of it. And this isn’t what he pictured. Not at all. The way Whit is kissing him is far too gentle, too unhurried. Whit’s hands are soft, and he’s moving slower than he should for a beer-soaked, tipsy mistake. Whit leans over Cooper on his elbows, apparently content to just kiss, lying on top of him, Cooper’s head pressed back into Whit’s pillow, Whit’s lips tugging hot and wet at Cooper’s, the slip of a slick tongue into his mouth.

Cooper grabs the back of Whit’s neck, fingers digging into corded muscle and soft hair. He kisses Whit back, crosses his ankle over Whit’s calf, and arches up against his body. A quicker pace and less thinking sounds better, and already there’s heat building between them, the beginning of a spark in how their hips move. But even when Cooper plucks at Whit’s T-shirt, Whit still doesn’t shift to move things along.

Which is frustrating as all hell. But what was Cooper expecting, that this would be easy? Half-naked when Whit’s not, and Cooper’s had to look at those damn muscles for weeks—for years—and now there’s thin, wet cotton between his hands and that skin. Of fucking course.

“C’mon,” he says and jerks at Whit’s shirt again.

Whit stares down at him with dark eyes, his breath coming fast. “Aren’t you going to tell me to stop?”

“Wasn’t going to.”

“This is a bad idea.”

“Damn right it is.” Cooper fishes down the back of Whit’s jeans, under the elastic of his boxers, and there’s smooth, hot skin there, the flex of muscle that Cooper squeezes. It’s a tight fit, his knuckles pressed against wet, stiff denim, and there’s no give to Whit’s belt, the tension cutting over Cooper’s wrist. He squeezes again, and his fingers bite into Whit’s firm ass. “So let’s not, like, fucking talk about it.”

Nor take it at a snail’s pace. They’ve got to milk the cows in the morning, and apparently, Whit’s turning out to be the type to spend all evening kissing his neck. He tugs at Whit’s belt. And finally, Whit reaches between them, his hand bumping Cooper’s stomach, then the strain eases with the pop of a button and the jangle of his belt buckle.

Oh, hell yeah.

Years of wanting and waiting and not another minute has to go by. This time when Cooper plucks at wet cotton, Whit sits up to strip his shirt off. He’s gorgeous. Cooper touches the ridge of his pec, the bumps of the muscles in his stomach, dimly lit with the shadows that filter through the rain battering the window. Whit’s ribs flex on his breath. All that running is clear on his body. And lifting bales of hay, bags of seed, wrestling with the plow—his shoulders are bigger than they look in a shirt, and fuck yeah, this is happening right fucking now.

Blood sings through Cooper’s cock. He yanks at his own belt, shimmying out of his pants and kicking them to the floor. He twists onto his side, reaching for Whit’s nightstand, though before he can get the drawer open, Whit bats his hand away.

Fine, though that just makes Cooper want to peek in there more. But he can do that later, ’cause Whit’s got a bottle of lube out and a condom, and Cooper hurries to kick his boxers off and turn onto his stomach.

“What’re you doing?” Whit asks.

“Oh, did you—” Cooper looks back over his shoulder. “Dunno, kinda just figured, but you wanna switch?”

Whit just looks down at him. Lightning flashes, shadowing corded muscles over the ladder of his ribs. And he’s still wearing his pants? Dammit.

“I’ll just suck your dick, if you’d rather,” Cooper says.

“No, I—yes, but.”

“But what?” Cooper wiggles his ass. Then he sighs. Okay, maybe Whit’s not into this. Or he’s actually starting to think this through. Or Cooper’s doing this wrong, somehow. That’d figure.

Or…

“Have you done this before?” Cooper asks.

Whit flicks open the bottle of lube. “I’ve done this before.”

“Dude, just asking, no judgment.”

“Stop talking.”

“First time for everything.”

“I’m serious.”

“If you haven’t, you can tell me, ’cause—”

A slick finger touches him. Cooper arches into it, letting out a breath. Oh, fuck yeah, this is what he wants. And Whit’s just as slow as he was with the kissing, like no matter how Cooper squirms, he’s going to take his damn time.

And he does, kneeling between Cooper’s thighs, his finger exploring as Cooper focuses on relaxing. Whit’s good at this. Gentle when he needs to be, and then he presses his other hand to the small of Cooper’s back, holding him still when he crooks his finger and Cooper jerks.

“Fuck.” He bites at the back of his wrist.

“Yeah?”

“Okay, maybe you’ve done this.” Cooper tries to get his knees under him, but Whit’s hand on his back is too firm. And it feels pretty good to be held down like this, no matter that he wants to rock back into the finger inside of him.

“Like that?” Whit asks, still moving too damn slow.

“You can put your dick in there, you know.”

“I know.”

Though Whit’s still holding out on him, because he just circles gently with his finger against Cooper’s prostate. The pace is too leisurely to do more than bring a harshness to Cooper’s breath over the pleasure it sparks and to make him grind his hips down into the mattress, his cock hard.

When Whit finally stops, Cooper whimpers into Whit’s quilt. There’s the rustle of pants being stripped off and the crinkle of the condom wrapper. Cooper scrambles to his knees, and the bed squeaks as Whit kneels behind him.

“Do you want to turn over?” Whit asks.

Cooper braces a hand on the wall above the headboard, his other fisted in the quilt beneath him. “I want you to fucking fuck me.”

Whit sighs, loud enough to hear it. And Cooper waits for the argument, but instead there’s the touch of Whit’s fingers again, slick and a little cold, and then a bigger, blunter pressure.

Cooper reaches for his own cock, but the headboard smacks into the wall as Whit pushes into him.

“Put your hand back,” Whit says.

“No.” Cooper wants to touch himself. He flexes back on Whit, his big hands framing Cooper’s waist and the pressure almost deep enough, almost as hard as Cooper wants it. “C’mon, would you?”

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.