Page 67 of Jackrabbit

God, he was never going to recover from this.

Everything was Beau—his mouth against Colt’s, his tongue, the warmth of him between Colt’s thighs, the scent of oil, cologne, and sweat. Colt rolled his hips, his cock hard and aching. It caught on Beau’s belt buckle, and Beau grunted. He wrapped an arm around Colt’s waist and adjusted him down until—

“Fuck,” Colt hissed as he moved again, dragging himself against the stiff heat of Beau because Beau was rock fucking hard. And it was forhim.“Beau. Fuck.”

When Colt tightened his thighs and started a steady grind, Beau kissed back up his neck and bit gently down on his earlobe. His voice was low and full of gravel. “That's it. Good boy, Colt.”

The noise Colt made would have been embarrassing if he wasn't so busy burning alive, if he had any room left for a feeling other than heat and want and desperation. His hips jerked, and he tugged Beau’s hair, and—

“Fuck,” Beau hissed, and Colt thought it was the same sort of overwhelmed, wanting ‘fuck’ Colt had been feeling until Beau pulled back. Until Beau pressed his forehead against Colt's shoulder. “Colt.We—”

“Don't.” Colt pressed his nose into Beau's hair and squeezed his eyes shut, dizzy with want and heat, but still completely aware of what was going to happen. And he had to stop it because he'd never in his life needed someone the way he needed Beau. “Don't say it, Beau, please.”

Beau grabbed Colt’s thighs and gently lowered him until he was on his feet. Then he pressed his thumb to the corner of Colt’s mouth and ran it down to his chin, his lips kiss-swollen and pink, his breathing still uneven. “We can't do this.”

Colt shook his head. “Yes, we can. We already are.”

Beau stepped back and pressed his hand against his mouth, dragging it past his mustache like he did when he was struggling. Colt had lost. Beau shook his head. “No, we aren't. This was—”

“If the next words out of your mouth are ‘a mistake’, I'm never talking to you again, Beauregard Moore.” Colt zipped up his suit as Beau looked at him with wide, startled eyes. “If you don't want this, if you're too scared, fine. But don't you dare stand there and call what just happened between us a mistake.”

“Okay,” Beau agreed as the wind kicked up and howled across the desert through the low shrubs.

“Just take me home.” Colt walked back around and got into the truck again, and he didn’t say another word the rest of the drive.

Chapter 35

Toast was on Beau the second he walked into his house, meowing and slamming against his shins as he took off his boots. They still had mud caked on them from when he’d stopped in the desert. The house was silent except for the cricket that had been screaming somewhere in his living room all week. He padded to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. Tried to stop thinking about Colt's throat under his hand, thatnoisehe'd made, how it had felt to finally taste him, touch him, want him openly.

What the hell had he been thinking?

He drained the water and set the cup on the counter, and Toast hopped up next to him. The cat put his paws on one of Beau’s shoulders and stretched up to headbutt him in the chin, but stopped mid-push. Instead of going for the chin, Toast lowered himself enough to sniff Beau’s chest, shoving his nose into the fabric of Beau’s shirt before pulling back with his mouth hanging slightly open like he’d smelled something off.

“What’s that look for?” Beau asked as Toast’s tail flicked.

Toast hopped off the counter and ran to the door, where he parked himself with his tail wrapped around his feet. His damn cat had smelled Colt, and was expecting him to walk through the door like he usually did these days.

“He’s not coming,” Beau told his cat, whose ears flicked back toward him. “Toast, come on boy. He’s not here.”

Toast kept staring at the door, and somehow that was worse than if he’d yowled. It reminded Beau of the horrible, sucking silence that had fallenbetween him and Colt as he’d driven him home. The way Colt had sat in the passenger seat with his back straight, his chin up, proud and silent despite the pink beard burn along his jaw.

‘If the next words out of your mouth are ‘a mistake’, I'm never talking to you again, Beauregard Moore.’

Christ.

Said with such steadiness, even as Colt shook from arousal. And damn if that hadn’t just made Beau want him even more.

He couldn’t bring himself to call what had happened a mistake. Even in his own head, he damn well just couldn’t. It shouldn’t have happened for a hundred different reasons; it couldn’t happen again, but he was richer for knowing what it felt like to hold all that wild in his hands for just a moment.

The mistake was what it had done to Colt. Hadn’t he known? Seen the way Colt looked at him, responded to him, wanted him? Colt had left Beau’s truck with pride in every line of his body, but Beau had felt the way he’d trusted Beau so deeply he’d let himself fall apart against him. And Beau had left him to put himself back together.

You’re a selfish, selfish old man.

He poured two fingers of whiskey from his cheapest bottle and downed it in one go. The burn didn’t erase the taste of Colt, but it warmed him where he’d been feeling cold in his chest at least.

Toast meowed, loud and impatient, and swatted at the door handle like he could make Colt appear through sheer force of will. Beau knew the feeling.

He was Colt's coach. Fifteen years older. Colt had looked at him like a hero before they'd ever met, and tonight Beau had used every bit of power he had—the praise, the control, the authority Colt craved—and taken what he wanted.