Page 84 of Jackrabbit

Beau grabbed his ankle and dragged his thumb along it, lips twitching in an almost-smile. “You need water now. C’mon, boy, let’s get you inside.”

“Uh, no.” Colt pushed himself up on wobbly arms and slid off the truck, one shoe and all, making sure every part of his front rubbed against Beau as he got to his feet. Then he dropped to his knees and pretended it wasn’t entirely unsexy that he had to hold Beau’s hips to steady himself as he did. “Your turn.”

He moved his hands to Beau’s belt buckle and leaned forward, opened his mouth against the head of Beau’svery hardcock trapped against his thigh. And he understood Beau’s groan earlier as he drank in the smell of him—salt and work and something darker, purely Beau. This was something he was good at. Very, very good at. And Beau seemed to agree, because as Colt urged his mouth to fill with spit and soak through Beau’s jeans, Beau slid his fingers into Colt’s hair and ground against the pressure.

Thirty seconds ago, Colt would have said he wouldn’t be able to get it up again on pain of death. But as he fumbled with Beau’s belt buckle, popped the button on his jeans and sucked on the wet fabric, Beau made thisnoise. Tightened his fingers in Colt’s hair and jerked his hips forward and Colt knew he’d be ready for round two in three minutes flat.

Then Beau's hand closed over Colt's before he could pull the zipper down. His cock jerked hard against Colt's palm—wanting—but Beau's grip was firm as he pulled Colt's hand away.

"Stop." The word was rough, almost pained.

Colt looked up, confused, his mouth watering. “Why not?” He reached out and palmed Beau through his pants, felt his—thick, fuck—dick pulse under his hand. “You’re—I can feel you. You want this.”

Beau pulled Colt’s hand away, gentle but resolute. Let go and rebuttoned his jeans with shaking fingers. “That’s not the point.”

“Then whatisthe point?” Gravel dug into Colt’s bare knees as he looked up at Beau, whose face was starting to do that shut-down thing it did when he didn’t want anyone to see what he was thinking. “Why can you touch me but I can’t touch you?”

For a long moment, Beau worked his jaw. Then: “This was about taking care of you. That’s what I needed.” He cupped Colt’s jaw. “To know you’re okay. That’s—that’s enough.”

“That’s bullshit.” But Colt’s voice had lost heat because Beau’s thumb was stroking his cheekbone and his eyes looked—God, they looked almostdesperate. “You don’t get to make me feel like that and then not let me—”

“Colt.” Beau’s voice was rough, though his touch stayed soft. “Please. Not tonight.”

“Not tonight,” Colt repeated slowly, leaning into the pressure of the warm hand against his cheek. “So… when? When do I get to make you feel good, Beau?”

Beau’s thumb stilled on his cheekbone. “I don’t know.”

Well, that’s a bullshit nonanswer.

Colt was opening his mouth to say just that when an angry, muffled yowl cut through the night, followed by the sound of paws scrabbling against glass. Raising both eyebrows, Colt leaned over to look around Beau’s thighs and found Toast stretched up at the front window, hitting the glass with his paws and making all sorts of pissed-off noises.

"Guess somebody's offended we left him out of the fun," Colt said, trying for lightness even though his chest felt tight. He pushed himself up off his knees with a wince—gravel had left marks he'd feel tomorrow.

“He missed you,” Beau said quietly enough that Colt turned to look at him. Beau's hand steadied him at the elbow. "Let's get you inside before he breaks through the glass."

Colt nodded and grabbed his shorts off the driveway, one shoe still on, and limped toward the house. Behind him, he heard Beau gathering the rest of their scattered clothes. The moment felt strange—post-orgasmic floaty feeling mixing with the sting of rejection, all underscored by a screaming cat.

His life was so fucking weird.

***

Toast made an ungodly noise as Beau led Colt—naked, Christ—through the front door. The taste of him was still on Beau's tongue, the front of his jeans wet from that bratty, smart mouth it had taken damn near all of his willpower to resist.

“Crispy! Wait, I have no pants on—ow, claws!”

Colt was fighting Toast off with one shoe, hand protecting his groin. Cute little shit.

“You go on to my room and find clothes before he gets you in parts you need,” Beau said as he dropped Colt’s clothes in a heap on the counter. He balled up his own ruined shirt and tossed it in the trash. Even if he cleaned it right this second, he'd never be able to wear it again without remembering that Colt’s cum had been on it and how it had gotten there. “Your shorts are covered in dirt.”

“Someone was careless,” Colt sing-songed, hustling down the hall with Toast on his tail—his white, perfect ass on full display because the boy had noshame.

The bedroom door shut, and Toast yowled at it before sitting down and fixing his eyes firmly on the handle.

Beau snorted. “Pathetic, Toast. Have some pride.”

Toast's ears flicked toward him, but he didn't turn. Beau set about pulling out an electrolyte drink and a pre-made recovery meal. He heated it up and set everything out. Poured himself whiskey. Stood at the counter for a long moment before making his way to the living room, where he sat down in his chair and watched the trees out his back door.

The sounds Colt had made—that desperate, needy rambling, the moaning, whining. Those were going to haunt Beau’s dreams. He pressed the glass against his forehead, unwilling to burn away the taste of Colt just yet. In any other circumstances, he'd go to the next town over and pick someone up, bring them to a hotel, and get this restless, aching want out of his