Page 45 of Cattle Stop

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.