Page 63 of Cattle Stop

And fucking hell, Whit sits. Perches on the edge of Cooper’s mattress with his knees far enough apart that Cooper can step between them. Oh shit, that’s a nice sight. Sorry, Cheryl, he thinks, letting his eyes trace over the shape of muscle in Whit’s thighs.

“Did you get this wet?” Whit’s wrist is warm, the skin soft as Cooper tips Whit’s injured hand side to side.

“I had to shower before I went to the bar.”

“Did you even try to hold your hand out of the water? Make any effort at all? Ever heard of a plastic bag and some rubber bands?”

Cooper’s mouth is too dry. Exhaustion, he’d say if Whit asked, from slogging through Whit’s awful farm work all day. Cooper braces for the question like it really might come, a quick draw of an answer so he doesn’t have to stumble over words. But Whit’s quiet and when Cooper darts a glance at him, Whit’s just watching him, his chest rising softly on his breath. His thighs look so nice in his jeans. Strong, with all the slimness and power of his daily runs.

“I had to open the shampoo.”

“Oh, of course, your gorgeous curls.” Cooper presses his mouth shut and quickly unwraps the bandage, revealing a smaller square of gauze sitting against the heel of Whit’s hand. He didn’t mean to say that.

“And then it turned out the bottle left in the shower was empty,” Whit says.

“I don’t know anything about that.”

“When there was a new one beneath the sink.”

“I think I saw a squirrel in there, must’ve been them.”

It’s quiet in here. Whit’s voice sounds too loud. Though Cooper’s does too. As quickly as he can, he rewraps Whit’s hand, careful over the taped piece of gauze and fumbling to press the adhesive smooth.

“Cooper,” Whit says. He sounds too serious. “You’re doing a good job.”

“What?”

“Your ideas for the farm. I could see it making a big difference around here.”

“You’re making fun of me,” Cooper says.

“I’m not.”

“You are, you’re not serious.”

“Maybe I am,” Whit says.

“Oh, stop, now you’re just being an ass about it,” Cooper says, though he knows there’s no heat in his voice. “Is this just Drew telling you to be nice to me?”

“No,” Whit says, and that sounds more like him, the curt answer and look he gives Cooper all disgruntled exasperation. “Though trust you to argue about it.”

“Me, arguing? Look in a mirror.”

“Pot, kettle,” Whit says.

And then he reaches up, a finger hooking into the waistband of Cooper’s pants. His eyes on Cooper’s, he leans forward, brushing Cooper’s shirt up and kissing once, softly, at his stomach just above his belt.

“Okay?” Whit asks.

“Yeah.” Cooper’s voice sounds too low.

Whit looks up at him through the dark fan of his eyelashes, his mouth parted and level with Cooper’s zipper. Cooper shifts slightly and Whit’s hand tightens on his hip.

Cooper helps with the buckle on his belt, the metal jangling loudly in their quiet room. Oh, that is a fucking sight, Whit tugging at the elastic of Cooper’s boxers with his good hand, pulling them down to Cooper’s knees.

Whit leans forward and kisses just below Cooper’s belly button.

Cooper’s stomach jumps. For a moment, he feels too naked. Standing here, with Whit staring. Probably appraising him, though Cooper can’t get a good look at his face to tell. The thought is unnerving, imagining being compared to whatever’s going through Whit’s head.