Our orgasms are fast and brutal, turning us into viejos borrachos—drunken old men—depending on the wall to hold us up, absent any modicum of balance or dignity. I lean into him, unwilling to leave his body, even as my cock begins to deflate. I bury my nose in his hair, savoring his shampoo along with the musky combination of our cum and sweat, wanting to bathe in it.
My arms tighten around him, and he melts against my body, letting me hold him the way I need to. The words again threaten to leap from my tongue, but somewhere in the back of my head, I register a door opening, along with Colt’s already familiar heavy bootsteps thudding on the wooden floor.
Fuck.
My cock softens, slipping from his body, and I regret it immediately. I need to move, put on clothes to hide the evidence of what we’ve been doing, but I can’t force myself away from him. I bite my lip as I look down at the proof of our tryst, spreading his cheeks so I can see his used hole and watch my cum slowly crest and drip from the stretched-out edge. He tilts his hips to the side and I’m bewitched as la leche zig-zags down his inner thigh, milky droplets clinging to the dark hairs along the way.
He turns around, panting as we stare at each other, wobbly-kneed and cum-drunk. Grinning lazily, he takes off his undershirt and does his best to clean up. Finally, we snap out of our shared stupor, silently putting on our clothes. I don’t know about him, but my muscles are exhausted and emotional, which sounds crazy but makes all the sense in the world to me.
We exit the stall just as Colt makes his way into Sprite's stall. I realize a little too late that Wick doesn’t know Colt is within earshot. Sometimes he gets a little chatty when he comes, and I can see the train wreck coming, but my brain is still too fucked out to stop it.
“Damn, man. I love you up my ass, but it always makes me want to fuck the shit out of someone. Mind if I call up LuLu? She’s always good for a threesome—”
I slap my hand over his mouth and point at Colt, who’s standing with an unnatural stillness, a dark look in his eyes.
I have no idea what he heard.
“Shit,” Wick mumbles under my hand. “Act natural.”
I let him go, and we step into the corridor, knowing that Colt has already seen and heard us. Wick salutes us, then saunters off. Is that what he means byact natural?Was I supposed to follow him out the door? I look at Colt and open my mouth to say…something.
Colt’s jaw tightens as he holds up his hand. “I suppose this is a better place than in the tack room. Everybody fucks in that damn tack room.”
I want to deny his words, but he sends me a hard look through lowered brows. It’s so different from his usual happy expression that it makes me rethink my strategy.
“Were you looking for us, Colt?”
“No, Joaquin. I was not.” Gesturing to the stall, he explains, “Sprite's filly has an especially bad case of thrush in one of her hooves, and Doc has me applying salve every other hour for the first twenty-four hours.”
I turn to find Sprite in her stall, her foals peeking out from behind her, and the trio of them seem to share Colt’s dark judgment.
Hijo de mil putas.
Son of a bitch.
“You know I’m not favoring him.”
Colt snorts, kneeling as he gently takes the filly’s hoof in hand. “Oh, you favor him alright.” Still shaking his head, he begrudgingly concedes, “But I suppose I can trust that you’ll be fair on the job.”
“Of course.”
He goes quiet after that, ignoring me in favor of his charge. I back out of the stall and leave him in peace, though my own sense of peace is disturbed. His concern isn’t with the job, not really. But I feel as though I’ve accidentally stepped on a bruised heart.
I glance at him one more time and, yes, I see it now. Something about the downturn of his mouth makes me think I’m not the only one a little bit lost over Warwick.
* * *
Warwick takesoff early the next morning to visit with his brother, and I'm in the kitchen around five-thirty, getting the food and coffee started. I appreciate the quiet this morning—I barely slept last night from the guilt.
While it’s true that I don’t much care about the rules of propriety, I don’t enjoy hurting others. From what Colt said last night, I’m pretty sure that's twice now he’s caught me fucking Warwick, and I’m convinced it hurts him.
I don’t have much say in continuing with Warwick—he’s in my bones at this point—but we can be more considerate of how and where we spend our time with each other.
Lost in a bit of shame about it, I accidentally overpour the mug, making a huge mess on the counter.
“Shit,” Colt curses behind me, startling me with his sleep-garbled voice.
I turn and, surprised by the amount of skin, shift and knock the mug off the counter. I’m grateful for wooden floors and sturdy mugs because the man is wearing a pair of shorts so tiny they ride the line between clothing and underwear.
