“Sometimes it helps.” Ethan said, he hesitated for a moment then continued, “You can always tell me to shut up, if it’s too much.” Ethan leaned in, “You ever wish you could just start over?”
Cole let the weight of Ethan's question linger in the air, the low crackle of the fire punctuating the silence between them. He took a breath, his voice low and steady as he replied, "Every damn day."
They stared at the fire. Ethan flexed his bandaged hand, testing the tightness of Cole's handiwork, then winced as pain shot through it. Cole noticed immediately.
"Too tight?" he asked, already moving closer.
"No, just—" Ethan started, but Cole was already crouched beside him.
"Let me check it," Cole said, his voice rougher than he intended. He took Ethan's hand, cradling it carefully, feeling the heat radiating through the bandage.
The silence stretched between them. Their knees touched, bare skin hot even through denim. The only sound was their breathing and the low, hissing burn of the fire.
Cole couldn't help himself—his gaze drifted to Ethan's face, the firelight dancing in his eyes, illuminating a depth that drew Cole in. Then his attention fell to Ethan’s hands, and despite the gravity of the moment, his mind wandered to fantasies he couldn't suppress. He imagined those hands wrapped around his thick cock. The thought ignited a primal hunger within Cole, a yearning to feel those fingers squeeze and stroke him until he lost all the control he’d spent a life building.
The image was so vivid it made Cole lightheaded.
He adjusted the bandage with practiced gentleness. “That should be better,” he said, voice raw.
Ethan left his hand in Cole’s for a beat longer, then withdrew, slow and careful.
“Thanks,” Ethan whispered.
Cole couldn’t meet his eyes, struggling with the tempest of emotions swirling within him. He felt an overwhelming urge to run back to his tent, yet an equally potent desire to put Ethan on his knees and fuck his throat like a pussy until all the shame melted away. He was ensnared in a conflict that left him teetering on the edge, but an all-consuming sense of guilt, shame and a lifetime of repressed thoughts and feelings made sure he didn’t act on any of the fiery yearnings igniting his very core.
“I should—” Cole said, gesturing at the dying fire.
“Yeah,” Ethan said, but made no move to leave.
Cole stood and smothered the flames, angry at how little it helped. He heard the zipper of Ethan’s tent, then the soft hush of him settling into the sleeping bag.
Cole waited until the world was truly black, then sat on the edge of his own tent and looked at the stars. His cock was hard, aching inside his jeans, and he hated himself for it. He pressedhis palm against it, holding still, not moving, as if he could choke the feeling off by sheer force of will.
He saw Ethan’s hands, strong, but soft, working his shaft. He saw himself thrusting into Ethan’s open and hungry throat. He wanted it so bad he thought he’d suffocate. Every part of him screamed with need, and with the terror of being known.
He’d always thought he was strong enough to suppress it. That if he never acted, it could be controlled. But Ethan had blown a hole in that logic. Now Cole was at the edge, dangling, knowing he could never walk it back.
He crawled into his tent, alone, with every muscle still buzzing, and tried his best to fall asleep.
He couldn’t. He didn’t want to.
All he could do was wait, and want, and fear what would happen if he finally let his true self show.
Chapter 7 - Cole
Cole Walker woke with the first gray rip in the sky, every joint in his body protesting as he sat up. The sleeping bag was swampy with sweat, the kind of cold seep that meant he’d barely slept at all. His heart kicked at his ribs, too fast and arrhythmic, even though the world outside the tent was silent—nobody up, not a hoof scrape or a zipper. In the cindery twilight, he pressed his hands to his face and felt the grit and oil and fatigue.
The previous day’s rescue clung to him like a blood stain: the way Jack’s horse had panicked, the flash of falling man and beast. He dug a thermal out of his pack and yanked it over his head, then unzipped the tent and let the morning air knife him awake.
The camp looked dead. Four tents, all different colors, all slumped and ghostly, circled last night’s fire. A dozen paces away, the horses stood silent, visible only as humps against the brush. The light was barely more than wishful thinking, just a rumor on the horizon.
Cole moved like a machine. He dug out the little steel pot, filled it from the half-empty water jug, and set it over the rebornfire. The first hiss of flame was a comfort, a distraction from the pulse in his groin.
It was always worst in the early mornings, before he’d built the day’s armor. The want. The pictures that bloomed unbidden: Ethan’s jaw flexed, eyes wide and needful, lips stretched around Cole’s thick cock. In Cole’s mind, he always started gentle—stroking Ethan’s hair, letting the man breathe—but it turned fast. Every time. The urge to fuck deeper, to hear the wet choke and see the spit leak, to make Ethan take every inch, face-fuck him until the pretty green eyes watered and the perfect hands clamped tighter on Cole’s ass.
He could see it. Feel it. Sometimes, it was enough to make him dig his nails into his own palm to short-circuit the thought.
He hated himself for it.
