They stopped again near a weathered old cairn—some relic from a surveyor, maybe. The sun had gone west, throwing everything into gold and shadow. The wind died here, the mountain holding its breath.
Cole let the group take a short break while he double checked the packs. He could feel Riley’s gaze on him, cool and unblinking.
“Everything okay?” Riley asked, low and private, once the others had scattered.
Cole kept his eyes down. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
Riley smiled, not buying it for a second. “You’re doing a good job. You know that?”
Cole’s throat tightened. He nodded, once, not trusting his voice.
Riley let the silence linger, then said, “If you ever want to talk, I’m not the worst listener.”
Cole gave him a look. Riley’s eyes were as clear as glass—no threat, no mockery, just a standing offer.
“I appreciate it,” Cole said, unsure what Riley’s angle is.
Riley’s gaze lingered a second longer, then he walked off.
Cole waited until the sun was almost gone before he let himself look at Ethan again. The man was at the edge of the ledge, staring into the infinity of mountain and air, unaware—or pretending not to be aware—of the scrutiny.
Cole imagined walking up behind him, wrapping his arms around his waist, pressing into him, whispering filth into his ear. He wanted to grab Ethan’s hair, drag him down to his knees, unzip and shove his cock deep inside in Ethan’s wet, warm mouth.
He shut the thought down with force, and went back to tending the horses, his hands shaking, shame like battery acid in his veins.
After their short break, the group made the last push to the very top of the ridge before beginning their descent. They reached the top together, the horses blowing hard, the air thin enough to make every word a gift.
For a minute, nobody moved. The view was too much—a panorama of peaks running away in every direction, the sky above burning orange and gold, the land below awash in shadows and fire.
Cole called the group to the lip of the ridge, then pointed out some locations — the lake to the west, still glassy in the distance; the run of old logging roads, now just pale scars in the green; the next trail marker, a small pine forest at the base of the mountainthey had just traversed. “It goes much quicker on the descent.” Cole reassured the group.
The group split off while Cole stayed near the edge. Behind him, Harper straddled a boulder and wolfed trail mix like she was carbo-loading for a war. Jack was at her side, still trying to spark something, his voice low and urgent. Riley lurked a few paces back, watching the clouds with a practiced innocence.
Cole saw the shift—Harper shut Jack down with a single look, the kind that said no, not even if you were the last man on earth. Jack wilted, face red, and for a second looked so lost that even Cole felt a twinge of pity.
Riley saw it too. He drifted over, casual, hands in pockets, and said just loud enough for Jack to hear, “Some people don’t know what they’re missing.” The way he said it—soft, almost flirty—turned the moment from pity to a different flavor of tension.
Jack side-eyed Riley, surprised, and for a split second their gazes locked. Jack broke it with a nervous laugh, but the color lingered high on his cheeks.
Cole didn’t miss a beat of it. He saw what Riley was doing—making the play and reminding him that there were always other possibilities. Cole envied the clarity of it, the courage. He wondered what it would be like to go after what you wanted, without fear.
The sun hit the horizon, and the temperature dropped like a stone.
“We should move,” Cole said, louder this time. “We need to start our descent now if we want to make it to the next camp at the base of the mountain before full dark.”
The group mounted up in the growing chill. Harper took the lead, Jack after her. Riley lingered a second, then fell in next, the space between him and Jack now a living thing.
Cole and Ethan took the rear. They rode in silence, the path down easier but slick with shadow. Cole watched Ethan’s back,the shift of his shoulders in the saddle, and let the longing eat at him.
Chapter 8 - Jack
By the time the group reached the treeline on the down side of the ridge, Jack’s cock was a dull, insistent ache in his jeans. The ride should have been easy—downhill, sun warm on his shoulders, view like a goddamn desktop wallpaper—but every shift in the saddle sent a spike of pressure straight into his crotch. Harper’s latest fuck-off had him wound tight as a powerline. He couldn’t even look at her now, not when her hair whipped over her back with every step, not when she arched her hips to readjust in the saddle and made it so obvious what she wasn’t offering him.
They hit the rest stop at Whispering Pine Hollow: a punchbowl-shaped clearing shaded by ponderosa, carpeted thick with rusty needles, the light dappled and nervy as the mood. Cole called the break—ten minutes, piss if you need it, stay close to the trail. Harper dismounted first, striding toward the little stream that trickled along the north edge, her thighs flashing through the rip in her hiking leggings. Riley peeled off next, all smiles and lazy stretching, then Ethan, who just stoodthere rubbing his lower back and scanning the horizon like he was searching for a way off the mountain.
Jack lingered by his horse, then slipped away as the others got busy with snacks and water refills. He ducked between two ancient pines and let the muffled hush of the hollow swallow him. Every breath was pure pine resin, sap and sun, the air a little damper and sweeter than the dry trail. He followed the contours of the hollow, boots crushing old needles, until he found a flat-topped boulder the size of a barstool. Jack sat, legs sprawled, and stared at the sliver of blue sky overhead. The cold rock was a jolt, but he liked the sting—it distracted from the throb in his pants.
“Fucking Harper,” he muttered, digging the heel of his palm into his eye socket. “Fucking—” He let the sentence fall. Jack had a vivid imagination, and it didn’t need much fuel. He pictured Harper naked, imagined the grip of her ass, the weight of her tits, the freckles dusted everywhere. He imagined splitting her open right here on the moss, hiking her ankle behind his neck and pounding her until she gave up that little moan he heard last night when she thought nobody was listening. The image hit hard enough to make his cock lurch, half-mast already, straining the worn denim.
