It was his cabin, so he should lead them inside. From there, maybe Clay would be kind enough to take over, but right now he was waiting, wordlessly asking permission to enter. It was to be, in the end, Austin’s decision.
He took a breath and shrugged his shoulders, like a fighter prepping to go in the ring. Then he laughed at himself as he gestured to the door.
“Hey,” he said as casually as he could. “Nobody’s home tonight, so why don’t you come in and we can hang out.” He dropped his head. “I should have practiced that more. I sound like a twelve-year-old kid.”
“To me,” said Clay as he raised Austin’s chin with his fingers. “To me, you are perfect. And yes, I’d love to come in and hang out.”
Together they climbed the wooden steps, and Clay waited while Austin unlocked the door. The cabin was a bit stuffy, so he opened the windows, but kept the shades halfway. He turned on two of the ruby-glass lamps and shut Bea’s door. All the while, Clay watched him from the door until Austin bent to tug off his cowboy boots, at which point Clay moved forward to help him.
“You need a boot jack, looks like,” said Clay, kneeling down to manfully pull the boots off.
“And a Carhartt jacket, as I recall,” said Austin. He held onto Clay’s shoulder with one hand and propped himself against the wall with his other hand to balance himself.
And became unbalanced when Clay stood up, his body close, so close that Austin would have fallen back had Clay not reached out to curve his arm around Austin’s waist.
“Aren’t you going to take your boots off?” asked Austin, the squawking sound returning.
“Cowboys do it with their boots on,” said Clay in his most exaggerated drawl. Then he laughed, kissing Austin. “Right?”
“Right.”
Not knowing what he was agreeing to, it still felt very agreeable to be led to the couch by Clay, who plopped himself down and then patted the empty seat beside him. He toed off his cowboy boots and sighed when Austin slid into place, and pulled Austin to him, half on top of him, chin tilted up as though waiting for a kiss.
All at once, having gotten over some invisible hurdle, it felt good and natural to bend close and kiss Clay, his heart rising as Clay kissed him back with warmth and energy, joy and acceptance. And when he collapsed against Clay’s body and Clay’s arms went around his waist, he filled with delight at Clay’s sigh, which seemed to come from his soul, and the expression on Clay’s face, blue eyes half-lidded, a flush to his cheeks.
“You’re very tall for a monk,” said Clay, playing the game between them. “And I bet you are pale beneath those robes.”
“I have freckles, and—” Austin paused. “And Mona says—”
Clay stopped him with a finger to Austin’s mouth.
“Listen to me,” he said, fierce. “I do not care what Mona says or thinks or does. I. Do. Not Care. All I care about is you, and now, hearing about those freckles and whatever else you got going on underneath those clothes, I want to lick and kiss you all night. All freakingnight.”
With a twitch of his shoulders, Clay flipped them both over so Austin was beneath Clay. The weight of another man’s body on top of him, solid with muscle, dense thighs pressing on his own was new but welcome.
That Clay’s erection was brushing his hip settled him, and he tipped his head back and sighed, as though he’d come a long way and climbed a tall, very rugged mountain. The peak wasn’t yet reached, but with Clay pressing him into the couch and kissing his throat, there was nothing standing in his way.
Clay’s body surged against his, and Clay was making a small sound, like a growl or a hum, intent on the kisses along Austin’s neck, thumbs digging into Austin’s ribs. The whole of him, all that energy, moved into Austin like Clay was intent on charging him right up to the point where he’d explode.
This was not a teenage make-out session. It was a prelude to sex between two men, and his body, in response to this realization, rather than shying away, seemed to pulse from within, desire pushing everywhere in him, everywhere.
“I felt that,” said Clay, almost mumbling as he kissed lower down Austin’s neck. His fingers fumbled at Austin’s snap buttons, which came easily undone, each button making a clack-slap sound.
“I felt it—” Austin reached for Clay’s shirt, echoing what Clay was doing, letting Clay lead the way, but following so close behind that if he went any faster, he might be leading the way. “—too.”
He was hard. His erection was pressing against the buttons of his blue jeans, so hard, like it meant to force his way out if Austin didn’t take care of it, and fast.
He was hard, just like Clay was.
Grunting under his breath, he pushed Clay back and unsnapped the remainder of Clay’s pearl-snap buttons, then went for his belt buckle, huffing out a breath when he couldn’t get it undone quickly enough.
Part of him was charged with anxiety that he’d be moving too fast, be too rough for Clay, like Mona always complained about—but no. He wasn’t with Mona. He was with Clay, and when he got Clay’s belt undone, Clay’s mouth fell open and his eyes were glazed.
“Shit,” said Clay, seeming not to realize he was speaking. “The monk ravages the Viking. An’ I’m the Viking, right?”
“You can be anything you want,” said Austin low as he rose up between Clay’s thighs, spreading them apart with his knee.
It felt natural to dip down to undo the button and zipper on Clay’s jeans, to spread Clay’s shirt to display his chest, powerful and wide from real work, a sprinkle of blond hair along his breastbone. But when his hands touched the elastic of Clay’s boxers, he paused.
