“Dante? You okay? I heard—” Nick’s voice cut off abruptly as he appeared in the bedroom doorway.
His eyes went wide, taking in the scene. Me, sprawled on the bed with the sheets pooled around my thighs. My flushed face. My labored breathing. The phone lying face-up on the sheets, the screen still lit, and my half-hard cock on full display.
For a long, horrible moment, neither of us moved.
Then Nick’s gaze dropped to the phone. I watched his expression change as he processed what he was seeing. The confusion, the realization, and then…
Was that heat in his eyes?
“I—” I started, but I had no idea what to say. Sorry I was jerking off thinking about you? Sorry you caught me? Sorry I’m a fucking mess who can’t keep his desires in check?
Nick’s throat worked as he swallowed hard. His face had gone red, a flush creeping up from his collar. He opened his mouth, closed it, then finally managed to speak.
“I’ll just... I’ll give you some privacy.”
But he didn’t move. He stood there in the doorway, his eyes locked on mine, and I could see the war playing out across his features. Shock, embarrassment, but also something else. Something that looked an awful lot like curiosity.
“Nick,” I said, my voice rough. “I didn’t?—”
“Don’t.” He held up a hand, finally breaking eye contact. “It’s… It’s fine.”
He turned and walked away, and I heard the front door close behind him. I wanted to be more embarrassed, or maybe even upset that he’d walked in on me and saw…everything. But all I could think about was the fact that he didn’t run. He didn’t look disgusted. If anything, he seemed almost…turned on.
Chapter 13
Nick
Why was I hard?
I didn’t understand. My brain started examining every single piece of evidence I could conjure up to try to explain it away. I’d seen plenty of cocks in high school in the changing rooms after football or baseball practice. Some of the guys even got hard during showering or after workouts, their adrenaline pumping through their systems. But they had never turned me on.
There were plenty of times with ranch hands that we’d been on cattle drives and guys bathed in the creek or stopped to take a leak. I’d seen plenty of naked men and even shared the creek with them when we bathed. But I never got hard because of it.
And yet, walking in on Dante covered in his own cum with his thick uncut cock draped over his hip… I’d gotten hard almost instantly. Even now, as I practically ran across the ranch to get away from the tiny house, I had to reach down and adjust myself, the denim not nearly stretchy enough to accommodate my excitement.
What the fuck was wrong with me?
I made it to the north pasture before I had to stop, bracing my hands on the fence rail and trying to get my breathing undercontrol. My heart was hammering, my jeans were uncomfortably tight, and my mind kept replaying what I’d just seen.
Dante. Sprawled on that bed. His dark eyes wide with surprise. His chest rising and falling, covered in...fuck.
I squeezed my eyes shut, but that only made the image sharper. More vivid. I could see every detail—the bruising across his ribs, the way his hair had been damp from the shower, the curve of his strong thighs where the sheets had pooled. And his cock.Jesus Christ, his cock.
I’d never looked at another man’s dick and felt anything. Not attraction, not curiosity, nothing. But seeing Dante like that, vulnerable and caught and wanting, something in my gut had twisted hot and urgent.
This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening.
I was straight. I’d dated girls in high school. I’d slept with Sarah Mitchell behind the feed store when I was seventeen. I’d never looked at a man and wanted to touch him, kiss him, do the things that my body was suddenly screaming at me to do with Dante.
Except that was a lie, wasn’t it? Because I’d been thinking about him. More and more lately. The way he looked in those pearl snap shirts with his sleeves rolled up. The way his hands moved when he worked with the horses. The way he’d looked at me in the hospital, like I was the only thing keeping him anchored to this world.
And I’d held his hand. I’d climbed into his bed of my own free will. I’dstayed.
“Fuck,” I muttered, pushing off the fence and pacing along the rail line. The cattle watched me with placid disinterest, chewing their cud like my entire world wasn’t imploding.
Maybe it was just gratitude. He’d saved my life, and my body was confused about what that meant. That made sense, right? Some kind of psychological response to trauma or whatever.
Except gratitude didn’t explain why my dick was still hard. Didn’t explain why I wanted to march back to that tiny house and…
