Chapter 8 #3
That evening, Jake paced his room at the Hawthorne House. He was nervous. He had no idea why. They’d already had their hands on each other. This shouldn’t feel like such a big deal.
Except it was a big deal. The workshop had been a frantic moment, stolen. This was intentional. A choice they were both making.
At 6:58, he heard footsteps on the stairs. Jake’s pulse kicked up.
There was a knock on the door.
He opened it. Wes stood there in clean jeans and a dark green button-down flannel. He’d trimmed his beard, too.
“Hey,” Wes said.
“Hey yourself. Come in.”
Wes stepped inside, looked around. The room was cozy—queen bed with a quilt, reading chair by the window, soft lamplight making everything warm and cozy.
“Nice,” Wes said.
“Yeah.”
They stood there, awkward. After a week of brief moments and quick texts, being alone in a bedroom felt enormous.
“This is weird,” Wes said.
“Yeah.”
“Good weird?”
“Very good weird.”
Jake stepped closer, reached up to touch Wes’s jaw. The beard was soft under his fingers. “You cleaned up.”
“Didn’t want to smell like work.”
“I like the way you smell.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Jake traced his thumb along Wes’s bottom lip. “But I like this too.”
“I wanted to do this right.” Wes’s hands found Jake’s hips, pulled him closer. “Wanted to take our time.”
“We have time. Real time.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Wes kissed him then, softly at first, almost tentative. Jake opened for him, let Wes take what he needed, and felt the kiss deepen—slower than the workshop, less frenzied. They had time. They could savor this.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing harder, Wes rested his forehead against Jake’s.
“Bed?” Jake asked.
“Yeah. Bed.”
They moved together toward it, hands already working on buttons.
Jake got Wes’s shirt open first, pushed it off his broad shoulders, and had to stop and just look.
Wes in the workshop had been quick glimpses, desperate touches.
Now Jake could see him properly—massive chest dusted with dark hair, solid muscle beneath, the slight softness of a man who worked hard but also liked his barbecue. Real. Beautiful.
“You’re staring,” Wes said, but he was smiling.
“You’re worth staring at.”
Wes huffed a laugh, then pulled Jake’s shirt off, tossed it aside. His hands spanned Jake’s ribs, thumbs brushing nipples, and Jake gasped.
“Sensitive?” Wes asked, doing it again.
“Yeah. Don’t—don’t stop.”
Wes bent, took one nipple in his mouth, and Jake’s knees nearly buckled. He fisted his hands in Wes’s hair, holding on as Wes’s tongue circled and flicked.
“Fuck, Wes.”
“Bed,” Wes said against his skin. “Now.”
They stumbled backward, Jake pulling Wes down on top of him. The weight of him was perfect—solid and warm and right. Wes settled between Jake’s legs, both still in jeans but grinding together, and Jake could feel how hard Wes was, how much he wanted this.
“Off,” Jake panted, tugging at Wes’s belt. “Get these off.”
They broke apart long enough to shed the rest of their clothes, clumsy and laughing when Wes’s jeans got stuck on his boots.
“Smooth,” Jake teased.
“Shut up and get naked.”
Jake did, and then they were skin to skin, nothing between them. Wes made a sound low in his throat, pressing Jake back into the mattress.
“God, look at you,” Wes breathed, hands roaming everywhere—ribs, hips, thighs. “You’re so—”
“So what?”
“Perfect. Fucking perfect.”
Jake pulled him down into another kiss, deeper now. Their cocks pressed together, hot and hard, and they both groaned into each other’s mouths.
“I want you,” Jake said. “I want to taste you.”
Jake pushed at Wes’s shoulder, rolling them so Wes was on his back. He kissed down that broad chest, through the hair, tongue circling one nipple then the other. Wes’s hands fisted in the quilt, breathing ragged.
Jake kept going lower—kissing ribs, belly, the crease of Wes’s hip. When he finally wrapped his hand around Wes’s cock, Wes bucked up with a gasp.
“Jesus, Jake—”
“Shh. Let me.”
Jake lowered his head and took Wes into his mouth.
The sound Wes made was broken, desperate. His hand flew to Jake’s hair, not pushing, just holding on as Jake worked him—tongue swirling, taking him deeper, learning what made Wes shake.
“Oh God, you’re gonna—I can’t—”
Jake pulled off, stroked him slowly. “Can’t what?”
“Last. You keep doing that, and I’m gonna come.”
“So come.” Jake licked a stripe up the underside of Wes’s cock. “We’ve got time for more.”
“Christ.” Wes’s head fell back against the pillow. “You’re killing me.”
“Just trying to make you feel good.”
“Mission accomplished.”
Jake took him in again, deeper this time, hollowing his cheeks. Wes pulled back, trying not to thrust, and Jake encouraged him with both hands gripping Wes’s hips—it’s okay, give me what you’ve got.
Wes lasted a few seconds more before he was gasping out a warning, hand tightening in Jake’s hair. Jake didn’t pull off, took everything Wes gave him, swallowed and kept going until Wes was shaking, oversensitive, pushing weakly at his shoulder.
“Stop, stop, too much—”
Jake released him with a final kiss to the tip, then crawled back up Wes’s body. Wes pulled him into a kiss, lazy and deep, tasting himself on Jake’s tongue.
“Your turn,” Wes said when they broke apart.
“We can wait if you—”
“No.” Wes rolled them again, settled between Jake’s legs. “I've been thinking about this all week.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Wes kissed down Jake’s chest, quick and efficient. When he got to Jake’s cock, he didn’t hesitate—just took him in, wet and hot and eager.
Jake’s back arched off the bed. “Oh, fuck—”
Wes wasn’t as practiced as Jake, but what he lacked in technique he made up for in enthusiasm. The sight alone was almost enough—Wes’s head between his legs, beard rough against Jake’s thighs, those big hands holding his hips.
“Wes, I’m—I’m close—”
Wes doubled down, one hand stroking what his mouth couldn’t reach, and Jake came hard, vision whiting out, Wes’s name on his lips.
When he could breathe again, Wes was grinning at him, smug and satisfied.
“Proud of yourself?” Jake asked.
“Little bit.”
“Come here.”
Wes crawled up, and they lay tangled together—sweaty and sated and perfect. Jake traced idle patterns on Wes’s shoulder, feeling Wes’s heart rate slow against his ribs.
“I could get used to this,” Wes said quietly.
Jake wanted to say it then—I’m falling in love with you—but it felt too big, too soon. Instead he said, “Me too.”
They lay there in the soft lamplight, wrapped around each other, and for a moment everything was simple. No distance, no complications, no Henry waiting at home.
Just this. Just them.
Wes’s phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Reality, right on schedule.
Wes groaned, reached for it. “Henry’s medication reminder.” He texted something quickly. “Told him I’m at Tucker’s. He’s good.”
“You could tell him the truth,” Jake said carefully.
Wes tensed slightly. “Not yet.”
“Okay.”
“It’s not about you. Or about being with a guy. It’s just—”
“I know.” Jake pressed a kiss to Wes’s shoulder.
“How long can I stay?”
“How long do you have?”
“Another hour, maybe.”
“Then let’s not waste it.”
They laughed, kissed, got lost in each other again. And for another hour, the world outside that room didn’t exist.
Later, Wes dressed while Jake watched from the bed, the sheet pooled at his waist.
“Tomorrow, you leave for Atlanta?” Wes asked, buttoning his shirt.
“Yeah. Back Saturday.”
“That’s a long time.”
“It’s three days. Two if I get up early.”
“Still.” Wes sat on the edge of the bed to pull on his boots. “Feels longer.”
Jake sat up, wrapped his arms around Wes from behind, and rested his chin on Wes’s shoulder. “I’ll call. Every night.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Wes turned his head, caught Jake’s mouth in a kiss—lingering, reluctant. “This is getting harder.”
“What is?”
“Leaving.”
Jake’s chest ached. “Yeah.”
“Saturday. You’ll really help at the farm?”
“If you want me.”
“I want you.” Wes turned fully, cupped Jake’s face in both hands. “I really want you.”
The weight of those words hung between them.
“Go,” Jake said softly. “Before I don’t let you.”
Wes kissed him once more, then stood, grabbed his jacket. At the door, he paused.
“Jake?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For tonight.”
“Thank you.”
Wes smiled, then left.
Jake lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, the room still smelling like them—sex and sweat and something sweeter.
His phone buzzed.
Wes: Made it to the truck. Thanks again for tonight.
Jake: Thank YOU.
Wes: Call me tomorrow?
Jake: Definitely.
Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again, then—
Wes: I think I’m falling for you.
Jake’s heart stopped, restarted double-time. He typed with shaking fingers:
Jake: Good. Because I’m already there.
Wes: Yeah?
Jake: Yeah.
Wes: Good. That’s good.
Jake: Drive safe.
Wes: Always.
Jake clutched the phone to his chest, grinning at the ceiling.
Saturday felt like a lifetime away.
Thursday morning, Jake packed his bags and checked out of the Hawthorne House. Barb cornered him at the front desk.
“You’re coming back, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. Because if you break that boy’s heart, I’ll come to Atlanta and hunt you down myself.”
Jake believed her.
He spent the morning tying up loose ends—emailing Diane, calling the Whitlocks, and confirming follow-ups for the new year. Another client, a soybean farmer named Alvin McCoy, had been radio silent for weeks. Jake left a third voicemail, hoping for a callback.
At noon, he drove out to Holiday Pines. Wes was in the barn, potting trees, face flushed from exertion.
“Hey,” Jake said.
Wes looked up, startled. “I thought you were leaving today.”
“I am. I just wanted to see you first.”
They stood there, surrounded by the smell of pine and hay. Wes wiped his hands on his jeans, suddenly and inexplicably bashful.
“I’m glad you came.”
“Me too.”
Jake stepped closer, glancing toward the farmhouse. “Is Henry—”
“Napping.”