Chapter 8
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 stood there 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.
He stayed there, breathing slow, letting the frustration simmer, not ready to go back to the group and face Harper’s indifferent smirk or Riley’s little side-eyes.
Jack ran a hand through his hair and squeezed the back of his neck, trying to will the tension out, but it only seemed to settle deeper.
The loneliness of the hollow pressed in, thick and private.
For a moment he wondered if he could just whip it out here, beat off in the woods and clear his head for five minutes.
The idea was tempting as hell, but he knew Cole’s voice would carry if he called for them, and besides—Riley had been glancing at him weird all day, like he was waiting for Jack to fuck up.
Jack was lost in the fantasy when he heard the branch snap behind him. He twisted on the rock, jaw set for trouble, and saw Riley coming down the slope in a controlled slide, hands in his vest pockets, mouth pulled into that shit-eating half-grin. “Hey,” Riley said, not breaking stride, “you okay?”
“Fine,” Jack lied, turning away. “Just needed a minute.”
Riley didn’t buy it. He circled the boulder, never quite facing Jack head-on, taking in the lay of the land with eyes that missed nothing. “It’s nice here,” Riley said. “You can hear yourself think.”
Jack snorted. “Who says I want to?”
Riley perched on the edge of the rock, close enough that their knees almost touched.
The two of them sat in silence, the only noise the hiss of wind through the pines.
Jack pretended to watch an eagle spiral above the ridge, but he was hyper-aware of Riley’s presence, the heat radiating off him in subtle waves.
After a minute, Riley said, “She’s not interested, you know.”
Jack didn’t move. “You don’t know that.”
“I know women,” Riley said, matter-of-fact. “That’s not an insult, by the way. It’s a skill.”
Jack grunted, picking at a scab on his knuckle. “So what? You come out here to tell me I’m not man enough for her?”
Riley turned, propping his elbows on his knees, all easy confidence. “Nah, I came out here because you looked like you were about to bust with pressure.”
Jack let out a grudging laugh. “Accurate.”
Riley shrugged, then let the silence grow, thick and intent. Jack felt his own pulse jump as he noticed Riley looking at the crotch of his jeans. Not a stare, not obvious, just a flicker, a point made.
“Want a cigarette?” Riley offered, fishing a crumpled pack from his vest. “Don’t tell Cole. He thinks nicotine makes me unreliable.”
Jack took one, more for the distraction than the buzz, and cupped his hands for Riley to light it. The tip flared, and for a second their fingers touched—just the barest scrape, but Jack flinched all the same.
Riley noticed. He smiled, slow and loaded. “Relax, Carson. You’re not my type.”
Jack blew smoke, trying to look unimpressed. “What is your type, anyway?”
“Right now?” Riley’s eyes glinted. “Desperate straight guys with blue balls and nowhere to go.”
Jack barked a laugh, but it was hollow. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Oh, I’m not,” Riley said. He let his hand fall onto the rock, pinky brushing Jack’s thigh. “But you should.”
Jack stiffened, a prickle running down his spine. “What the fuck does that mean?”
Riley turned, his voice low and direct. “It means, if you want to stop thinking about Harper and just get off, I can take care of it. No questions, no jokes, no weirdness after. Just a nice, wet, deep, and sloppy blow job and then we both get on with our lives. Nobody ever has to know. I’ll suck and worship your cock like no woman ever has. ”
For a second Jack didn’t register the words. Then they detonated in his skull, hot and impossible to ignore. His cock jumped, betraying him instantly. Riley saw it—Jack knew he saw it—but didn’t look away.
Jack’s mouth worked for a response. “I’m not a faggot.”
“Never said you were,” Riley said, not missing a beat. “You’re just a guy who’s been shot down for four days straight and probably hasn’t came since you left home to come here. You want relief, I want to give it. You don’t even have to touch me.”
Jack went still, weighing the shame against the want. The want was winning. His skin felt hot, his chest tight. His cock was rock hard now, the fabric of his jeans doing nothing to hide it.
Riley leaned in, lowering his voice to a velvet murmur. “It’s not gay to use a mouth, Jack, a mouths a mouth. That’s what they’re for. You’d be shocked how many ‘straight’ guys these days have figured that out.”
Jack stared at the ground, but he couldn’t stop his body from reacting.
The idea—the possibility—lit up every circuit in his brain.
He was so horny he could bust just at the thought of a wet tongue curling around his thick, throbbing shaft and now Riley was right there, ready to suck and swallow and never say a word.
He gripped the edge of the boulder until his knuckles bleached white. “You’d really do it?” he said, voice rough.
Riley shrugged, a flick of tongue wetting his lips. “I’d love to.”
Jack’s pulse pounded so loud he could hear it in his ears.
He looked at Riley—at the smooth confidence, the eager spark in his eyes, the way his fingers drummed on the rock with anticipation.
Jack had never thought about wanting to suck a dick, but the idea of getting sucked by a gay man when he strikes out with women had always floated around the edges of his sex life.
A locker-room hand job, a stolen blowjob at a college party, but always drunk, always deniable. Nothing like this. Nothing this clear.
He swallowed. “I’m not reciprocating or anything. This is a one way street.”
Riley grinned, “That’s the only way.”
Jack almost laughed, a wild bubble of adrenaline popping in his chest. He couldn’t believe how close he was to saying yes—right here, on a sunlit boulder with the sharp scent of pine all around. He flexed his hands, forcing himself to relax. “How does this work?” he asked, trying to sound casual.
Riley stood and eased himself between Jack’s knees.
He took his time, letting a hand drift onto Jack’s thigh—firm, confident, neither too possessive nor indifferent.
He leaned in close, voice low. “You just sit back and let me—well, let me do what I do.” Jack pressed his palms to the rock’s edge.
Riley’s fingers brushed the top of Jack’s jeans, thumbs finding the button.
He paused, thumb hovering over the metal loop, giving Jack a moment to catch his breath. “Just trust me,” he murmured.
Jack’s heart hammered. Cool mountain air washed over him as Riley’s hand ghosted over his hip, teasing the zipper. Jack’s pulse spiked—his senses went haywire at the promise of it.
Riley let his hand linger, fingers dancing over the denim. “You doing okay?” he whispered, his mouth so close Jack could feel the warmth of his breath.
Jack swallowed hard. Something in that quiet invitation, the heat of Riley’s gaze, made his knees go weak.
He felt a surge of craving and he wanted the promise of everything Riley offered.
But at the last second, he drew in a ragged breath and straightened.
“I—” Jack began, voice unsteady. He swallowed again. “I’m… I’ll think about it.”
Riley pulled his hand back with a slow, understanding smile. He brushed his hair off his forehead, hands slipping into his pockets like nothing had happened.