Page 14 of Down in Flames

“I looked at the website just for curiosity,” she'd announce to anyone who held still long enough to listen. Then she'd drop her tone, sotto voce, and add, “It isn't the place a married woman should be shopping, if you catch my drift. Lots of unnatural contraptions.”

West had always figured her gleeful interest in someone else's bedroom was far more unnatural.

If Michael had ever heard the rumors, he never let on. But he had bigger concerns back then.

He'd arrived in town, freshly discharged and still recovering from back-to-back tours of active duty, and he'd purchased three hundred acres of failing land. Instead of turning it into a hobby farm or summer retreat like most out-of-towners, he'd rolled up his sleeves and developed one of the most successful working ranches in the county. He'd breathed life back into a struggling economy, keeping dozens of cowboys off the unemployment line and winning the hearts of the locals in the process. He had modernized the Triple M without stripping away the traditions that gave it heart, and within months, old-timers were asking him for advice.

No matter what anyone had to say about his wife, Michael Whittaker could do no wrong.

“You eaten?” Michael asked, glancing at his watch and then turning his face up to the darkening sky. Evening came fast this time of year. It would be full dark in another forty minutes.

West thought of the greasy turkey leg and three hard ciders.

“You could call it that,” he said philosophically. He regretted it now, not only because his stomach was still roiling, but because it left them both with nothing to do but sit around the motel room watching nimbledyfuck cable TV for the rest of the night. A bath might have felt nice, but the tub was barely big enough for a toddler. He wasn’t a huge man, but he doubted he’d even be able to stretch out his legs sitting up.

The hot tub across the motel's parking lot beckoned him. It was set behind a privacy fence in a recessed corner of the building, a few yards away from a tarp-covered swimming pool. A janky sign hung off the locked gate, proclaiming the area closed for the season. Steam wafted from the tub, curling like smoke in the damp air, and an intense longing filled him.

“I think I’ll try the hot tub,” he said impulsively.

Michael followed his gaze, swiping the rain out of his face with his palm. His T-shirt was beginning to cling damply to his muscled chest and biceps. “You don’t have a suit,” he pointed out.

West lifted his eyebrows to acknowledge the point, then glanced around the lot. Every parking spot was filled but the property was dead quiet, all the guests already tucked in for the night.

“I’ve got a clean pair of boxers in my bag,” he decided, “and ain’t no one crazy enough to come out in this weather. That tub will do a hell of a lot more for me than a heating pad and a spring poking me in the ass. It’d probably even help that limp you’re trying to keep under wraps.”

Michael’s expression was thoughtful, eyes flicking over West as if trying to decide how crazy he wanted to be. He wasn’t exactly the skinny-dipping type, not even on hot days when the rest of his cowboys were stripping down to hurl themselves off Lookout Bridge and into the river below.

It was a reckless suggestion. West already had trouble concentrating just looking at him, standing there in the rain with his wet hair and his t-shirt plastered against his firm chest. The scruff on his jaw looked soft, much softer and fuller than the patchy beard growth that always made West look like he was sleeping off a bender. His fingers itched to reach up and test its thickness, and it was the twitching of his hand that finally broke the spell.

Michael’s expression was full of regret, and West knew he was going to say no, so he blurted, “You can borrow my spare gym shorts.”

“What else you got in that bag, son?” Michael asked, brows raised in surprise. “Weren’t you planning on staying only a night?”

“I’m busting broncos,” West drawled, dripping with irony. “You think I didn’t bring more than a couple changes of shorts?”

Michael’s laughter was a rich, rolling sound. He hadn’t laughed like that in months, and it shivered down West’s spine in deep waves that tugged on his balls. West probably would have ended up head-over-heels for him regardless, but the first time he ever heard that honey-warm laugh clinched it.

It wasn't easy to convince the desk clerk to give them the code that unlocked the fence. West was ready to just jump it, shoulder be damned, but he was worried Michael would strain his barely healed leg keeping up with him. They went round and round for five minutes before Michael settled the matter by tipping him an extra fifty bucks. That earned them not only the code, but two water bottles and a stack of clean, fluffy towels.

"That was smooth," West muttered to the wall as he changed. "I didn't think bribes actually worked."

"Cash works everywhere, kid," Michael shot back. He sounded like he was smiling, but West didn't turn around to check.

He was careful about keeping his back to him, not out of shyness, but fear that he might stare. They'd changed in front of each other dozens of times over the years, a matter of necessity with no end of filthy jobs on the ranch, but that might as well have been another lifetime ago. Sex changed everything, and sex was what West wanted. Sometimes he felt like he'd go crazy, laying wide awake at night and dreaming up all the ways it could maybe—maybe—happen. Fantasy. Pure fantasy, like a bodybuilding pizza delivery man stumbling across a lonely housewife with perfectly-augmented breasts in a porno. But he couldn't help himself when fantasy was all he'd ever have.

His gym shorts were meant to be loose, but Michael filled them like a prize. The waistband sat tight on his washboard abs, right at the spot just below his navel where a trail of hair began to taper toward the V of his groin. His thighs were so thick that the shorts clung, revealing the faint outline of his dick beneath the thin fabric. West squeezed his eyes shut and hung his head, praying for patience and purity.

A towel hit him in the face.

"Let's get this done," Michael said, slinging his own towel around his neck and hanging onto both ends in a way that made his biceps pop. "We should ice your shoulder once more after the soak and get some anti-inflammatories in you. Hell, you might even feel good enough to head back home tomorrow."

Night had fallen by the time they got back to the parking lot. Light seemed to bounce off the thick black clouds, stirring up swirls of gray and sparkling in the raindrops. It was still raining, but the deluge had tapered into a light drizzle. The temperature had dropped enough to prick goosebumps across West's bare flesh, but it felt refreshing rather than uncomfortable. He breathed deep as they hit the pool deck, but all he got was a huge whiff of chlorine that burned his lungs and made him cough and splutter.

Michael laughed, tossing his towel over a plastic lounger and slipping into the hot tub without hesitation.

"How's the temperature?" West asked, setting his towel and card key on a table with more care.

"Just this side of boiling lobster," Michael replied. But he didn't seem to mind, floating on his back like a muscular jellyfish and unwittingly giving West an eyeful of gleaming flesh.

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