Page 47 of Down in Flames

"Ah, Michael!” He let out a strangled cry, arching deep into Michael’s mouth. The sounds that tore from his throat weren’t human.

He'd thought it was good before, but West realized suddenly how naive he'd been. There was a reason Michael had laughingly told him he hadn't seen anything yet. What he'd thought were the best orgasms of his life now seemed weak and pleasant. This orgasm was practically forced on him, it came on so fast and strong. It tore through him, locking up his already abused body until he couldn't breathe.

He choked, eyes clamped shut and fingers buried deep in Michael's hair, helpless to do anything but ride it out and hope it didn't kill him.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

He was gone. Drifting. When he came back to himself, Michael had him propped up against the bathroom sink while he tested the shower spray one-handed.

"This hidey-hole ain't big enough for a mouse," Michael muttered, peeling back the vinyl shower curtain and stepping inside. "Why do you live here?"

"Better than staying at my folks’ place for the rest of my life," West managed to slur. He stared down at his naked body, bewildered by the way his legs quaked.

"You should just stay at the ranch. You've practically lived there for years, anyway." Michael's lips curved, the first smile he'd worn all night, but it was still just a pale ghost of his usual expression. West couldn't even guess at what he was feeling right now. He seemed so confident, so sure of what he was doing, but the guarded look in his eyes told a different story.

"Not sure I'm ready to ask permission to stay out past curfew," West said caustically.

"You think that's what's going on here?" Michael took him by the wrist and helped guide him over the lip of the tub. His hands were gentle but firm, holding him up and giving him most of the spray until he got his bearings. "You think I'm mad because you didn't ask my permission to go tearing off to another rodeo?"

With the full warmth of the showerhead pouring down on him, it was difficult to concentrate. All he wanted was to close his eyes and sag against Michael's body, letting his pain and shame swirl down the drain until he felt clean. Maybe Michael sensed it. Maybe he was watching the way he swayed on his feet, because his arms came around and drew him into an embrace. West's forehead dropped to Michael's water-slick shoulder. Rivulets dripped down his neck and into his eyes, so he kept them closed.

Words were easier to find in the darkness, anyway.

"I think you're used to being the boss," he said softly. "Sometimes you forget that I'm not one of your cowboys. I make my own decisions. I'm a grown man, Michael."

"I noticed." One slippery hand stroked over his hip, caressing his limp cock and lazily working it awake. "You've got the same damn foolish pride as the rest of us."

"You knew I wasn't going to stop riding," he pointed out.

"It's not that, West." Michael's jaw brushed his temple as he spoke. "Or...not only that. It's the way you keep hiding it from me. How do you think it feels to spend all day wondering where you are or how bad you're hurt? I can’t put anyone else I love in the ground West. I can’t.”

“Whoa, hey.” It was the closest West had ever heard him to breaking. He pulled back and cupped his face between both hands. Michael’s eyes were turbulent, and droplets of water spiked on his lashes. “Bronc-busting ain’t that dangerous. I’m not going anywhere.”

Michael’s jaw clenched, and he stopped stroking him to rest his hand on West’s hip. “You can’t promise that.”

"No one knows what's going to happen tomorrow, but I've made it this far without second-guessing myself. I'm good at what I do."

"Gus told me you've never won a single buckle."

West took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and gave up one of his secrets. Only the first one. The small one at the top of the pile. He should probably have listened to the voice in the back of his mind telling him he could be starting a landslide, but Michael sounded so desperate.

"I don't try to win," he admitted. "Never have. If I start winning buckles, word gets around, and then my family is on my ass about how I've got no business on the back of a bronc. I'm never going to live up to my dad in their eyes. I quit trying a long time ago. But I can prove to myself that I'm a tougher bastard than he ever was."

Michael's nostrils flared, and he searched West's eyes. The dawning realization in his expression forced West to look away.

"You're throwing the matches." Michael said it slowly, as if testing out how ridiculous it sounded.

West inclined his head.

"Why?" Michael gripped him by the sides of the neck and forced him to look him in the eyes. "What happened when you were a kid to twist your family up so bad? They act like you can't do a damn thing on your own."

West shrugged, uncomfortable beneath his penetrating stare, so he distracted himself by grabbing a bottle of body wash and squeezing some into his palm. As if this was a normal shower. As if he was used to just standing there, buck-ass naked, soaping his pits and lying to the man he loved more than life itself. Because he was lying. He couldn't pretend he wasn't anymore.

"They're protective," he said awkwardly as he sudsed up.

"I've seen Derek and James around town. Nobody looks twice at anything they do."

He shrugged. "I'm the baby of the family."

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