Page 67 of Road to a Cowboy

Austin took a mental snapshot and added it to his Cal album.

“Fuck.” Austin sucked in a breath through his teeth. “Fuck, Cal, Jesus. Tell me when I can move.”

“Yeah,” Cal rumbled. He fisted himself and tugged, adding another snapshot to the Cal album. “Yeah, fuck me.”

Jesus. Christ.

Austin took it slow at first, easing Cal into it so he didn’t hurt him. The tightness of Cal around him, the sight of all that naked skin and those hard muscles, the pained pleasure on Cal’s face...

Austin picked up speed without even meaning to, tempted more than he’d ever been in his life to go to town and take what he wanted. But he slowed instead, conscious that this was Cal’s first time.

Not just Cal’s first time with him, but Cal’s first time with a guy, which was all sorts of amazing and scary and wonderful.

“No,” Cal said roughly when Austin slowed his thrusts. “Faster. Faster, Aus. Yes. Yes, just like that.”

Head thrown back, chest heaving, Cal tugged his erection almost desperately, and when he finally came, ejaculating all over himself, Austin followed soon after, sated and happy and sweaty.

And home.

Chapter Twenty

Cal looked up at the building that housed the Norwegian School of Photography on the edges of Trondheim. It was nothing fancy, just a red-bricked two-story building—three stories in some areas—with a white facade and many rectangular windows. It looked a bit like a prison or a hospital.

The inside, however, was all polished marble floors, bright lighting, and students’ photography on the walls.

Hedda met them at the entrance and, after the appropriate pleasantries, whisked them away on a tour. And although Austin kept insisting he didn’t want the job—bad timing and all that—the way he lit up as they visited empty classrooms, lecture halls, dark rooms, and common areas made a liar out of him.

“This is so cool,” he said as they stood at the bottom of a small lecture hall with five rows of orange seats.

“There’s a photography studio next door,” Hedda said, “with every kind of lighting and backdrop you might need.”

They went there next, Austin nearly salivating over the equipment before they took the stairs up to the second floor.

Cal couldn’t lie, even to himself—despite its questionable exterior, the school was very cool and smartly set up, with classrooms and studios for both the photography and film students. Since it was the summer holiday, the place was empty, yet it nevertheless had a lived-in quality that spoke of the many stories it could tell if only its walls could talk.

Once they’d toured the facility, Hedda led them back downstairs.

“I asked some of the faculty and staff still in the area to drop by,” Hedda said, her sensible shoes silent on the shiny floors. She checked her watch. “They should be here by now, although I hear you already met Professor Haugen.”

“Last night,” Austin replied, practically bouncing as he walked next to her. His head was on a swivel, taking everything in with shiny eyes. “He paid for our dinner.”

“Speaking of,” Cal said from behind them, hands shoved in his jeans pockets, “is that something that happens often here?”

“I can’t say that it does.” Hedda smiled at him over her shoulder, and her chin-length white curls bounced with the movement. “But Professor Haugen’s wife is a fan of Austin’s, so I’m sure that motivated him to reach out. Ah. Here we are.” They’d reached the ground floor and she strode toward the front entrance, where three people lingered, chatting among themselves. One of them was Rolf Haugen, and he spotted them right away.

“Mr. MacIsaac.” He held out a hand. “Good to see you again.”

“It’s just Austin, please.” Austin had been smiling through the whole tour and now it widened as Rolf introduced him to Lesley Robson, a professor from England who specialized in black-and-white photo techniques, and Kristofer Kittelsen, professor of the history of photography. Lesley was in her fifties and spoke with a crisp accent that reminded Cal of the royal family, and Kristofer wore rimless glasses and had long graying brown hair tied at the base of his neck.

Feeling decidedly out of place, Cal shifted to take a step back, but Austin wrapped his fingers around his wrist and drew him closer. “This is my partner, Cal Anderson.”

“Are you a photographer as well?” Professor Kittelsen asked, shaking his hand.

“No, sir. I’m a rancher,” Cal said, aware that his lazy accent stood out among the cultured educators.

Austin bumped their shoulders. “He’s being modest. He’s the foreman on our town’s biggest ranch. Basically runs the place.”

“Farming in Norway is quite rough,” Rolf said. “Very challenging because of the climate and terrain. Will you be looking for a job in ranching when you move here with Austin?”

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