Page 12 of A Very Gay Halloween
My body reacts immediately. Heat floods through me, pooling in places it has no business pooling while I'm trying to operate a vehicle. My cock starts to swell, pressing against the front of my jeans.
I try to focus on the road. On the feel of the handlebars in my grip. On literally anything other than the way Cooper's hands feel against my body.
It doesn't work.
As we take a curve, his hands slide higher, thumbs brushing just under my ribs. I suck in a sharp breath, and I feel Cooper's chest press more firmly against my back. Through the thin material of our shirts, I swear I can feel his heartbeat hammering just as fast as mine.
We hit a straight stretch of road, and Cooper's right hand drops lower. His palm slides down to rest just above my belt, his fingers splayed across my lower abdomen.
My cock responds immediately, hardening fully now, and I have to grip the handlebars tighter to keep my hands steady. The road blurs slightly at the edges, and I force myself to focus.
His hand is so close to my dick I can practically feel the heat radiating from his palm. If he moved his fingers just a few inches lower...
As if he can read my thoughts, his hand moves to my inner thigh, fingers pressing against the seam of my jeans. Right where my cock is straining against the denim.
My hips jerk involuntarily, and the bike wobbles. For a split second, we're veering toward the shoulder, and I have to yank us back into the lane.
"Fuck," I breathe, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Cooper's hand doesn't move.
We're approaching the final turn before the haunted house now, and I can see the lights ahead—dramatic spotlights illuminating an old Victorian mansion surrounded by fake fog that drifts across the grounds like something out of a horror movie.
I've never been so grateful and so disappointed to reach a destination in my life.
I pull into the gravel parking lot and kill the engine. Cooper's hand finally moves away from my thigh, but instead of immediately getting off the bike, he leans forward. His helmet touches the back of mine, and his voice is low and rough when he speaks.
"That was interesting."
I sit frozen on the bike, my cock hard and aching in my jeans, my entire body humming with need and confusion. I spot people from our group getting off buses nearby, their voices carrying across the parking lot as they point at the house and make jokes about whatever's waiting for us inside.
If only they knew.
Chapter 5
THE VICTORIAN MANSION looms in front of us like something straight out of a nightmare. Three stories of weathered wood and broken shutters, with a wraparound porch that sags under the weight of decades of neglect. Fake fog machines pump out clouds of mist that drift across the overgrown lawn, and dramatic spotlights cast long, twisted shadows that make the bare oak trees look like skeletal hands reaching toward the sky.
I know the 'haunted' part is complete bullshit—just local legends and stories passed down through generations of college kids looking for something to be scared of. But standing here in the dark, surrounded by the kind of atmosphere that horror movies are made of, I can feel something crawling under my skin.
Maybe it's not the house that's haunted. Maybe it's me.
Our group mills around the gravel parking lot, voices mixing with the sound of car doors slamming and the distant hum of the fog machines. Someone's brought a portable speaker, and low, eerie music drifts from it—the kind of soundtrack that belongs in a haunted house experience.
I'm still sitting on my bike, trying to will my hard cock to calm the fuck down, when someone grabs my sleeve and yanks me sideways.
"What the—"
But the protest dies in my throat when I realize it's Cooper dragging me away from the group. My eyes are still adjusting to the darkness after the ride, and I stumble slightly as he pulls me toward the house.
"Are you insane?" I hiss, glancing back at our friends who are busy organizing themselves into groups and comparing flashlight apps.
"I might just be," he says, not slowing down.
We're at the front porch now, climbing the creaking wooden steps. Cooper produces a small flashlight from his pocket—of course he's prepared—and the beam cuts through the darkness, illuminating a front door that hangs slightly open.
The hinges shriek like something dying when Cooper pushes it wider.
The inside of the house is pitch black except for Cooper's flashlight beam, which reveals glimpses of what used to be a grand entryway. A staircase with a banister carved from dark wood curves up to the second floor, and dust motes dance in the light like tiny ghosts.
