Page 13 of A Very Gay Halloween
The air smells like decay and neglect, with an underlying mustiness that makes my nose wrinkle. Somewhere in the walls, something scurries—probably mice, but the sound makes my skin crawl anyway.
"This is fucking crazy," I whisper, but I follow him deeper into the house.
Cooper doesn't respond. He moves with purpose, like he knows exactly where he's going, the flashlight beam sweeping across rooms filled with sheet-covered furniture and cobwebs that definitely aren't fake.
We pass through what used to be a living room, then a dining room with a chandelier that hangs at a dangerous angle. Cooper's light catches glimpses of peeling wallpaper and water stains that bloom across the ceiling like abstract art.
Then we're at another door—this one leading downward.
"The basement? Seriously?"
But Cooper's already starting down the wooden steps, which creak ominously under our weight. The darkness down here is absolute, swallowing Cooper's flashlight beam like it's hungry for light.
The basement feels older than the rest of the house, with stone walls that weep moisture and a dirt floor that crunches under our feet. The air is thick and cold, and I can hear water dripping somewhere in the distance.
I'm about to ask Cooper what the hell we're doing down here when he spins around and slams me back against the stone wall.
The impact knocks the breath out of me, but not as much as the feeling of Cooper's body pressed against mine. He's crowding me, using his height advantage to cage me in, and the flashlight clatters to the floor, its beam shooting across the basement at a wild angle.
I get hard immediately.
No hesitation, no gradual buildup—just zero to completely fucking gone in the space of a heartbeat. My cockpresses against the front of my jeans, and a desperate sound escapes my throat.
Cooper hears it. His body goes very still against mine, and I can feel his breathing change.
"What do you want, August?"
His voice is rough, demanding, and it makes my cock throb. But even as my body screams at me to just tell him, to lay it all out there and deal with the consequences later, I can't make the words come.
I know what I want. I've known for two fucking years what I want. But saying it out loud means crossing a line I can't uncross.
His hand drops between us, and I nearly come out of my skin when his palm presses against my hard cock through my jeans. He doesn't move, doesn't stroke, just applies pressure that makes my vision go white around the edges.
"What do you want?" he asks again, his thumb rubbing back and forth across the denim right where my cockhead is straining against the fabric.
I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood, trying to keep from making any more embarrassing sounds. But Cooper's hand is warm and firm, and every small movement sends electricity shooting through my body.
The silence stretches between us, broken only by the sound of our breathing and that steady dripping somewhere in the darkness. Cooper's watching my face, I can feel it, waiting for an answer I don't know how to give.
Finally, he makes a frustrated sound and takes his hand away. I actually whimper at the loss, my hips pushing forward automatically, seeking contact that's no longer there.
But instead of stepping back, Cooper aligns his body with mine and presses against me. Hip to hip, chest to chest, and—
"Fuck," I gasp, because there's something hard pressing against my cock. Something that definitely isn't just the seam of his jeans or his belt buckle.
Cooper's hard too. His cock is pressing against mine through our clothes, hot and thick and very fucking real.
My brain tries to reason with itself, tries to find some logical explanation that doesn't involve Cooper being just as turned on as I am. But when he starts grinding against me, slow and deliberate, and lets out a low moan, all rational thought goes right out the window.
"I want to fuck you," I rasp, the words torn from somewhere deep in my chest. "That's what I want."
He goes very still for a moment.
Shit. I've said too much, haven't I?
But then something shifts in his expression—his eyes darken, pupils blown wide, and his breathing changes from measured to ragged in the space of a heartbeat.
"Fuck," he whispers, and before I can process what's happening, he's crushing his mouth against mine.
