Total pages in book: 179
Estimated words: 165476 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 827(@200wpm)___ 662(@250wpm)___ 552(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 165476 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 827(@200wpm)___ 662(@250wpm)___ 552(@300wpm)
Lusting for another man was against all rules, even those of vile criminals, but the earlier conversation assured Ned that Cole would break them all. For Ned.
There was a thrill to being desired so fervently, yet Ned’s nape tickled as if he were at the edge of a cliff, because if he took one more step forward, there would be no going back.
A shiver ran down Ned’s spine when Cole pushed the wet rag below his navel, and while the crates hid his privates from sight, it was clear how thoroughly Cole took care of that business, his gaze burning holes in Ned’s face. And all Ned could do was to shift his legs so no one would see how much he’d been affected.
They both knew Cole was taking his time on purpose, rubbing that perfect body to test Ned’s sanity. And it was working. When he turned around at the languid pace of the figurine in Brianna’s fancy music box, Ned arched his neck to get a glimpse of Cole’s backside, and his balls throbbed in response to the shadows curling on the pert buttocks like a caressing hand. He really was a pervert, with balls heavy with the juice he wanted to see sprinkled all over Cole’s tawny skin. Perhaps it was time to let his true nature shine through and admit that he didn’t simply admire Cole’s physique. He wanted to rub the lean meat on his back and discover all the scars left by Cole’s ordeal with the Vultures.
“Keep your sticky hands to yourself!”
Doc’s voice was followed by a rumble of wood, glass, and flesh colliding.
Ned rose and extinguished his cigarette in the dirt. Enough was enough. If he stayed here, watching Cole from afar like some lecher, he might as well crawl over to him on hands and knees, and bite into Cole’s buttock as if it were the Christmas ham.
He hadn’t yet unpacked any necessities into the tent, but it could wait, because simple tasks would have left his mind with too much freedom to roam. Distraction was what he needed.
Ned hurried past the chuck wagon, to Bertha’s cooking area set up around a small fire beyond the bounds of the main encampment. Tension was thicker in the air than the smell of blood from newly butchered meat.
Doc folded his shirtsleeves, exposing hard forearms, as if he wanted to let everyone know the brawling wasn’t yet over, despite the scowl twisting Scotch’s face. The drunk bastard kept dropping to the patchy grass every time he tried to rise, but his gaze was as sharp as the gray stubble peppered over his features like spikes covered in ash.
Bertha stood between Scotch and the fire, holding up her reddened palms. “I don’t care what this silliness is, but take it away from my stew!”
“Oh, fuck off, old hag,” Scotch slurred, dragging himself to his knees. He tried to grasp air for support but Doc kicked him over, grabbed his clothes, and dragged him farther from the flames.
Scotch might’ve been drunk enough to find walking difficult, but his hands worked just fine, and he captured both of the other man’s knees, toppling him over.
Ned didn’t want to get involved in the scuffle, so he walked up to Bertha, who angrily wiped her hands on the bloodstained apron and scowled at the two men.
“What’s this about?” he asked, leaning over the pot to smell the stew. Bertha was the night to Aunt Muriel’s day—fine-boned and slight despite no longer being young, and her cooking couldn’t have been any different either. Salty, fatty, with spices Ned was still learning to recognize, it was the kind of food Aunt Muriel would have said belonged in the devil’s stomach. Maybe that was why Ned had learned to like it so much.
Bertha shook her head and blew a strand of hair out of her face. “This is what happens when men don’t keep their hands to themselves.”
“Is this about Sarah again?”
Doc hardly stood out as a violent man when compared to the other Gotham Boys. But while he was known for keeping his cool and preferred to use his smarts rather than bullets, his attitude could change as fast as weather in the Rockies when his lover was involved. Scotch should have learned by now to stick his prick in a willing cooch instead of chasing one that was spoken for.
Ned’s mind drifted off. How would two men who shared the same queer desires navigate such issues? Devilish deeds by night, camaraderie by day? Neither of them knew of other men like them, so it would make sense to stick together, but what if a third fellow came along? Was each of the partners free to extinguish their thirst with whomever they saw fit, since no vows could be exchanged? The mere thought of Cole’s lips on somebody else made him want to grow claws and sharp teeth. Cole was the only one to ever stir such desires in Ned, so that might be why he’d grown so possessive. Their kiss had been an awakening, but Ned hadn’t ogled Craw or any other man since then. Even in his own mind he wasn’t free of the invisible brand Cole had left on him.