02-Let It Ride (9 page)

Bridge’s dreams hadn’t come close to the reality of kissing Eric Palmer. Not by a country mile. There was no way he could have imagined the silky-smooth feel of Eric’s warm lips, the way day-old scruff brushed over his skin, the strong, wet slide of Eric’s tongue as it dueled with his, and holy hell, their tongues dueled! Never had he been on the receiving end of such an aggressive kiss, felt such demand to be so . . . consumed, so needed, and then there was the taste. Heady and spicy and it shot through his veins like liquid fire.

This. This was what he’d wanted. This was what he’d been looking for all his life. He knew in that moment, without a single doubt, he was head over heels for Eric, and there was no going back. Not now. Not ever.

Eric broke the kiss first and stepped back, lips glistening in the low light of the rodeo grounds, chest heaving. Tiny gossamer clouds puffed out into the space between them as their heated breaths collided with the cool night air. “You’re not alone here.” His thickly accented voice was low and ragged.

“Knew it.” Bridge smiled, forcing himself to stay still even as his skin felt tight on his bones and his fingers itched to pull Eric back against him. He didn’t know what to do next, only knew that he wanted more. More kisses like that, more of that unique flavor, more of that lean body notched so perfectly to his. They may have just crossed a line, but fuck if anything had ever felt more right than Eric in his arms.

The door of Marty’s RV banged open, and they both jumped, Eric taking another step back. Heat infused Bridge’s cheeks, and for a second, he felt like a kid who’d been caught up to no good. Which was maybe not too far off.

“Hey, B.” Marty hung out the doorframe, seeming oblivious to the tension vibrating in the air like a visible force field around him and Eric. “Is there any ice left? Tripp’s leg is bugging him.”

“Yeah.” Bridge walked over to the cooler where he’d tossed his hat and put it back on. “Give me just a minute.”

“Thanks, dude,” Marty said, and then disappeared back inside.

Eric ran a hand over his shorn head, and Bridge followed the motion with his eyes, wanting the hand to be his, to feel the short hair under against his palm. He looked up to the sky and pulled his bottom lip into his mouth. Stars scattered in organized chaos across the black sheet of night. Then he dropped his gaze back to meet Eric’s. “That was the best kiss I’ve ever had in my entire life.”

Eric smiled then, more dazzling than even those damn stars. He stepped forward, pressed a chaste kiss to Bridge’s mouth, and then backed out of reach before Bridge could trap him in his embrace again. “Get ice for Tripp. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Bridge nodded, smiling so wide he thought his whole face might split in half. “Tomorrow.”

Eric hadn’t been able to sleep more than a few hours but still managed to find himself wide-awake well before the sun rose or any of the other campers on the rodeo grounds began to stir. He’d been too amped up thinking about Bridge, replaying the kiss they’d shared, imagining how things could be between them, dreaming for something he knew he couldn’t ever hope to hold on to. Not for long anyway. Usually only long enough for the inevitable parting to destroy what tiny threads of hope he still clung to.

Laced with those old, deep-seated fears were brand-new ones about the man who was burrowing into his subconscious. Bridge may have experimented with men once before, but he hadn’t been with a man since. How much could Eric trust that it hadn’t been anything more than a good old college try and maybe now Bridge just wanted to take a little trip down memory lane?

Either way, sooner or later Bridge would see what everyone else had seen: that there was something inherently wrong with Eric. Why else would everyone he had ever loved, or had thought had loved him, kick him to the curb? He wanted what Bridge and his friends had—that unconditional camaraderie, that belonging, that confidence that he was wanted and loved. But the more he wished and prayed for love, the more elusive it seemed to become. All he knew of that mysterious emotion was pain. Every time he’d let himself believe that maybe this time would be different was when it’d all come crashing down again.

But history couldn’t keep repeating itself his whole life, could it? Marty, Bridge, Kent, and even Tripp, now that he was back in the fold, had somehow managed to weave him seamlessly into the thick fabric of their circle when he wasn’t looking. And he had to admit those threads felt stronger than any he’d tried to hold on to before.

But what exactly made him think this time really
would
be any different?

The answer came fast: Bridge Sullivan.

The man was solid. A rock in the eye of the storm. No matter what happened, he stood by his friends. He made sure everyone around him was happy, and when Bridge looked at him with those enchanting dark eyes, he found himself falling deeper and deeper into their soothing depths. Not to mention he was one of the most beautiful men Eric had ever laid eyes on. Who wouldn’t find themselves diving down the rabbit hole for someone like him?

But then there was the whole reawakened-interest-in-men-at-twenty-eight-years-old part.

He huffed and kicked back the bed covers.

Could he let himself believe, hope, that it wasn’t just temporary curiosity? He didn’t want to be an experiment for Bridge, and he didn’t want to let his hopes cloud reality. Bridge was one of the best friends he’d ever had. All of them were. Deep down he knew none of them would deliberately hurt him, especially Bridge, who looked out for everyone, but that wasn’t a guarantee against losing them all. It was, however, a guarantee that this time the end would crush him forever. So it really was best not to cross that friends-only line. At least no more than they already had. Save the mess and stay friends. Let Bridge find someone else to satisfy his curiosity.

A little green ember of jealousy dug its roots into the back of his mind at the thought of someone else kissing Bridge, someone else burrowed into that melt-worthy embrace, fingers that weren’t his fisting in that lush blond hair . . .

No. If anyone was going to reteach Bridge the joys of gay sex, who better than a friend who truly cared about him? Someone who wouldn’t do anything to hurt him, make him do anything he didn’t want to, or put undue expectations on him.

Someone like me.

He’d been compartmentalizing his life as long as he could remember, so no reason he couldn’t do that here too. It wasn’t like Bridge would want him for more than a fling anyway, so why not help a friend discover—or rediscover—himself?

As long as he kept his heart and his elusive dreams locked down.

A whisper of dissent tickled at his thoughts, but he pushed it away.

Not able to stay in bed any longer, he rolled down from the tiny sleep space of his camper and pulled on his work clothes. Before anything else, a strong cup of coffee was on order. He grabbed a can of grounds from the cupboard above a two-burner stove top, dumped a measured amount into a single-cup coffeemaker sitting on the foot-wide counter, and pressed the On button. He sat down on the tiny couch beside the square of kitchen while his coffee brewed and pulled the shade back from the narrow window.

He’d parked his truck so it faced his friends’ two equine-RV combo rigs. Those things were huge, and he marveled at how much money it took just to follow the circuit, let alone compete, especially when the winnings were lean and so many cowboys walked away empty-handed at the end of the day. It was definitely a sport born of pure love and tradition, and it didn’t take much to see the draw. He himself had been lured by the history and fantasy of the Wild West—and the rugged men who’d tamed it.

The door to the RV that Bridge and Kent shared swung open, and Eric held his breath when the man who’d had him tossing and turning half the night stepped out into the brisk morning and stretched his arms over his head, breath gusting out to briefly cloud his face. The cowboy’s gaze immediately homed in on Eric’s camper and locked on him. He couldn’t have looked away even if he tried. Fuck, that man was gorgeous. Bridge smiled and tapped his forefinger to the brim of his hat—another thing Eric fucking loved when Bridge did it—then turned, giving his ass a little shake before going about getting his horses fed and groomed for the day.

“I’m so screwed,” he mumbled, unable to stop from smiling.

There was no denying it. He wanted what Bridge was offering, even as doubt gnawed at the back of his mind that it would be a one-time thing, or worse, bring about the end of the only time he’d ever felt he truly belonged somewhere. But he could be what Bridge needed him to be for however long that might be. Wouldn’t be the first time.

Coffee brewed, he poured the steaming hot liquid into a travel mug and put on a second cup. When that one was ready, he filled another mug and left his camper.

Bridge had his back to him when Eric walked quietly between the trailers. He was grooming Rosie, the horse Eric had ridden yesterday, who was tethered to a steel ring soldered to the trailer’s frame.

Eric stopped, taking a minute to admire the big cowboy before making his presence known. His hair was longer than most cattlemen’s and hung in relaxed waves over the collar of a red Western shirt emblazoned with the logo of the pro-rodeo tour’s main sponsor in white across the back. As Bridge reached to brush Rosie’s neck, the shirt stretched flat against supple, delineated muscle, and Eric’s fingers twitched to trace the hard lines of the solid lats that led to a trim waist and lower. Bridge’s ass was a thing of beauty. Well-worn Wranglers hugged firm globes, which were further highlighted by rawhide chaps wrapped around thick, strong thighs.

Caution, meet wind.

He swallowed. Or maybe he groaned aloud, because Bridge turned then. That brown-eyed stare burned a sizzling path on Eric’s skin as it slid down the length of his body and back up to settle on his mouth.

“Mornin’.” Bridge’s voice was barely above a whisper, but the rough edge to it sent a charge of electric arousal coursing through Eric.

Then the man smiled. A smile so full of life and genuine joy that the warmth of it wrapped around Eric, dousing all of his doubts and fears. As though he’d just been blessed by the very heavens themselves.

He cleared his throat but couldn’t pull his eyes from Bridge’s. “Mornin’.” Remembering the coffee in his hands, he held up a mug and stepped forward. “Brought java.”

“My savior.” Bridge reached for the mug, and when his fingers brushed against Eric’s, the skin where they met ignited, sending a sizzle of excitement rushing up his arm. One side of Bridge’s mouth rose into a knowing smile as he slowly pulled his hand away and lifted the mug. Eric watched, mesmerized by those red lips closing over the lip of the cup. Bridge’s eyelids dropped, and a deep, satisfied moan followed the sip he took. The sensual growl went straight to Eric’s groin, and he had to look away. Maybe if he focused on the scratched paint of the trailer or the dent that looked like a horse had put a hoof to it, he could keep thinking with his brain rather than his body. Then Bridge stepped closer, drawing Eric’s attention back, and leaned down to kiss him. Not the passionate want-you-right-fucking-now kiss of the previous night, but more of an affectionate see-you-after-work-sweetheart kiss, which seemed, by turns, far more intimate and much scarier. “Thank you.”

Eric stared up at Bridge, unable to speak while his mind tried to reengage itself, and saw the moment Bridge wanted more, when the golden-flecked brown of his eyes shifted to a darker hue. Bridge took another step forward, until their chests touched, and kissed him again. Nothing chaste about this meeting of mouths, especially when Eric parted his lips and invited Bridge’s tongue inside to play. He angled his head to deepen the kiss, taking as much of the cowboy as he could, savoring the bitter tang of coffee mixed with the essence of the man, his senses dancing in delight. Bridge slid one arm around his waist, and he barely registered the horse brush Bridge was still holding as it dug into his back.

Eric sunk into the man. It had been a long time since he’d been with anyone, a long time since he’d been wrapped in strong arms, and his whole body cried for more. He reached around and cupped Bridge’s ass with his free hand, pulling him closer, tighter, trying to merge them into one, to lose himself in that welcoming heat. The outline of Bridge’s swelling cock against his navel threatened to short-circuit his thoughts, but a loud equine snort and stomp of a hoof snapped him back to reality.

Shit.

He broke the kiss and took a step back, slamming the brakes on the runaway car that was his libido. They might be hidden from public view, the way the two rigs were parked like a shield, but now was not the time or place.

“I want more of that,” Bridge said, his voice a low rasp and his eyes a blazing fire.

“I do too.” Eric adjusted his jeans in search of a little breathing room, drawing Bridge’s stare, and with it a flare of heat that fanned through the length of his cock. “Obviously.” He fought down the rush. He needed to think clearly, set the ground rules before things got out of hand. “But remember what I said last night about fucking things up? I”—
I’m afraid
—“don’t want to risk our friendship.”