Page 6 of A Very Gay Halloween (Curious #19)

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.

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 cock presses 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.

The kiss obliterates everything else. Two years of pent-up frustration and want and goddamn confusion explode between us like a bomb going off. His tongue pushes past my lips, demanding entry, claiming territory, and I open for him without hesitation.

He tastes like mint gum and something darker, something that makes my head spin. His hands fist in my hair, angling my head so he can kiss me deeper, harder, like he's trying to crawl inside my skin.

I kiss him back just as desperately, my tongue tangling with his, both of us trying to devour each other.

It's messy and raw and nothing like the careful, controlled fantasies I've jerked off to in the dead of night.

This is better. This is real teeth and real tongue and the real sound of Cooper moaning into my mouth.

When we finally break apart, we're both gasping. Cooper rests his forehead against mine, and I can feel his breath ghosting across my lips.

"Jesus Christ," he pants, and his voice is wrecked, completely fucking destroyed.

We're still pressed together, hip to hip, and I can feel his cock throbbing against mine through our jeans. The friction is maddening, not nearly enough but still making my vision blur around the edges.

He rolls his hips, grinding against me, and I make a sound that would be embarrassing if I had any brain cells left to care. My hands find his ass, squeezing the firm muscle through denim, pulling him closer.

"Two fucking years," he growls against my mouth. "Two years I've wanted to do this."

His words are a gut punch. All this time—all the hostility, all the glaring across rooms, all the cutting comments—and he wanted this too?

"You never said—"

"Neither did you." He bites my lower lip, sucking it between his teeth until I whimper. "Too busy being a complete asshole."

"Takes one to know one," I manage, but the comeback loses its edge when he grinds against me again and my words dissolve into a moan.

The darkness around us is absolute except for Cooper's flashlight beam cutting across the basement floor at a wild angle, but I can feel everything.

The way his chest heaves against mine. The tremor in his hands as they map my shoulders, my ribs, the muscles of my back.

The way his cock pulses against mine, separated only by layers of denim that suddenly feel criminal.

I need more. I need skin. I need to taste him, to feel him, to prove to myself that this is actually happening and not some elaborate wet dream.

My hands shake as I reach for his belt, fumbling with the leather and metal. Cooper must sense my desperation because he helps me, his own fingers working on my jeans while mine fight with his zipper.

"Wait," he breathes, stepping back just enough to create space between us.

For one terrifying moment, I think he's changed his mind. That reality has crashed back down and he's remembering all the reasons why this is insane.

But then I see what he's doing.

He’s already unzipping his pants, pushing them down his hips along with his underwear. His cock springs free, thick and hard and glistening with pre-come in the faint light. He wraps his hand around himself, giving his length one slow, deliberate stroke that makes my mouth water.

"Trick or treat?" he asks, and there's that fucking smirk again.

But this time, instead of making me want to punch him, it makes me want to drop to my knees and worship him.