Chapter 5: The Cabin

The bootlace cut into Judah's wrists, and Tate's finger was inside him up to the second knuckle.

He lay face down on the bunk in the Hatchett hunting cabin with his hands tied behind his back.

The dog tag swung from his neck and slapped cold against the blanket every time he moved.

A kerosene lamp burned on the table, and the stove ticked in the corner.

"Breathe," Tate said behind him. "Let it in."

"I am breathing."

"You're clenching. You've never done this."

"I've never done any of this," Judah said into the pillow. "I'd have thought you worked that out."

Tate's other hand spread open across the small of his back, warm and heavy.

"I did."

He crooked the finger.

Judah's whole body arched, and a sound he did not recognize tore out of him.

"There," Tate said softly. "That's the place."

"Do it again."

"Ask me nicely," Tate said.

"Hatchett."

Tate pulled the finger out to the tip, slowly, and held it there.

Judah's hips rocked back after it, shameless, and Tate laughed.

"I've got a hundred and seventy-four photos left of you hunting me," he said.

"Every one of them is a favor I haven't called in. Ask nicely."

"Please," Judah said.

"Please what, dog?"

"Please put it back," Judah said.

Two fingers pushed in, slick with salve from the first-aid tin.

The stretch burned and spread and turned to heat.

Judah groaned into the blanket.

Tate worked him open without hurrying, in and out and in, with a patience that was a worse torment than speed.

"Seven months," he muttered. "Seven months you sat out there with your zoom, and the whole time you wanted this."

"Yes."

"Say it."

"I wanted this." The words ground out of him. "I wanted you on me. I'd have given anything."

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