He Fucked Me Against the Cedar Wall

The rain started while I was still hauling groceries up the gravel drive. The cabin sat on a shelf of the ridge outside Asheville, cedar siding gone silver, porch roof leaking in two places I could already hear. My buddy had bailed, and I had three empty days and a cooler of beer. I was thirty-four and recently single when a truck came up behind me, tires popping stone.

He killed the engine and got out like he owned the weather. Tall, broad through the chest, maybe thirty-six, beard trimmed close, flannel stuck to him from the wet. Sawdust on his boots. He looked at my plates, then at me, and the look stayed.

- You the one who rented the Hale place. - Jake. Yeah. You lost, or you live up here. - Reed. Shop's a half mile up. Power flickers in a storm like this. Figured I'd warn you before the fridge dies on you.

His voice was low and easy, Carolina under it but not thick. He had no hat on. Water darkened the hair at his temples and the open throat of his shirt. I watched a drop slide past his collarbone and felt heat move under my ribs.

- Fridge can wait. You want a beer before you head back up. - I want a beer. And I want out of this shirt.

Inside smelled like cedar and old smoke. I cracked two bottles. He peeled the flannel off, and the t-shirt under it was thin and gray and stuck to his chest. Broad shoulders, a softer belly I liked on sight, arms cut from real work. A pale scar crossed one forearm. He caught me staring and did not look away.

- You stare like a man who already decided. - I decided in the driveway. I'm just being polite. - Polite's fine. Honest's better. Come here.

I went. He set the bottle down, put a hand on my neck, and kissed me hard. His mouth was warm and beer-bitter. I opened for him and he took the kiss deeper, one hand fisting my shirt and hauling me in until our belts knocked. Rain hammered the roof.

We broke for air at the counter. His thigh pressed between mine. I felt him through the denim, heavy and getting hard, and my own cock ached against the fly. His thumb stroked the skin above my belt.

- Bed's through there. Or the wall. - Wall. I want your face while you get me out of these. - Then quit talking.

He walked me backward until cedar met my shoulders. He kissed down my throat and bit where my neck met my shoulder, hard enough that my hips jerked. My shirt came off. His palms dragged over my chest, callused and hot, thumbs circling my nipples until they drew tight and a sound broke out of me. He licked one, then the other, beard scratching, while he worked my belt. Buckle, zipper, and then jeans and briefs shoved to my thighs. My cock sprang free, flushed, wet at the slit.

He dropped to his knees on the pine floor. A fist closed around the base. He licked from my balls to the head, slow and flat-tongued, then took me into his mouth and sank until his nose brushed my stomach. He held, throat working, pulled off wet, and took me deep again, one hand on my balls, the other pinning my hip. Spit shone on his beard. I held the window frame and watched his lips stretch around me, felt his tongue drag the underside, the careful edge of his teeth. My knees went weak. He looked up, and that nearly finished me.

He stood, mouth swollen, and kissed me so I tasted myself. I opened his jeans with unsteady hands. His cock was thick, heavier than mine, curved up, the head dark and slick. He was slick in my fist, thick and jumping. I turned and braced my forearms on the wall. He spit in his hand. Two wet fingers pressed between my cheeks, circled, and pushed in. The burn was sweet. He opened me with steady crooks of his fingers until he found the spot that made my cock drip on the boards. A third finger. I pushed back, forehead to cedar, breathing rain and the salt of him. He pulled free. The blunt head nudged my rim, held, and sank in.

The first inches stole my breath. He was thick enough that I had to bear down and open, and he gave it slow, a wide hand on my lower back, the other reaching around to stroke me in time with the push. When his hips met my ass I was full to the edge of too much, stuffed and shaking. He stayed buried, chest to my back, breath hot on my neck, letting me take it. Then he drew out to the tip and drove back in.

The pace built without a word between us. Wet sound, skin on skin, the wall creaking under my hands. He fucked me deep and steady, then harder, the curve of him dragging that spot every stroke until the edges of my sight went white. His balls slapped my thighs. I reached back, gripped his hip, and pulled him faster, and he answered, hips snapping, one arm locked across my chest. My cock slapped my stomach. Precum smeared his fist where he still worked me, tight and slick and merciless.

He pulled out, turned me, and hooked one of my thighs up on his hip so he could watch my face while he pushed back in. The new angle punched the air out of me. He fucked me against the cedar in long strokes that bottomed out, then short grinding ones that kept him deep. I clawed his shoulders. His beard burned my jaw. The orgasm climbed my spine, tight and sure. He stroked me faster, twisting over the head, and I came hard, spilling over his fist and my stomach, clenching around him in pulses I could not stop. His hips stuttered. He buried himself to the root and came, heat flooding me in thick spurts I felt one after another. He kept moving, shallow, until his forehead dropped to my shoulder and we just breathed.