He Had Me on the Dock Before the Rain Quit

The taproom had been dead since nine, and by the time I killed the playlist the rain was hammering the roof hard enough to swallow the walk-in. Levi was still on a stool, turning an empty pint in those big hands, sawdust in the hair on his forearms. He'd come for the cooperage talk and never left. Thirty-three, he'd told me when I joked about carding him, and I'd told him thirty without being asked. I was a stocky cub in a damp black tee, soft through the middle, thick in the thighs, beard still sweet with mash. He was built the same way and taller, carpenter's gut, shoulders straining a shirt he'd never changed.

I locked the front and nodded him toward the dock. The door sat up a foot the way I left it to bleed heat, and the storm had slicked the concrete black. Past the rail the French Broad ran loud and brown. The air was mud, hops, and hot wet metal.

- River's up. You waiting it out, or swimming to your truck?

- I'm not made of sugar. You've been staring at my mouth since the second pour.

- You've been leaning over my bar like you wanted my hands on you.

- Then put them on me, Dean. I'm done pretending I stayed for the stout.

I killed the lights. We stepped under the half-raised door and the rain took us, cold on my neck, soaking the tee to my stomach. He looked bigger wet. The shirt went sheer over hair and the soft give of his belly, and he stared at mine like he'd been waiting all night for permission. I went to him. I'd been hard since he said my name.

- Come here.

His mouth was warm and bitter with beer. He kissed me patient, then all pressure, one hand in my beard, the other low on my back, hauling until my gut met his. I got under his shirt. Skin hotter than the rain, dense hair across his chest and down his belly, nipples tight under my thumbs. He walked me into a pallet of empty kegs and shoved his thigh between mine. I ground on it, the thick line of him pressed to my hip.

- Off.

He didn't wait. He shoved my jeans and briefs down in one pull, buckle clacking, rain shocking my cock where it stood flushed and heavy. His fist closed around me, hot and callused, a slow tight stroke that dragged a groan out of my chest. I got him open too. He was thick, a handful and more, the head already slick, the hair at his base dark and soaked. I wrapped him and stroked, felt him jump, felt how heavy his balls sat in my other palm. He pushed my shoulder and I went down on the wet concrete, grit biting my knees, and I took him into my mouth.

Salt and skin and rain. The weight of him slid over my tongue and I worked down until my lips met my fist, then deeper, eyes watering. I pulled off, tasted him sharp, and went back messier, spit stringing while the rain failed to wash it off. His hand settled on my neck, not forcing, while I sucked him sloppy and hungry, taking him to the root until his thighs flexed hard against my ears.

He hauled me up before he finished, turned me, and bent me over a stack of crates under a dry tarp. My chest hit canvas. My ass was bare to the storm. He kicked my feet wider, jeans trapped at my boots, and I heard him spit, felt the hot smear of it between my cheeks, then two thick fingers pressing in. The stretch burned. I pushed back into it, wanting the burn, wanting him. He worked me open, twisting, crooking until he found the spot that made my cock drip onto the crate and my knees go loose. A third finger and I was panting, forehead on my wrist, rain in my beard, fucking myself back on his hand.

His fingers left and the blunt head of his cock pressed there, bigger, hotter. He sank in slow, a long thick push that knocked the breath out of me and didn't stop until his hips were flush and the soft weight of his belly rested on my lower back. He held. I clenched and felt every inch, the throb of him, the stretch held wide. Rain ticked down my spine. He drew back and drove in, and then he fucked me for real, deep steady strokes that slapped wet skin, each one dragging over that spot until I was making sounds I didn't know I had, braced on the crates, taking all of him.

My cock swung heavy and leaking, slapping my thigh. He reached under and stroked me in the same rhythm, rough palm, no tease left, thumb smearing what I was dripping. The dock smelled like river and sex and wet wood. His balls swung against mine. His chest came down over my back, hair dragging my skin, beard scraping my shoulder, breath hot at my ear while he pounded me harder and shorter, losing the clean rhythm, chasing it.

I came first. It hit low and mean, and I shot across the tarp and his fingers, clenching so tight I felt him stutter. He drove in and stayed buried. Heat spilled deep in thick pulses while he ground against me. His weight settled on my back. We stayed like that, his cock softening inside me, his mouth open on my neck, the river loud beyond the rail.

When he eased out the mess of him ran warm and then the rain cooled it on my skin. He turned me and kissed me slow, both of us wrecked, jeans around our boots, grinning into it like we'd gotten away with something filthy on a Tuesday. I was thirty, sore in the best way, and the taproom lights stayed off behind us while the French Broad kept moving.