Locked In After the Trailhead Went Dark

The gravel lot held nothing but his dusty Subaru and the Forest Service truck I was supposed to roll out in. Heat still sat in the Smokies after dark, thick with pine sap and the wet smell of the creek under the footbridge. His hood was up. I walked over with the flashlight off because the moon was enough, and because I had already looked at him twice while I locked the kiosk.

He straightened when he heard my boots. Sunburn cut across the bridge of his nose, and sweat had dried in the hollow of his throat. The pack on his bumper had chewed a red line into one shoulder. His calves were dusty and hard from the climb. He looked about thirty, a few years under my thirty-four, and he looked at my mouth before he looked at the badge.

- Shuttle's gone, I said. Last one left twenty minutes ago.
- Figured. I'm Drew. Phone died on Chimney Tops and the battery died with it. You the guy with the keys?
- Evan. I lock the trailhead. Town's forty minutes and I don't tow after nine.
- Then I'm sleeping in the hatch unless you've got a better idea.

The bunk cabin sat thirty yards back in the trees, one room, a cot, a pump sink, a bolt that actually caught. He shut the hood and shouldered the pack. On the path his bare arm brushed mine and neither of us stepped aside. I could smell him, crushed fern and salt, the warm smell of a man who had been walking since morning.

Inside it was cedar and old coffee. I lit the Coleman lantern. He dropped the pack. I slid the bolt, and he watched my hand on the metal.

- You sure? I asked.
- I've been sure since you walked over. If I say stop, you stop. Otherwise don't ask me again.

That was the last thing either of us said. He kissed me first, mouth hot and chapped from the wind on the ridge, opening against mine like he had been holding the want in all the way down. His hand shoved under my shirt and spread across my lower back. I got his shirt off. His chest was broad, hair stuck down with sweat, nipples tight when I dragged my thumb over them and pinched. He yanked my uniform open, buttons ticking, and we stripped the rest in a tangle of belt and boots. The lantern threw us big on the plank wall. My cock pressed the crease of his hip. His was thicker, hotter, already wet against my stomach.

I went to my knees on the bare boards. His cock filled my hand. I licked the salt off the head and took him in, lips stretched, tongue along the underside, sinking until my nose met the hair at his base. He didn't shove. His fingers caught in my hair and his thighs trembled while I sucked him, slow, then tighter, fist twisting at the root when I pulled back to breathe. Spit ran down the shaft. I took him deep again until my throat fluttered and my eyes watered, one hand cupping his balls, the other braced on a hard thigh. When his stomach went tight I pulled off, and he hauled me up and kissed the taste of himself out of my mouth.

He bent me over the cot, a wide hand between my shoulder blades, the other spreading me. He spit into his palm. Wet fingers pushed between my cheeks, circling, then one slid in with a burn that curled my toes on the floor. A second finger followed, scissoring, curling until he found the place that jerked my cock and made me push back onto his hand. His cock dragged wet along my thigh. I reached back and held myself open. He lined up and pushed, thick and steady, the head breaching, the stretch sharp and then full as he sank in until his hips met me and my face was in the wool.

He stayed buried, chest stuck to my back with sweat. Then he drew out almost to the tip and drove back in. Long strokes. The cot knocked the wall. Every time he filled me I felt the drag over that deep spot, the heat of him, the wet sound of it in the closed room. His thumbs dug into my hips. Sweat ran down my spine and he licked it, bit the muscle of my shoulder, and fucked me harder, the slap of his hips loud. I stroked myself in time, the head of my cock slick on the blanket. He shifted and hit deeper. I came with my forehead on my wrist, spilling over my fist, clenching around him so hard my legs shook.

He pulled my hips back and fucked me through it, strokes going ragged, cock swelling. He pressed in to the root and came, pulsing, heat flooding me while his mouth stayed open on my shoulder and his whole body locked. He eased out slow. I felt him leak warm down my thigh. He wiped me with his shirt and kissed the place between my shoulder blades, lingering.

The lantern hissed. He pulled me down on the narrow cot, my back to his chest, his softening cock pressed to my ass, his arm heavy across my ribs. His breath caught against my neck like he was already getting hard again. Six in the morning was a long way off. I didn't care about the truck or the road down the mountain. I cared about the weight of him, the ache he'd left in me, and his hand sliding down my stomach like he meant to start over before the light burned out.