Rain-Soaked Bear on My Cabin Floor

The rain had been hammering the cedar shakes since noon, and by full dark the kitchen faucet gave up. A cold arc spit across the pine counter and soaked the front of my T-shirt before I got the valve closed. I wiped my hands, found the number taped inside the cabinet, and called. Twenty minutes later headlights raked the birches outside Munising and a truck door slammed. I opened up in socks, belly soft under wet cotton, and Marcus Hale filled the doorway, the handyman from the rental sheet, forty-one, broad as a dock piling, rain running out of his beard onto the mat.

- You Caleb?
- Yeah. Twenty-nine, city soft, and sorry I dragged you out here. Shutoff's already closed.
- Doesn't matter. Storm like this coming off Superior, I wasn't sleeping anyway.

He stepped in and the cabin took on wet wool, motor oil, and the coffee I'd scorched on the coil burner. He had me by a head. Gray threaded the dark hair at his temples. His flannel clung to a thick chest and a heavier gut, the kind of body that made my cock shift in my sweats before I'd admitted I wanted him. He knelt at the sink. I watched the scar across his knuckle and the way his jeans pulled tight over a heavy ass while he worked.

- Pipe's fine. Washer's shot. I've got a spare in the truck if the box isn't soaked through.
- You want a whiskey while you grab it? I've been rattling around this place alone since Thursday.
- I want the whiskey. And I want you to stop looking at my hands like that unless you mean it.

Heat climbed my neck. Beyond the porch, Lake Superior was a black roar against the rocks. I poured two fingers of bourbon into mismatched jelly glasses and held one out. His fingers closed over mine on the glass and stayed there, rough and warm.

- I mean it.
- Then lock the door. I'm not driving that washboard road again until this breaks.

That was the last thing either of us said for a long while.

He set the glass down without drinking. His mouth hit mine hard, bourbon on his tongue and beard scraping my lip, and I opened for him with a sound I didn't know I had in me. He walked me back until my shoulders met the log wall by the stove. One broad palm slid under my shirt, up the soft give of my stomach, thumb dragging through the hair below my navel, then higher to pinch a nipple until my knees went loose. My cock pressed a wet spot into the sweats. I got his flannel open. Rain was still cold on his skin. His chest was dense and dark, nipples tight, and I sucked one until he grunted and shoved my sweats to my ankles.

My cock sprang up thick and flushed, leaking at the slit. He wrapped a fist around the shaft and stroked once, slow, root to head, smearing the wet with his thumb while he watched my face. Then he dropped to his knees on the braided rug. The first lick was flat and hot from base to crown. He took me deep, lips tight, throat opening around the head, one hand rolling my balls while he sucked. I braced on his wet shoulders. Rain ticked the roof. He pulled off, spit bright in his beard, licked under my sack, and went lower. Both thumbs spread me. His tongue pressed my hole, circling, then pushing in until my thighs shook and I had to grab the wall.

He stood, turned me, and bent me over the arm of the old plaid couch. His belt clinked. Denim hit the floor. A foil packet tore. Cool lube slicked my crack, then two thick fingers pressed in, twisting, opening me until the burn went sweet and I pushed back on his hand, cock dripping on the cushion. He lined up. The head of his cock was blunt and hotter than his fingers, thicker too. He held my hip and pressed. I bore down and took him, the stretch bright, inch after thick inch, until his hips sat flush to my ass and the weight of his belly rested on my lower back.

He fucked me in long strokes first, pulling out until I felt the flare of his head, then driving back in until the couch creaked and my cock slapped my stomach. His balls swung heavy against me. Then he got rougher. One hand fisted my hair. The other reached under and jerked me in time with his thrusts. I felt every ridge, the wet slap of his hips, the drag of his gut when he buried deep and ground there. Sweat ran between my shoulder blades. He hauled me upright, still inside, my back sealed to his hairy chest, and fucked up into me while his slick fist worked my cock. I came hard, striping the couch and his fingers, hole clenching around him in pulses I couldn't stop.

That tight grip broke his rhythm. He shoved me down over the arm and chased it in short hard thrusts, hands bruising the soft meat of my hips. I felt him swell, thicker, hotter. He drove in to the root and stayed, pulsing, filling the condom while rain beat the glass and my legs shook under his weight. He eased out slow. The emptiness ached. He tied off the rubber and pulled me onto the rug, my back against his chest, his softening cock wet and heavy on my thigh. His arm lay across my stomach. The faucet could wait. Outside, the lake kept hitting the rocks. Inside I was open and wrecked, and my cock was already thickening against his wrist.