Storm-Locked in the Pines with His Rough Hands

The gravel into that Pisgah hollow had gone to red mud, and my Tacoma slid the last stretch before I killed it under the porch light. Rain came sideways through the pines. Marcus had bailed an hour back, kid down with a fever, and I sat telling myself to turn around before the creek rose. Headlights flared in the rearview. A silver Chevy nosed in, and a man got out who had to duck the doorframe, duffel in one fist, six-pack in the other, flannel already dark.

He took the steps two at a time and shook water off like a dog.
- You Eli?
- Yeah. You Drew?
- Marcus said you'd be here. He also said he was out.
- Got the text. I was about to bail.
- Don't. Bridge is up behind me. We're stuck till this quits.

Inside smelled like cedar and a stove that hadn't been lit since fall. I got a fire going on split oak while he peeled the wet flannel. Under it a gray henley stretched over a thick chest and a soft belly, the kind of body that hooked me low. He was thirty-one, beard trimmed close, hair wet at the temples, forearms corded from job sites. I was twenty-eight, shorter, softer through the middle, hairy from collarbone to the waistband. He looked me over the same slow way, and neither of us pretended it was the weather. Rain ticked the tin over our heads.

- You always size a man up like you're about to start something?
- Only when he looks like he could put me on my back. He laughed low and pressed a cold can into my hand.
- Then quit acting like you came up here for the quiet.

We drank on the braided rug because the couch sagged in the middle. Thunder walked the ridge. His knee found mine and stayed. I told him about the shop on Lexington, late nights rebuilding hubs, the way Asheville got too loud once the breweries filled. He told me about framing houses past Knoxville, a ring he'd given back in March, the habit of driving until the mountains shut his head up. The fire popped. His palm settled on my thigh, heavy, thumb stroking the seam of my jeans.
- Been half hard since I saw you in that truck.
- Bedroom's through there. Don't make me say it twice.

He hauled me up by the belt loops, and we were on each other before the lamp finished warming. He kissed me against the doorframe, mouth hot, beard scraping my lip, tongue pushing in like the drive had been one long argument. I got both hands under his henley and found warm skin, a trail of hair down the belly, the soft give of him. He yanked the shirt off and took mine with it. Cool air hit my chest a second before his mouth. He bit the meat of my pec, sucked until the pull went straight to my cock, and dragged his beard down my stomach. I pulled him in until I felt how hard he was.

We got the jeans off in a rush, boots thumping, belts clinking on the boards. His dick was thick and heavy, flushed dark, already wet at the head, and mine jumped against my stomach when he wrapped a fist around both of us and stroked slow. I went to my knees on the cold floor. He tasted like salt and skin. I took him as deep as my throat would allow, jaw aching, one hand on his hip, the other working what my mouth couldn't hold. His fingers knotted in my hair and held me there while he breathed like a man trying not to finish. I pulled off, spit shining on him, and licked under the head until his thighs shook.

He hauled me onto the bed and turned me onto my stomach. The quilt smelled like cedar soap. He spread me with those calloused palms and put his mouth on me, tongue broad, then pointed, working me open while I shoved my face into the pillow and pushed back. Two fingers followed, slick from a bottle in his duffel, the stretch bright before it settled into a full ache. He crooked them and found the spot that curled my toes, and I ground back on his hand, cock leaking onto the quilt. His beard scratched the backs of my thighs and I didn't want him to stop.

When he lined up and pushed in, the burn went white for a second, then melted into a deep drag that filled me to the ribs. He waited, one hand spread on my lower back. I rocked to take the rest, and he sank in until his hips were flush to my ass. He fucked me slow, long strokes that dragged every inch, the wet sound loud under the rain. Then harder, the old bed knocking the wall, his belly slapping me, beard rough between my shoulder blades when he folded down and bit my neck. I fisted the quilt and took it, greedy for every inch he gave me.

I got a hand under myself and stroked in time with him, fist tight. He shifted and hit that spot until my legs shook and the room went narrow. I came hard into my hand and the quilt, clenching around him so tight he had to still or finish. He pulled out, turned me onto my back, and pushed in again so he could watch my face. I hooked my heels behind his thighs. He drove deep, eyes on mine, sweat in the hair on his chest, the lamp gold on the roll of his belly. He finished with a rough shudder, pulsing inside me, forehead dropped to mine.

We stayed like that while the storm worried the pines. He eased out careful, kissed the corner of my mouth, and pulled the quilt over us. His hand stayed on my belly, thumb moving in the hair, and I still felt him. The road would be a mess by morning. I didn't care. His heartbeat was under my ear, steady as the rain, and I let it hold me.