Sweat and Hardwood in a Denver Loft

The service call hit my phone at eleven forty, a loft in RiNo with no cold air and a man who sounded amused instead of panicked. July in Denver had been mean all week. I parked the van on Walnut, grabbed the meter and the flashlight, and climbed the iron stairs with sweat stuck to my lower back.

Andre Pell opened the door in gray sweat shorts and nothing else. Thirty-one, per the intake form, and built like a man who sat at a screen and still carried muscle in his shoulders, with a soft belly over the waistband and dark curls stuck to his temples. The loft was one room, brick and a mattress on the floor, a fan shoving hot air in circles. His skin shone.

- You Caleb?
- Yeah. Ruiz Heating. Condenser quit?
- Clunked twice and died. I've been lying here like a roast. He stepped aside. I caught salt and a soap that had already failed. My shirt was plastered to my ribs. I made myself look at the ceiling access and not at the hair running down his stomach.

On the roof the failure was a swollen capacitor. I swapped it, checked the pressures, and the fan roared back to life. Cool air would take time. When I came down he was at the sink, drinking from the tap, water tracking into the hair on his chest.

- Fixed?
- Capacitor. Give it ten minutes.
- Beer while it catches up? I've got two. I'm not sleeping in this. At thirty-four I should have headed for the van. I took the bottle instead. It was warm. We stood at the open window, night smelling like asphalt and the river, and his knee found mine and stayed.

- You've been staring at my mouth since the door.
- You've been half naked since the door.
- So get off the clock. He set his beer on the sill. I set mine beside it. His hand found my belt.

He kissed me hard and wet, tongue pushing in. His stubble scraped my jaw. I tasted beer and the salt on his upper lip. I hauled him close by the waist. His stomach gave against mine, and through the thin shorts his cock nudged my thigh, already thick. I shoved the waistband down. He stepped out. His cock stood curved and dark, shining at the slit. I stroked him once, slow, base to crown, and his breath broke on my mouth.

We fought my shirt off. His palms raked my chest and opened my belt. Work pants and briefs hit my boots. He dropped to his knees on the warm hardwood and took me in deep on the second try, lips tight, tongue flat under the shaft, fist working what his mouth could not hold. I braced on the brick. Spit ran over his knuckles. He moaned around me and looked up, eyes wet from the effort, and took me until his nose pressed in and he had to pull off, a string of spit still linking his lip to the head.

I put him on the mattress. The sheets were damp from the day. I sucked a nipple until it tightened, licked sweat from under it, and followed the hair past his navel. His cock filled my mouth, salty, and I worked him with a twisting fist at the base, tongue on the head each time I rose. His thighs opened. I palmed his ass and spread him, thumb rubbing the tight heat there while I swallowed him down. He shoved the lube into my hand.

I slicked a finger and pressed in while I kept sucking him. He bore down and took it. I curled, in and out, until his cock jumped and a clear bead slid into the hair on his stomach. A second finger. He gripped, then gave, fluttering around my knuckles. More lube. I scissored him open until he rocked back onto my hand.

I rolled a condom on, slicked it, hooked his knees up, and pushed in. The first inch fought me. He exhaled and I sank, heat clutching all the way. I held there, forehead to his, both of us shaking, then moved. Long strokes, almost out, then deep until my hips met the soft give of his ass. Sweat dropped from my chin to his chest. I shifted the angle. He clawed my shoulders, mouth open, a rough sound knocked out of him on every thrust. I fucked him harder. The crate by the bed knocked the wall. His hole gripped me on every pull back, hot and slick, and I sank in to the root each time. Skin slapped. His cock bounced and leaked between us, and I fisted it tight, thumb over the head, matching the pace.

He came with a sudden clench that milked me, cock pulsing in my hand, striping his chest and the hollow of his throat. I drove through it, slower, deeper, until the heat in my gut broke. I buried myself and ground there, coming in long pulses inside the condom, a groan torn out against his neck. Cold air from the repaired unit finally reached the mattress and lifted goosebumps on our wet skin. The fan clicked over us. His cum cooled where my hand had smeared it across his chest, and the loft smelled like sex instead of a broken machine. I eased out, tied the condom off, and let him keep my wrist a second longer than the job required.