Taken Apart in a Tucson Casita

The monsoon broke over the Tucson foothills just after nine, and the inn's pool deck steamed under the lights. I was thirty-one and barefoot on the casita porch with a warm beer, shirt open, when the gate clanged. A man came through with a tool bag, soaked through a gray work shirt, dark hair stuck to his forehead. He looked mid-thirties, thick through the chest and arms, short beard, sun lines cut deep at his eyes. He saw me and stopped.

- You Cole? Front desk said casita four had the only working outdoor light.
- That's me. Pump dead again?
- Dead and loud about it. I'm Andre. I was supposed to be gone an hour ago.
- Beer's warm, but it's yours if you want it. I'm not sleeping in this heat.

He looked at the bottle, then at my chest, where sweat had plastered the shirt to my ribs. The look sat on me long enough that I felt it low in my stomach, a slow pull.

- I'll take it after. You mind if I kill the pool lights so I can hear the motor?
- Kill whatever you want.

He worked twenty minutes while rain ticked the palo verde and heat lightning walked the ridge. I watched his back move under the wet cloth, the ridge of muscle above his belt, the way he swore when the wrench slipped and bit his knuckle. When he straightened, water ran from his hair down his throat and into the open collar. He caught me staring and didn't do me the favor of pretending.

- You gonna keep watching, or you gonna ask.
- Come inside. Shower's hot. I've got a dry towel and a bed I'm not using right.

He set the tool bag by the door like he'd already decided. The casita was one room, saltillo underfoot, a bed with the white cover kicked down, the window unit losing to August. He smelled like rain and chlorine and warm skin. I shut the door. His hand found my hip and stayed, heavy, thumb pressed to the bone.

He kissed me hard, mouth hot, beard scraping my jaw, tongue pushing until I opened and gave him the sound I'd been holding on the porch. I got the wet shirt off him. His chest was broad and furred, nipples dark, a pale scar along one rib that I put my mouth on. He made a rough noise in his throat and walked me backward until my calves hit the mattress.

We stripped the rest without slowing down. His cock was thick and heavy, already hard against my stomach, the head slick and flushed. I went to my knees on the tile. It was cool against my shins. His hand settled in my hair, not shoving, just holding me there. I took him in slow, tasting salt and rain and the bitter start of precum. I worked my tongue under the ridge, then down the shaft, lips stretched, jaw aching in a way I wanted more of. He thickened against my tongue. I stroked what I couldn't swallow and sucked him until his thighs tightened and his fingers curled hard against my scalp.

He pulled me up and kissed the taste off my mouth, filthy and unhurried. Then he turned me and bent me over the bed, chest to the sheets, ass up, one palm spread wide on my lower back. He dropped behind me. His breath hit first, hot, then his tongue, broad and wet, licking slow over my hole until I was pushing back and gripping the sheet in both fists. He didn't rush it. He licked me open, spit slicking me, one thick finger pressing in beside his tongue, then two, curling until my cock jerked and leaked onto the cotton. I reached back and spread myself. He understood what I was asking for.

There was lube in the nightstand. He used a lot. I heard the cap, felt the cold shock of it, then the blunt heat of him lining up against me. He pushed in steady, an inch, a pause while I breathed, another inch, stretching me until the burn went bright and then turned sweet. I bore down and took him. He sank the rest of the way and stayed buried, hips flush to my ass, one hand on the back of my neck, the other locked on my waist. I could feel him pulse inside me.

He fucked me in long strokes, pulling almost out and driving back in, the wet sound loud in the small room, rain on the clay tiles keeping a rough time. My cock swung and slapped my stomach. Every thrust knocked a broken noise out of me. He shifted his hips and hit the spot that whited out the edges of my sight. I got a hand on myself. He knocked it away and took over, fist tight and slick with what I was leaking, stroking me in the same rhythm as his hips.

The pace broke. He hauled me upright so my back met his chest, still deep, and fucked me standing, one thick arm barred across my ribs, the other working my cock. His mouth was on my neck, teeth and breath and the scrape of his beard. I came like that, sudden and hard, spilling over his fist and the sheets, clenching around him until he groaned into my shoulder and lost the rhythm. He pushed me back down and finished in short, rough thrusts, then pulled out and came across my lower back and ass, hot stripes that cooled fast in the struggling AC.

He stayed over me, forehead between my shoulder blades, both of us breathing hard. His hand smoothed through the mess, slow, thumb dragging over my skin. Outside, the pump clicked and held. The rain thinned. I turned my head. He was watching me, mouth swollen, eyes dark, already staying.