The Caretaker Stayed for the Storm

The rain had been hammering the cedar roof since I turned off Highway 93, and the power died just as I got the woodstove lit. I was halfway through a burnt pot of coffee, flannel hanging open over my stomach, when the knock came hard enough to shake the latch. I opened the door in socks. Marcus Hale stood on the porch with a flashlight and a steel toolbox, lake water running off his beard, shoulders blocking most of the dark behind him.

- Generator's in the shed. Owner said you were up here by yourself.

- I'm Eli. Get in before the lake takes you.

He ducked under the lintel and the cabin filled with the smell of wet canvas, diesel, and him. Up close he was thicker than the blurry caretaker photo on the rental site, work boots planted wide, Carhartt gone dark at the shoulders, forearms furred and corded, a white nick through one eyebrow. His eyes dropped to my bare stomach, the soft hair there, then came back up to my mouth and stayed.

- You always open the door like that?

- Only when the guy knocking looks like he could warm the place faster than the stove.

He set the toolbox on the floor and didn't reach for it again. Rain ticked the windows. I could hear Flathead Lake slapping the pilings under the deck, steady as a pulse. He peeled off the soaked jacket. The T-shirt underneath stuck to his chest, nipples dark through the cotton, and when he breathed I watched his stomach move under it, solid through the middle and a little soft over his belt.

- I can get the lights back on. Or I can stay till this quits. Your call.

- Stay.

He crossed the rug in two steps. His hands were cold for a second, then not, sliding under the open flannel and over the give of my waist, thumbs pressing into the hair below my navel like he had already decided where he wanted me. I got his shirt off. His chest was broad and dense, nipples tight in the stove-glow, a trail of dark hair running down into his jeans. I kissed the salt at his throat and he walked me backward until my calves hit the couch and my flannel hit the floor.

He kissed like he worked, unhurried and sure, tongue sliding against mine while his palm cupped the weight of me through my shorts. I was already hard, the head of my cock wet against the cotton. He shoved the shorts down my thick thighs and wrapped his fist around me, rough callus dragging slow from base to tip until my knees went unreliable. I rocked into his fist. His free hand spread over my ass and pulled me in so our cocks lined up through his jeans, denim rough on my bare skin, and I ground against that thick ridge until both of us were breathing through our teeth.

He dropped to his knees on the braided rug. The first lick was flat and hot along the underside, then his mouth closed over me, wet and deep, beard scraping my stomach every time he took me to the back of his throat. I got a hand in his damp hair and held on. He sucked me with his eyes half-closed, one hand working what his mouth left, the other spreading my thigh wider, thumb stroking the soft inner skin until I was shaking and leaking on his tongue. I had to tug his hair to keep from finishing right there, and he let me slip free, lips swollen, looking up like he was nowhere near done.

He stood and turned me, bending me over the arm of the couch, chest in the cushions, ass up. I heard his belt and the wet sound of him spitting into his palm. His cock pressed thick and hot along the cleft of my ass, the blunt head catching at my hole while his thumbs spread me open. I pushed back. He sank in slow, inch by inch, stretching me until I was full and gasping into the cushion, the first burn giving way to a heavy perfect ache. He held there, one broad hand on my lower back, the other gripping the soft meat of my hip, and I could feel his pulse inside me.

Then he started to move. Each stroke dragged over that deep spot and lit me up, long pulls that nearly left me empty and slow drives that filled me again. The couch creaked. Rain hammered the glass. His balls swung against me, heavy and warm, and the sound of us was slick and close. He fucked me deeper, the head of his cock nudging me open until I was shoving back to meet him, sweat in the small of my back, my own cock leaking onto the rug. His stomach slapped my ass. He grunted every time he bottomed out and stayed an extra second, grinding, making sure I felt all of him.

He reached under and stroked me in time, fist tight, thumb smearing the wet at my slit, his chest coming down so I was pinned between the couch and the heat of him. Beard scraped my shoulder. I came first, hard, spilling over his fingers and the braided wool, clenching around him in pulses I couldn't control. He drove in to the hilt and stayed, and I felt him throb and spill, heat flooding deep, his whole body locked against mine while he emptied himself in slow helpless jerks.

He didn't pull out right away. He stayed buried in me, breathing hard against my spine, palm spread over my stomach like he was keeping count of my heartbeat. The stove ticked. Out on the lake the rain began to thin, and the cabin held us in the dark, warm and used, in no hurry to remember the generator at all.