Thunder Rolled and He Asked First

The storm hit the ridge above Emerald Lake right after we got the tent up. I was thirty-one and still stiff from the drive out of Denver. Mateo was twenty-eight, pack on a stump, hair plastered flat, grinning like he'd ordered the thunder. "My tent's a two-person if we don't get precious about elbows," he said. "Yours is a tarp with opinions. You'll be floating by midnight."

We'd been circling each other since the trailhead. The other two bailed in the lot, bad oysters or cold feet, and that left us a permit and twelve miles of switchback. He'd hiked ahead and I'd watched his shirt stick between his shoulder blades, the shift of his ass under the hip belt. At the creek he caught me looking and didn't look away. Rain was already coming sideways. My cheap tent bowed at the poles. "Yeah," I said. "I'm not sleeping in a puddle to prove a point."

Inside, nylon snapped under the wind. We hung wet layers from the peak loop. Headlamps threw the space orange. Mateo was broader than the pack had made him, chest hair dark on his skin, a pale scar along one rib. I was leaner and cold, trying not to stare when he shucked his base layer and came up with no dry shirt. "You can look," he said. "I've been looking since mile three. That switchback where you wrung your shirt out. I almost walked into a tree."

Want hit me clean, no room left to pretend. "I want to look," I said. "I want you. Say it plain, though. Don't just let it happen because we're stuck and my tent leaks." He sat back on his heels. Pine sap, sweat, mint gum. "I want you too, Leo. I want to kiss you. I want my hands on you if you want that. Stop me any time and we just sleep. Do you want me to kiss you?"

"Yes. Kiss me." His mouth was warm and wind-chapped. He kissed slow until I opened, then deeper, tongue against mine. I got a hand in his wet hair and pulled. His palm landed on my ribs, rough from the pole grips, and the cold made every touch burn. "Can I take your shirt off?" "Yeah. Yours too. I want your skin."

We got the rest of the damp clothes off between kisses, clumsy in the small space, laughing once when my elbow hit the wall and the whole tent shuddered. Then it stopped being funny. His body was solid against mine, heat pouring off him, his cock already hard against my hip, thick and bare. Mine ached, trapped between our stomachs, leaking at the tip. He wrapped a hand around me and stroked once, slow, thumb sliding over the head, watching my face in the orange light. "This okay?" "God, yes. Don't stop. Harder on the upstroke. I want your mouth on me if you want to." He nodded, eyes dark. "I want to. I'll go easy till you tell me otherwise."

He went down between my thighs on the sleeping bag. The pad was thin. I felt a root we hadn't cleared. His mouth was wet and sure, taking me halfway, tongue working the underside while one hand braced my hip so I couldn't shove in before he was ready. I swore and held his hair, not pushing. Lightning lit the sweat on his shoulders and the stretch of his lips around me. He pulled off, shiny-mouthed, fist still working. "I want you inside me. Lube and condoms are in the ditty bag. You good with fucking me?" My pulse hit my teeth. "Yes. I want to be inside you. You're sure?" "Sure since you said my name at the creek like you were tasting it. Come here."

He found the stuff by headlamp, tore the packet with his teeth, and rolled the condom down my cock, squeezing the base until I hissed. The lube was cold. He slicked me, then pushed two fingers into himself while I watched, breath short, cock twitching in his fist. He opened without rushing, jaw tight, a low rough sound when he curled them and his hips jerked. "Enough. I want you now. Start slow so I can take it, then don't baby me." He turned on his side, back to my chest, and reached behind to guide me. I pressed the head in slow. Tight heat gripped me and took me inch by inch, hot and slick, until I bottomed out, his ass flush to my hips. I held there, shaking, one hand spread on his stomach. "Okay?" "Move. Please. I want to feel you fuck me."

I fucked him in short, deep strokes, the tent full of skin and rain and the noises he didn't bother to swallow. His hand dragged mine down to his cock, hot and leaking, the head slick every time I stroked up. I worked him in time with my hips, mouth on the back of his neck, salt and rain on my tongue, his pulse jumping under my lips. "Harder," he said, voice shot. I gave it to him, hips snapping, the bag bunching under his ribs, his ass clenching hard whenever I hit deep and stayed a second. He pushed back to meet me, filthy and sure, saying my name, saying yes, saying don't you stop. He came first, spilling over my fingers in thick pulses, a shout the thunder nearly ate. The grip of him dragged me over. I buried myself and came, shaking, forehead pressed between his shoulder blades, spilling into the condom while he kept clenching like he wanted every bit of it.

We stayed until my arm complained. I pulled out careful, tied off the condom, and wiped us with the bandana he passed back. He rolled over, flushed, hair wrecked, smiling. "Still good?" "Better than good. You?" "I'll feel you on the hike out." That made me kiss him again, slower. Rain drummed the fly. He pulled the bag over us and set a hand on my chest. "Wake me if you want me again. Or if we start floating." I laughed into his shoulder. "I'll wake you. Count on it."