I pulled into the Burke driveway just after six, the sun still hanging low enough to turn the whole street gold. My parents’ flight had left that morning—a four-day weekend getaway for their anniversary and I’d told them I was fine staying home alone. Truth was, the idea of rattling around our empty house for the weekend made my skin crawl. Travis, my best friend, texted me the second he heard: “Dude, just crash here. Dad’s cool with it. ” So here I was, a duffel bag slung over my shoulder, feeling like the world’s most pathetic twenty-year-old refugee.
Travis met me at the door with that big, stupid grin of his. “Bro! You made it. Thought you’d chicken out and hide in your basement playing video games all week.”
“Shut up,” I muttered, shoving past him. “I brought beer. Your dad still drinks the cheap stuff?”
“Dad drinks whatever’s cold,” Travis laughed, clapping me on the back hard enough to make me stumble.
And then Jack Burke walked in from the hallway.
I’d seen him a hundred times over the years; picking Travis up from practice, grilling at barbecues, waving from the garage but something about today hit different. Maybe it was the way the late-afternoon light caught him, or maybe I was just hornier than usual after three months of dorm life and zero action. He was taller than I remembered…six-four at least, broad shoulders filling the doorway, dark beard trimmed but thick, salt-and-pepper starting to creep in at the edges. His navy polo stretched tight across his chest, the top two buttons undone so a wedge of dark chest hair peeked out like it was trying to escape. Forearms thick and veined from years of swinging hammers and lifting beams. Blue eyes that crinkled when he smiled.
“Hey, Caleb,” he rumbled, voice low and gravelly like he’d just woken up from a nap. “Good to see you, kiddo. Travis says you’re stuck solo for a bit.”
“Yeah,” I managed, throat suddenly dry. “Parents are off playing tourist in Paris or whatever. Didn’t want to crash the honeymoon.”
Jack chuckled, the sound vibrating right through my sternum. “Smart man. Come on in. Dinner’s almost ready.”
Dinner was burgers on the patio, nothing fancy, but Jack cooked them like he was performing surgery. Medium-rare, perfect char, buns toasted on the grill. Travis kept the conversation rolling, mostly about college girls and how I “still hadn’t sealed the deal with anyone worth mentioning.” I rolled my eyes, cheeks burning, and tried not to stare at Jack every time he leaned forward to grab the ketchup.
Every lean made the polo pull tighter. Every time he laughed at one of Travis’s dumb stories, those thick arms flexed, biceps rounding out like softballs under the sleeves. His laugh was deep, easy, the kind that made you want to laugh too even if you didn’t get the joke. And those eyes…fuck, those blue eyes kept flicking to me, friendly, curious, completely oblivious to the fact that I was mentally cataloguing every inch of exposed skin.
“So, Caleb,” Jack said at one point, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “you still doing that engineering thing? Building bridges in your head?”
“Something like that,” I said, forcing a smile. “Mostly just trying not to fail statics.”
He nodded, impressed. “Good head on your shoulders. You’ll be fine. Smart kid like you.”
Travis snorted. “He’s smart, but he’s still a virgin, Dad. Don’t let him fool you.”
I kicked him under the table. Hard.
Jack just laughed again, that rumble that went straight to my gut. “Plenty of time, boys. Plenty of time.”
After dinner Travis dragged me to the basement to play some shooter game while Jack cleaned up. I kept glancing at the stairs, half-hoping, half-dreading Jack would come down. He didn’t. By eleven Travis was yawning, claiming he had an early shift at the auto shop tomorrow. He crashed on the couch, his preferred sleeping spot when he was too lazy to climb stairs and I headed up to the guest room.
The house was quiet. Too quiet. My dick had been half-hard since dinner, traitorously twitching every time Jack shifted in his chair or reached for a beer. I stripped to my boxers, lay on the guest bed, and tried to will myself to sleep. No chance. My brain kept replaying the way Jack’s chest hair curled just above his collar, the way his forearms looked when he flipped the burgers, the low timbre of his voice saying “smart kid.”
I needed water. Cold water. Something to shock my system.
I padded barefoot down the hallway, past Travis’s snores, and into the dark kitchen.
And there he was.
Jack Burke, shirtless, leaning against the counter with a bottle of beer in one hand. He’d clearly just come back from a late night run—sweat still beaded on his shoulders, dark hair plastered to his forehead in places. That chest. Fuckin’ hell. Thick slabs of pec muscle dusted with black hair that trailed down in a perfect line over the ridges of his abs, disappearing into low-slung gray sweatpants that left exactly zero to the imagination about the heavy bulge hanging between his thighs.
He looked up when I stepped in, blue eyes catching the dim fridge light.
“Hey, kid,” he said softly, like he wasn’t standing there basically naked. “Couldn’t sleep?”
“Thirsty,” I croaked.
He nodded toward the fridge. “Help yourself.”
I opened it, cold air hitting my bare chest, and grabbed a bottle of water. When I turned back, Jack was still there, casually scratching at the hair on his pecs, biceps flexing without effort. The musk hit me then…clean sweat, faint deodorant, something deeper, masculine, intoxicating. My dick jumped in my boxers so hard I had to angle my body away.
“You okay?” he asked, tilting his head.
“Yeah. Just… hot in here.”
He chuckled. “Always is after a run. I like it warm. Makes me feel alive.”
He took a long pull from the beer, throat working, Adam’s apple sliding. A bead of sweat rolled down the center of his chest, catching in the hair, then continued south.
I stared. Couldn’t help it.
Jack noticed. Of course he fucking noticed.
Instead of calling me out, he just flexed one arm unconsciously, like he was stretching after the run. The bicep popped, vein snaking over it. “Been hitting the weights more since the divorce,” he said casually. “Keeps my head straight. You lift at all, Caleb?”
“N-not really,” I stammered. “I mean, sometimes. Gym at uni.”
“You should come with me sometime. I’ll show you a few things.” He grinned, dimples appearing under the beard. “Get some meat on those bones.”
My face burned. My cock throbbed painfully against the thin fabric.
He pushed off the counter, stepped closer to rinse his bottle in the sink. His arm brushed mine…hot, damp skin on skin. I froze.
“Night’s young,” he said, voice low. “You sure you’re good?”
“Yeah,” I lied. “Just gonna head back up.”
He nodded, eyes lingering on me a second longer than necessary. “Sleep tight, man.”
I practically ran back to the guest room, heart hammering, dick so hard it hurt.
Door closed. Lights off. Hand down my boxers before I even hit the mattress.
I pictured him…shirtless, sweaty, that thick chest hair glistening, the way his sweatpants clung to the outline of his cock. I imagined him flexing again, closer this time, letting me touch. Letting me taste the salt on his skin. Letting me drop to my knees right there in the kitchen while Travis snored downstairs.
I came in under thirty seconds, biting my lip so hard I tasted blood, ropes of cum spilling over my fist while Jack’s low laugh echoed in my head.
I lay there in the dark, chest heaving, cum cooling on my stomach, and tried to convince myself it was just a one-off. Just hormones. Just the fact that I hadn’t gotten laid in months. Just the fact that Jack Burke was objectively the hottest man I’d ever been in the same room with.
Bullshit.
I cleaned up with a sock…classy, then stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours. Every creak of the house made me flinch, imagining Jack padding past my door, still shirtless, still smelling like sweat and beer. Eventually exhaustion won, but it was shallow sleep, full of half-dreams where his big hands pinned me to the counter and his beard scraped my neck.
I woke up hard again around 2:30. Same problem. Same obsession.
Thirsty. Again.
I told myself I was just getting more water. Nothing else.
The hallway was pitch black. Travis’s snores drifted up from the basement like white noise. I crept downstairs barefoot, heart thudding louder than my steps.
Kitchen light was still on—dim, just the under-cabinet strip. Jack was there.
He hadn’t gone to bed. The TV was on.
He was leaning back against the island now, fresh beer in hand watching some match highlight, still shirtless, sweatpants slung even lower so the deep V of his hips showed, dark trail of hair leading straight down. His chest rose and fell slower now, post-run flush faded to a warm glow. The hair across his pecs looked thicker in the low light, nipples dark and peaked from the AC.
He looked up when I stepped in. No surprise this time. Almost like he’d been waiting.
“Back for more water?” he asked, voice husky from the late hour.
I nodded dumbly, throat clicking.
He jerked his chin toward the fridge. I grabbed another bottle, twisted the cap, took a long drink just to have something to do with my mouth.
Jack watched me the whole time.
“You’re jumpy tonight,” he observed.
“New place,” I mumbled. “Takes a minute to settle.”
“Fair.” He took a sip of beer, eyes never leaving me. “You’re different from when you were younger. Filled out a little. Still skinny, but… you’ve got some lines now.”
My face flamed. “Thanks?”
He laughed softly. “It’s a compliment, boy. Relax.”
I couldn’t relax. Not when he was standing there half-naked, cock visibly thick against the gray cotton, balls heavy in the pouch. Not when the musk was stronger now.
He scratched lazily at his chest, fingers dragging through the hair. “Divorce was two years ago,” he said out of nowhere. “Still weird sleeping alone sometimes. House feels too big.”
I swallowed. “Yeah. I get that. My parents being gone… it’s quiet.”
“Quiet’s good for thinking.” He tilted his head. “Or not thinking. Depends on the night.”
Silence stretched. Thick. Heavy.
I shifted, trying to hide the obvious tent in my boxers. He glanced down…quick, subtle, then back up. Smirked.
“You got guy habits yet, Caleb?” he asked, voice dropping lower.
“W-what?”
He shrugged one massive shoulder. “You know. Walking around naked. Jerking off with the door open. Shit guys do when no one’s watching. Or when they think no one’s watching.”
My mouth went dry. “I… uh… not really.”
“Shame.” He flexed his arm again, slow this time, deliberate. Bicep swelled, tricep horseshoe popping. “I’ve gotten lazy since Travis’s mom left. Lounge around in whatever. Sometimes nothing. Feels good. Natural.”
I stared at the flex like it was hypnotizing me. Because it was.
“You ever try it?” he pressed.
“N-no, Mr. Burke”
He nodded, like that made sense. Then he pushed off the island, stepped closer. Close enough I could feel the heat rolling off him.
“Should,” he said quietly. “Good for the soul. Let's you breathe.”
His hand landed on my shoulder…big and warm. Just resting there. Not squeezing. Not moving. Just there.
My dick jerked so violently I gasped.
Jack’s eyes flicked down again. This time he didn’t look away.
“Looks like you’re breathing plenty,” he murmured.
I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move.
He gave my shoulder one slow squeeze, thumb brushing my collarbone. Then he stepped back.
“Get some sleep, kid,” he said, turning toward the hallway.
He walked out, sweatpants riding low on his ass, glutes shifting with each step.
I stood there frozen until I heard his bedroom door click shut upstairs.
Then I bolted back to the guest room, locked the door, shoved my boxers down, and wrapped my fist around my leaking cock.
This time I pictured more.
His hand on my shoulder sliding lower. His thumb brushing my nipple. His beard scraping my throat while he whispered “good boy.” His thick cock still hidden in those sweatpants, pressing against my stomach while he flexed for me, let me touch, let me taste the sweat in that perfect line of chest hair.
I came again, harder, biting the pillow to keep quiet, imagining Jack’s low laugh in my ear as I spilled over my knuckles.
First night under his roof.
And I was already ruined.
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