That night had ended hotter than the dying embers in the fireplace—Brody and I staggering upright long after Matt had sauntered off to shower. My skin still hummed from their touch, freshly scrubbed but already slick again with a sheen of sweat and the ghost of their fluids. The carpet bore the evidence of my earlier mess; I'd scrubbed at the spot with a damp towel while Brody lounged naked on the couch, his thighs spread lazily, watching me with the dopey contentment of a well-fed lion. I’d pulled on my underwear and shirt—some absurd modesty kicking in despite everything—and Brody had just grinned when I’d tossed his sweatpants at his head.
We’d killed the fire together, unsure if anyone else would wander downstairs, then climbed the steps with Brody trailing behind me, scooping up his discarded clothes like an afterthought. Upstairs, steam curled from the open bathroom door, and Matt’s room stood wide—freshly showered, toweling off his buzzcut as he stepped into clean boxers. He caught my gaze, winked without breaking stride, and Brody nearly barreled past me into our room before I planted a hand on his chest. "Shower," I ordered, wrinkling my nose. He’d grumbled about post-sex naps, but I’d dug my fingers into his pec. "Not even you get to be a stinky stud in my bed." That earned me a boyish grin before he’d turned, his bare shoulders blocking the hallway light as he disappeared into the bathroom.
I’d hesitated outside Derek’s door—closed, no light bleeding underneath. No good would come of poking that bear tonight. Tomorrow, maybe.
——————
Morning came too early, sunlight slicing through the cabin’s thin curtains. Brody snored beside me, one arm flung over his face, sheets pooled around his waist. 8 AM on our last day, and my body thrummed with restless energy. I slipped out, padding downstairs to find Derek already at the kitchen table, phone in one hand, water bottle in the other. He glanced up as I entered, and for a heartbeat, I braced for tension—but his smirk was dry, not sharp.
"How's the walking?" Derek asked without looking up from his phone, his voice flat as a tire run too long on gravel. Only then did he lift his gaze, one eyebrow arched in that infuriatingly knowing way of his. His dark eyes skimmed me from hair to feet, lingering just long enough on me before adding, "Or are you still sore enough to waddle?"
I choked on my own spit, managing a strangled laugh. His smirk didn't waver. Morning light cut across Derek's sharp cheekbones, making his dark eyes even more unnervingly bottomless as they tracked my reaction.
I walked—okay, fine, *waddled*—past Derek toward the coffee machine, each step making my thighs protest with a delicious soreness. His gaze followed me, sharp and assessing, but not hostile. That was something, at least. The coffee machine whirred to life under my fingers as I scooped grounds into the filter, my back to him. The silence stretched, thick enough to cut with a knife, but Derek wasn’t the type to let tension simmer without poking it.
"You’re moving like you got hit by a truck," he observed, voice dry. "Two trucks." His fingers tapped idly against his water bottle.
I snorted, pouring coffee grounds with deliberate slowness. "One cyclist, one mechanic." The machine hissed to life. "Different skill sets."
Derek’s smirk was a razor’s edge. "Brody’s got stamina. Matt’s got technique." He tilted his head, studying me like a chessboard mid-game. "You’re the one who came out looking like a used dishrag."
I shrugged, leaning against the counter as the coffee dripped. "Why the sudden change of heart?" The steam curled between us, blurring Derek's sharp features for a second. "Last night you were acting like an ass. Now you're... what? Cool with it?"
Derek took a slow sip from his water bottle, his throat working as he swallowed. "Never minded who you fuck," he said, setting the bottle down with deliberate precision. "Just took some sober thinking to realize it’s not my call." His gaze flicked up, dark and unreadable. "Doesn’t mean I don’t think less of you now, though."
The coffee machine sputtered. I grabbed a mug, focusing on the pour to hide the way my fingers twitched. "Because I fuck Brody? That’s rich."
"Not Brody." Derek’s voice was low, almost conversational. "Matt. The way you folded for him. Eager eyes, lustful mind." He tilted his head, studying me like a bug under glass. "Thought you were different. Less... stereotype."
I knew better than to rise to Derek’s bait—he’d carved that lesson into me years ago with the precision of a surgeon. So I let his comment hang in the air like cigarette smoke, bitter but dissipating quickly. Instead, I took a slow sip of coffee, letting the heat sear my tongue before answering. "Think whatever you want," I said, shrugging. "I know my worth. And just because I like fucking musclebound hunks doesn’t make me some stereotype."
Derek’s smirk softened—just slightly—at the edges. He exhaled through his nose, a quiet concession, before tapping his water bottle against the table. "Touché," he muttered, shifting gears effortlessly. "So what do you want to do today? Eat outside, maybe walk through town? We could head back early—be home before midnight."
The pivot was smooth, intentional. Derek had always known when to push and when to fold, and right now, he was choosing peace. I hummed, nodding as I brought the mug back to my lips. "Sounds good."
For a while, we sat in comfortable silence—or as comfortable as it ever got with Derek. The morning light warmed the wooden table between us, and outside, birds chirped like they hadn’t just witnessed the filthiest night of my life. I finished my coffee, the bitter aftertaste lingering as I drummed my fingers against the ceramic. Eventually, I pushed back from the table, the chair scraping softly against the floor.
Derek’s gaze flicked up, one eyebrow quirking as I stood. "Going for round two?" he asked, voice low and teasing, but his dark eyes held none of the sharpness from before—just playful challenge.
I rolled my eyes. "Shut up," I shot back, but the grin tugging at my lips betrayed me.
He watched me walk away—slow, deliberate strides, each step making my thighs protest—and I didn’t need to turn around to know Derek’s smirk had deepened.
-----
The day unfolded with the kind of easy rhythm that only comes after all the tension's been fucked out of a group. Brody and Matt had stumbled downstairs around mid-morning—Brody with sleep-tousled hair and Matt already smirking like he knew exactly how his presence would land. He’d leaned against the kitchen counter, popping a piece of toast into his mouth before aiming a lazy jab at Derek. "So, boss—still pissed about last night’s show, or did you jerk off to the mental replay like the rest of us?"
Derek hadn’t even looked up from his phone. "Only thing I’m jerking off to is the thought of you shutting the fuck up before noon," he’d said, voice flat as a tire run too long on gravel. But the edge was gone—just a tired tolerance, the kind reserved for idiots you’ve known too long to bother hating. Matt had barked a laugh, clapped Brody on the shoulder like they were co-conspirators, and that was that.
We’d wandered through the town center by midday—a quaint ski village with cobblestone streets and shops selling overpriced wool socks and maple syrup in glass bottles. Matt had made a show of flexing in front of a store window, his reflection grinning back at us as he pretended to admire his own arms. "You think they sell Lycra here?" he’d asked, dead serious. "Might need a new pair after last night’s workout." Brody had actually considered this, nodding slowly before Derek grabbed his elbow and steered him into a chocolate shop.
Dinner was at a dimly lit tavern with wooden beams overhead and a fireplace large enough to roast a boar. Matt had ordered three desserts "for recovery," and Brody—bless him—had tried to match him bite for bite until his eyes glazed over in a sugar coma. Derek had watched it all with the detached amusement of a zookeeper, occasionally flicking a breadcrumb at Matt when he got too loud.
By the time we packed up the cabin, the sun was dipping behind the mountains, casting long shadows over the driveway. Our bags were heavier with souvenirs and dirty laundry, the air thick with the scent of pine and the unspoken understanding that whatever had happened here wouldn’t be discussed in the rearview mirror. I claimed the front seat this time, mostly to avoid being sandwiched between the door and Brody’s thighs.
The hum of tires on asphalt had lulled us into a drowsy silence for the first two hours, broken only by Derek’s occasional commentary on the scenery and Matt’s intermittent snoring in the backseat.
----
Eventually, Matt woke up. For the final thirty minutes of the trip, he transformed into a human landslide of words, recounting every imagined detail of the "legendary" status he’d earned at the cabin, his voice bouncing off the interior of the car like a pinball. By the time Derek pulled up to the curb of Matt’s driveway, the air in the car felt physically heavy with the residue of Matt's energy. As Matt hauled his gear from the trunk and swung his bag over his shoulder, I heard Derek exhale a long, shuddering breath of pure release beside me. I didn't need to look at him to know we had both been pushed to the brink of sensory overload.
"See you tomorrow at the gym," Brody called out, his voice steady and simple. Matt just smirked, leaning back against the trunk. "Yeah, just right after the makeup sex with my girl," he quipped, though his eyes weren't on his house. He paused, glancing between the seats "and Brody, fill your bro up for me as well, will ya?"
Matt lingered for a heartbeat, watching as Derek buried his face in his palms and I felt the heat climb rapidly up my neck. With a final, knowing wink, Matt slammed the trunk shut and disappeared inside his house. Derek didn't say a word; he just shifted the car into gear and peeled away from the curb, leaving Matt’s chaotic energy behind. As we cruised through the familiar, sleepy streets of our town—past the bakery that always smelled of burnt cinnamon and the old cinema with the flickering neon sign—the silence in the car felt thick. I kept stealing glances at Derek, trying to read the set of his jaw. He was always a puzzle, a man who played social games for sport, and I still wasn't entirely sure if he was in favor of my arrangement with Brody or if he was just enjoying the spectacle of my flustered state.
The drive to the house was short, the scenery blurring into a comfortable rhythm of Townhouses. When Derek finally pulled up to the curb in front of Brody’s place, the engine died with a soft shudder. "See ya," Derek muttered, his dark eyes scanning over the two of us one last time. Brody was already halfway to the front door, effortlessly hauling both our bags in his massive grip, his shoulders rolling under his shirt like tectonic plates. I started to step out, but just as I shifted, Derek leaned toward the open window and whispered, "Don't fuck too hard, yeah?"
I froze, my foot halfway to the pavement. My mouth fell open in a perfect 'O' of surprise, and I could actually feel my brain stuttering. Derek didn't wait for a response; he just caught the expression of utter bewilderment on my face, let out a sharp, satisfied huff of a laugh, and flashed a quick wink before accelerating away. I stood there on the sidewalk, blinking at the empty street, the sound of his engine fading into the distance. What the hell was that? The question looped in my mind, but as the shock wore off, a slow, triumphant smile crept across my lips. The cold, calculating Derek had just made a joke about my sex life—he wasn't just tolerating it; he was acknowledging it.
"Mika? You coming?" Brody called out from infront of the door.
I smiled, satisfied by the lingering echo of Derek’s comment, and followed Brody inside. The hallway felt smaller than usual, perhaps because Brody seemed to take up more space with every passing day, his presence humming like a live wire. I trailed after him, the rhythmic thud of his heavy footsteps leading the way up the stairs and through the front door of his space. The second we crossed the threshold, I let out a long, shaky exhale and collapsed onto the couch, kicking off my shoes with a sense of liberation. I watched him place our bags by the bathroom door, his movements slow and unhurried.
"Don't worry about the laundry, I'll do it for you tomorrow before I leave," I called out, my voice dipping into a playful lilt.
Brody straightened up and turned to face me, a wide, guileless grin splitting his face. He looked like a golden retriever in human form—beautifully stupid and devastatingly built. He was still in his drive gear: a plain white t-shirt that strained across his chest and grey sweatpants that clung to the massive pillars of his thighs. I told him it was for the best since he had no concept of what color matching actually meant, but in reality, I just wanted a clear view of him in those sweats. He hadn't hit the gym much at the cabin, and while his muscles weren't as sharply peaked as usual, that slight softness only made him feel more touchable, more visceral. My gaze traveled from the thick sweep of his arms beneath the cotton sleeves down to the heavy drape of his lap. I licked my lips, a sudden heat pooling in my stomach.
He didn't notice my hunger, wandering into the kitchen area beside me to rummage through the freezer. I chuckled, standing up and stretching. "We'll eat breakfast tomorrow, Brods. It's late, and I still need to shower." He looked mildly confused by the logic, but he accepted it with a heavy, affectionate pat on my shoulder that nearly knocked the wind out of me.
The shower was supposed to be a cleanse, but as the hot water hammered against my skin, my mind stayed locked on the sound of Brody pacing the bedroom outside. Being back in the privacy of his place, away from the prying eyes of Derek and Matt, triggered something primal. The steam clouded the glass, and the silence of the house amplified every shift of Brody's weight in the next room. I felt a surge of restlessness, a need to see those marble muscles slick with soap and water.
"Brody? You there?" I yelled through the door.
"Yeah," came the muffled, steady response.
"You want to shower tonight?" I asked, my voice turning sheepish, tentative.
"Yeah, probably."
"Want to join me?"
There was a long pause. I could almost hear the gears turning in his head, the slow-motion processing of the invitation. Then, the thud of his footsteps approached, and the door opened slowly. He stood there, blinking, his expression a picture of confusion. I didn't bother covering up, enjoying the way his eyes immediately dropped to my wet skin.
"We didn't really get any movement in the car, did we?" I murmured, leaning back against the cool tile, letting the steam wrap around us. "Probably going to be hard to fall asleep now if we don't get to move some of this energy."
Brody stood in the doorway, blinking slowly. His expression shifted, a slow-motion transition from a blank slate of confusion to a sudden, flickering realization. He tilted his head, the gears finally clicking into place as he processed the invitation—and the implication. "Yeah," he rumbled, his voice dropping an octave, "I guess that's a good idea."
Mentally, I was already vibrating, my heart hammering against my ribs in anticipation, but physically, I stayed rooted, wanting to savor the spectacle. Brody didn't hesitate. He stepped into the small, humid space, and then he began to dismantle himself.
I watched him going for it, my breath hitching as the slow-motion choreography of his undressing began. He didn’t just take off his clothes; he shed them like a heavy skin, each movement amplifying the sheer scale of him. He started with the white t-shirt, reaching up with both arms in a wide, sweeping motion that pulled the cotton taut across his chest before he hauled the garment over his head. The action flared his lats, making his upper body widen into a massive, imposing V-shape that momentarily blocked out the bathroom light. As the shirt fell to the tiled floor, his torso was revealed—a landscape of dense, golden-brown muscle, his chest wide and smooth, sloping down into abs that looked like they had been pressed into place by a master sculptor.
Then came the grey sweatpants. He gripped the waistband with those thick, calloused fingers, sliding the fabric down over the edges of his thighs. I felt a familiar, sharp pull in my gut as the fabric dipped, revealing the heavy, powerful curve of his quads and the deep groove where his leg met his hip. He stepped out of them with a clumsy, effortless grace, his large feet shifting on the wet floor. He didn't even pause, leaning down to peel off his socks in one quick motion, leaving him standing before me in nothing but a pair of tight briefs that struggled to contain the heavy, resting weight of him.
Brody didn’t linger in the hesitation of half-dressed. With one fluid, heavy motion, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his briefs and hauled them down. He didn't use his hands to clear the fabric; instead, he stepped out of them with a clumsy sort of efficiency, using his large feet to kick the bunched cloth away toward the bathmat. He stood there for a heartbeat, completely exposed, the golden light of the bathroom catching every ridge of his physique, while looking down at me with that wide-eyed, guileless curiosity.
Before I could even blink, he stepped into the shower. He didn't wait for me to shift or make room; he simply surged forward in interest, his pure, massive bulk displacing the space around me. The impact was soft but absolute, his heavy chest pressing against mine and his thick thighs pinning me against the cool, wet tile. The sensation of skin-on-skin contact was an electric shock— but that didn't stop my hands from reaching for his cock on autopilot.
My fingers curled around him, the skin hot and velvet-smooth, contrasting with the rigid strength of the shaft. I began to caress him on autopilot, my palm sliding up the length of his hardening dick, feeling the way he pulsed under my touch. I didn't look away; I kept my gaze locked on his, tilting my head back to drink in the expression on his face. The eye contact was electric, a silent conversation where my hunger met his slow-burning curiosity. As I tightened my grip and slid my hand upward, grazing the crown, I watched Brody’s mouth drop open just a fraction. He looked stunned, as if he were discovering a new sensation for the first time.
The sight of him so undone—this mountain of a man reduced to a state of breathless anticipation—sent a jolt of heat straight to my core. I didn't stop the rhythmic stroking, my thumb circling the head of his cock to coax out every drop of pre-come. Feeling the surge of power I held over him, I shifted my weight, pushing up onto my tiptoes. I leaned in, the distance between us closing until I could feel the humidity of his breath on my lips. I didn't know if he’d react in time, but I didn't care; I just wanted to feel him.
Brody took a few seconds to process the movement, his eyes blinking as if waking from a dream, and then he leaned down. When his lips touched mine, the kiss was surprisingly soft, a tentative exploration that tasted of salt and steam. I took the lead, my tongue grazing his lower lip, guiding the pace of the kiss while my hand remained locked on him, continuing the slow, steady friction that kept him grounded.
His arms found my back, his large palms spanning the width of my shoulder blades with a gentle, protective pressure. He held me close, pulling my slender frame flush against the dense wall of his chest. The contrast was intoxicating—my smallness eclipsed by the sheer volume of him. We sank into a deep, slow kissing session, the kind that felt less like a rush and more like a long-awaited homecoming.
As the kiss deepened, I could feel the muscle in his thighs twitching against mine, his body reacting instinctively to the stimulation. He groaned low in his throat, a sound of pure, uncomplicated contentment that vibrated against my lips. He wasn't thinking about the logic of the moment or the boundaries of the world outside the shower curtain; he was just feeling the warmth of my touch and the pull of my mouth. I shifted my grip, squeezing him firmly, and felt him lean into me, his weight pressing me further into the tile as he surrendered entirely to the feeling.
"God, I love that you're so big," I breathed, the words barely escaping as a whisper against the humid air. I didn't stop my hand, instead lengthening the strokes, sliding my palm from the very base of his heavy shaft all the way up to the crown. He was fully erect now, a rigid pillar of heat that felt like it could anchor the entire room. The sheer mass of him had me pinned, my back pressed flat against the cold shower tile while his expansive chest—his pecs sitting right at my eye level—loomed over me like a cliffside of golden skin.
Brody let out a shaky breath, his gaze softening as he looked down at me. "I think... I like how different we are, too," he rumbled, the honesty in his voice making my heart do a clumsy flip. I beamed up at him, my eyes half-closing in bliss as I continued to worship his length, but then I felt it—the heavy, calloused brush of his hand sliding down past my waist. I shuddered, a sharp gasp escaping me as his fingers found my cock. It was a bold move for him, a sudden leap forward in his usual slow-motion confidence, and it sent a jolt of pure electricity through my spine. I sank deeper into his frame, my own stroking pausing for a heartbeat as he began to mirror my movements. His touch was surprisingly soft, a gentle graze that felt almost too teasing, edging me closer to the brink with every cautious slide of his thumb.
I was utterly at his mercy, my mind floating in a haze of arousal and the scent of damp skin. I found myself leaning forward, my mouth slightly open, and without even realizing it, I let a bit of drool slip onto the center of his chest. Brody let out a low, genuine chuckle, the vibration rattling through my own ribs. "You look cute," he murmured, his smile wide and innocent. The comment, combined with the precision of his touch, was the final trigger. I cried out, my body arching as I came hard into his hand, the release sudden and explosive.
I blinked, panting, feeling a flicker of annoyance that I’d peaked so quickly. "Damn," I whispered, leaning my forehead against his collarbone. "I can't believe I went that fast."
Brody looked surprised, his brow furrowed as if he’d accidentally broken something. "Did I do it wrong?"
I laughed, reaching up to pinch his cheek. "Do wrong? Brody, you did it perfectly. That’s why I came so fast." He beamed, the victory settling into his expression, and I felt a surge of possessiveness. I wanted to give back to him—to really dive into the mass of him—but the logistics of the shower were becoming a hindrance. My brain, always three steps ahead, pivoted. I was already clean, and Brody still needed a proper rinse to get the soap off his back. More importantly, the idea hit me: if I stepped out now, I could dry off and prep myself for some anal while he finished up. The thought of sliding onto him later, fully ready and waiting, made my pulse race.
I stopped stroking him and gave his chest a playful push, creating just enough space to step out from under the hammering water. "Bed. We can continue in the bed after you're done showering," I told him, my voice dripping with promise.
Brody stood there for a second, looking profoundly confused and visibly needy, his cock still pulsing and rigid in the steam. He looked like a lost puppy who had just been told the walk was canceled. To soften the blow, I reached back and patted his massive shoulder, feeling the dense muscle ripple under my palm. "No need to be sad, big guy. It'll be way better in a few minutes if you hurry up," I teased, winking at him.
The "dumb" part of his brain clicked into gear, and he let out a huff of excitement. He reached for the shower gel, his movements sudden and eager, clearly motivated by the prospect of what was waiting for him in the bedroom.
I stepped out of the shower, dripping and shivering slightly as the cool air of the bathroom hit my skin. I grabbed a plush towel, wrapping it around my waist, but my mind was already in the other room. I moved with a deliberate, feline grace, gliding toward the bedroom where the dim light cast long, soft shadows. I could hear the muffled sound of the shower continuing—the heavy thuds of Brody moving in the small space, the water splashing against his broad back.
Once inside the room, I didn't waste a second. I dried myself off rather carelessly., stripped off the towel and walked over to the nightstand, reaching for the lube. I laid back on the bed, my legs spreading naturally as I began to prep myself, my fingers working slowly to open me up for him. As I worked, I imagined the weight of him—the sheer, crushing pressure of those tree-trunk thighs and the heavy thud of his heart against my chest. I wanted to feel every single inch of him, and knowing he was currently scrubbing himself clean just to get to me made the anticipation almost unbearable.
The six minutes since I’d retreated from the steam weren’t nearly enough to properly prep myself for a man of Brody’s dimensions, but they were enough to leave me supple, open, and aching. I was vibrating with a restlessness that only he could soothe. When the bedroom door finally groaned open, Brody didn’t even have the patience to wrap a towel around his waist; he simply walked in with it gripped in one massive hand, half-drying his perfect skin as he went. He looked like a storm cloud of muscle, his chest still glistening with stray droplets of water that clung to the valley of his pecs. He was excited, wide-eyed and focused, and the sight of him—raw, heavy, and ready—sent a surge of heat crashing through me.
I didn't give him a chance to overthink the positioning. I rolled onto my belly with a deliberate, feline slow-motion, arching my back to present my backside to him. "Come and get it, Brods," I murmured, my voice a low, honeyed dare.
The bed didn't just creak; it groaned under the sudden, violent shift of weight as Brody leaped behind me. The mattress dipped sharply, nearly rolling me toward him, as his massive frame loomed over me like a mountain of warm skin. Even in his daze of arousal, he was surprisingly mindful; he’d learned the necessary lessons at the cabin. He reached for the lube on the nightstand, his thick fingers clumsily but effectively coating his length. He slid behind me, his movements heavy and uncoordinated, missing my opening once and rubbing the rigid head of his cock against my cheeks. The friction was electric, a teasing promise of the invasion to come, before he finally found the mark and pushed inward.
The entry was a bit rough, a touch too fast for the minimal foreplay I'd given myself, but the sensation of being stretched wide by him was a drug I couldn't resist. "Slow... go slow at first," I gasped, my face pressed into the pillow, my voice already breathless.
Brody paused, kneeling upright behind me. He was a good boy, patient and eager to please, and he began to modulate his rhythm. He started with shallow, tentative thrusts, the kind of soft, sliding movements that allowed my body to adjust to the sheer displacement of his mass. Each time he pushed in, I could feel the thickness of him stretching me, a slow-burn friction that turned the initial sharpness into a deep, radiating warmth. I loved the feeling of being utterly occupied, of my internals molding themselves around the rigid, pulsing heat of him.
The sensation was intoxicating, but the patience was only a prelude. As the tension in my hips shifted from a pinch to a throb of pure pleasure, I arched my back, pressing my backside harder against him. "Deeper," I whimpered, the word barely a sound. "
He didn't need a second invitation. With a low grunt that sounded more like a landslide than a human voice, Brody surged forward. The impact was absolute, the sheer mass of him bottoming out inside me with a wet, heavy thud that knocked the breath clean out of my lungs. I let out a sweet cry, my fingers clawing into the bedsheets as my internal walls were forced to accommodate every grueling inch of him. He didn't just fill me; he claimed the space, his thickness stretching me to a point of exquisite, dizzying tension that made my vision swim.
I stayed there for a heartbeat, as he leaned closer, pinning myself under the crushing weight of his chest, feeling the frantic, heavy thrum of his heart beating against my shoulder blades. He was shaking from exitement, his muscles locked tight as he fought the urge to simply collapse inside me. I could feel the rigid heat of his shaft pulsing against my prostate, a slow, rhythmic throb that sent sparks of electricity shooting through my core.
"Don't stop," I choked out, the words muffled by the pillow, though my body was already screaming the command.
Brody didn't need the prompt. He shifted his grip, his massive palms sliding from my waist up to my shoulders, pinning me flat against the mattress with a heavy, grounding pressure. He didn't just lean on me; he used his sheer bulk as an anchor, his weight distributed in a way that felt like being crushed. I felt the dense, corded muscles of his thighs bunching and releasing, the sheer power in his legs driving him forward with a sudden, renewed intensity. He began to move—not with polished precision, but with a raw hunger that felt far more honest.
The pace shifted. The slow, tentative exploration evaporated, replaced by steady, rhythmic thrusts that sounded like wet slaps against my skin. Each impact was a blunt force of pleasure, his thickness stretching me to the absolute limit as he hammered home. I started to moan, the sounds evolving from soft whimpers into loud, unshaped cries that echoed through the quiet room. I wanted him to hear it; I wanted the sound of my undoing to act as a fuel for him. As my voice grew louder, I felt him react, a guttural growl vibrating in his chest that felt like it was echoing inside my own lungs.
He was fucking me with a deliberate, heavy strength, his shoulders rolling with every plunge. I could feel the heat radiating off his skin, the scent of soap and musk filling the small gap between us. The friction became an unbearable, searing peak. I felt his grip tighten on my shoulders, his fingers digging into my skin as he let out a long, shuddering breath. He gave a few final, devastating surge, his entire frame locking tight as he bottomed out inside me with a force that made my vision blur.
A low, primal sound escaped him, the sound of a man who had finally found the only thing in the world that mattered. As he peaked, his thick, hot seed flooded into me in heavy pulses, I felt my own body shudder in response. Even though I’d already peaked once in the shower, the sheer intensity of being filled by him had pushed me back toward the edge; I was vibrating, hovering in a state of high-voltage arousal that felt like it might snap me in half.
Brody stayed pinned to me for a long minute, his breathing ragged and heavy against my neck. Then, with a slow, reluctant sigh, he pulled out. The sound was a wet, suctioning slide that left me feeling suddenly cold and empty. He stayed on his knees, looking down at the mess he’d made—the glistening evidence of his release coating the entrance of my backside. He looked almost shy, as if he were waiting for a grade on his performance. "You were amazing, big guy," I whispered, feeling the genuine need for validation in his eyes. "Absolutely perfect."
The praise made him beam, but my brain, still humming with a stubborn, needy heat, decided to push the boundary. I shifted slightly, glancing back at him with a mischievous glint in my eyes. "I do miss the taste, though," I murmured, my voice a low, teasing purr. "Would you mind helping me out?"
Brody blinked, his forehead wrinkling in that characteristic, confused bulldog way. He looked at me, then at the bed, then back at me. He didn't quite get the shorthand. I didn't say a word; I simply pointed two fingers toward my own lips and then gestured toward the creamy residue on my skin. The gears in his head turned slowly, and then, with a small "oh," it clicked. He leaned forward, his massive hand eclipsing my thigh as he reached down. With a blunt, unpracticed efficiency, he dipped two of those thick fingers into my heat, hooking out a small, glistening amount of his own seed. Since he’d unloaded so deep, there wasn't much, but it was enough.
I rolled over carefully, making sure not to drip on the sheets, and presented my body to him. I was still hard, my cock twitching with a lingering hunger. As he leaned over me, his presence once again blotting out the light, I opened my mouth. I met his gaze—his eyes wide and guileless—and wrapped my lips around his fingers. I sucked them slow and deep, swirling my tongue around the salt and musk of his release while maintaining intense eye contact. I let out a soft "Mmmm, so good," almost kissing his knuckles before finally letting him pull away.
"I can't help it, Brody," I panted, my voice strained. "You're just too good in bed. I feel like coming again."
Eager to be useful, Brody didn't hesitate. He reached down and gripped my cock, his hand so large that it felt like my entire length was engulfed by his palm. He wasn't an expert in technique, but the sheer scale of him did the work for him. He began to stroke me in long, steady motions, his palm hot and calloused, creating a friction that felt like a slow-burning fuse. He was too kind to edge me, his focus entirely on my pleasure, and the relentless rhythm of that massive hand brought me back to the precipice in minutes.
"I'm gonna...!" I gasped.
Brody accelerated, his grip tightening as he drove me toward the finish. As I erupted, the force of my orgasm sent my seed flying upward, splashing across his broad, muscular chest. He’d held me too upright—a classic rookie mistake—but I didn't care. The sensation of his hand continuing to work through the peak, squeezing me through the final, pulsing tremors, was heavenly. I lay there, panting and spent, as Brody finally let go, looking down at my exhausted form with a look of pure, uncomplicated affection.
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