The car smelled like pine air freshener and Dad’s aftershave. I slumped in the passenger seat, tugging at Brody’s borrowed shirt where it clung to my shoulders. Too big, obviously. The sleeves swallowed my wrists, the neckline sagging off one collarbone, and the fabric smelled like him—laundry detergent and something muskier, something I couldn’t name without blushing.
Dad did notice.
Of course he fucking noticed—because nothing ever slipped past him, least of all the fact I was swimming in Brody’s shirt.
The memory hit me fresh: Brody’s hands pinning my thighs apart, his breath hot against my hole, his tongue working me open while I jerked myself raw. Then his fingers—thick as hell, pushing in deep—crooking just right to make me come harder than I had in months. And after? The way he’d kneeled over me, cock heavy in his fist, stroking himself to the sight of his own cum streaked across my stomach. Fuck, even now, just *thinking* about it made my thighs twitch under Dad’s dashboard.
I shifted in the passenger seat, subtly adjusting myself. The shirt’s fabric whispered against my skin, still damp from my shower—the one I’d taken right after Brody finally let me up. The water had been scalding, but I hadn’t cared. Just stood under the spray, replaying every second—Brody’s grunts, his hands gripping my hips, the way his stupidly perfect face twisted when he came.
And then... nothing changed.
That was the best part. After cleaning up, after pulling on Brody’s clothes (because yeah, my shirt was *ruined*), we’d just... hung out. Like always. Three hours of dumb action movies and Brody demolishing a bag of chips, his thigh pressed warm against mine on the couch like it had been a thousand times before. No weirdness, no tension—just us, except now sometimes his hands wandered under my shirt when no one was looking.
Dad’s fingers tapped the steering wheel. "You’re quiet," he remarked, eyes fixed on the road. Casual. Too casual.
I shrugged, feeling the shirt’s seams drag across my shoulders. "Just tired."
A lie. I was wired, buzzing under my skin, every nerve still lit up from Brody’s touch. But Dad didn’t need to know that.
He hummed, noncommittal. The silence stretched, thick with things unsaid, before he finally asked, "You and Brody getting along okay?"
A loaded question if I ever heard one. But I grinned, leaning my head against the window. "Better than ever."
And it wasn’t even a lie.
---
Two weeks had blurred by in a haze of errands and obligations—Brody buried in oil-stained work shirts at the garage, me playing fetch-dog for Dad between college prep ("You're jobless till September, might as well make yourself useful," he'd grunted, tossing me the car keys).
Since Brody first pinned me to that couch, two weeks had passed in a blur of a few stolen blowjobs and sadly not a single overnight stay. Not that I was complaining—Brody’s thick cock was slowly becoming a familiar weight on my tongue, his groans louder each time I swallowed him down. But between his garage shifts and my dad’s endless "you’re free, so you’re my errand boy" mentality, we barely had time to breathe, let alone pick up where we left off. Which, let’s be honest, was me fantasizing about Brody’s stupidly broad shoulders pressing me into the mattress while he fucked me raw. The couch had been a good start—his hands gripping my thighs, his mouth messy and eager—but my brain kept looping back to how his hips would feel driving into me, how his dumb, earnest face would twist when he came inside me.
The opportunity for a good starting position came out of nowhere. Three days ago, Dad tossed me the car keys to fetch Brody from the gym before Mom’s dinner, and I found him and Derek by the parking lot, both freshly showered and visibly annoyed. Derek’s dark brows were pinched, arms crossed over his still-pumped chest, while Brody kept looking like a wet dog. Turned out Pete and Olivia bailing on their cabin trip last-minute had ruined their plans—something about four being the magic number for drinking games and overall most stuff.
Derek’s gaze slid to me as I leaned against the car, Brody’s gym bag hitting the trunk with a thud. "You free this weekend?" he asked, like it was casual, but his smirk said he already knew the answer.
Derek’s smirk curled wider when I didn’t hesitate—“Yeah, I’m free”—and Brody’s dopey grin sealed the deal before I could even process what I’d agreed to. A weekend in a cabin. With Brody, Derek, and some fourth guy they’d drag along to fill the roster. My brain short-circuited at the logistics: hot guys, thin walls, maybe even shared bedrooms?
Brody scratched the back of his neck, his biceps flexing under his damp gym shirt. “Maybe we can get Matt to come along? Cabin sleeps four,” he muttered, like the math physically pained him. Derek’s smirk sharpened—the kind of look that made you check your wallet wasn’t missing—before he pivoted toward me, arms still crossed over his stupidly defined chest.
“I mean he's jobless and the trip is paid for, he'd be stupid not to say yes.”
And thats how I ended up in the backseat of a rented car with three hot guys, my stupidly hot brother wedged next to me, his thigh pressing warm against mine. Derek lounged behind the wheel like he was born to drive—one hand draped lazily over the gearshift, the other tapping the steering wheel to some silent rhythm. Up front, Matt twisted in his seat to flash me a grin, sunlight catching the sharp angle of his jaw.
I didn’t know Matt yet, but Derek’s introduction had been characteristically shitty: “This is Matt. He’s technically employed, but cycling pays in exposure and crippling knee pain, so—” Matt had flipped him off mid-sentence, which told me everything I needed to know about their dynamic. Where Brody was thick all over—shoulders like a damn boulder, thighs that could crack walnuts—Matt was leaner, built for endurance rather than raw power. His legs were the main event: quads straining against his shorts, calves oddly narrow in comparison, like someone had forgotten to finish sculpting them. But his shoulders were still broad enough to make his waist look unfairly tapered, and his arms, while not as swollen as Brody’s, had the sinewy definition of someone who spent hours gripping handlebars at 30 mph.
Now, wedged between Brody’s warmth and the car door, I watched Matt twist in the passenger seat to smirk at me. “So you’re the little brother,” he said, sunlight glinting off his buzzcut. His voice was lighter than I expected—almost playful—but his gaze was sharp, assessing. “Brody talks about you nonstop. ‘Mika this, Mika that.’ It’s kinda cute.”
Brody’s thigh tensed against mine. “I do not,” he grumbled, but the tips of his ears went pink.
Derek snorted, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. “Bullshit. You’ve been whining about missing movie nights for weeks.” His smirk was knife-sharp when he added, “Most people are mom or dad sided—Brody’s *brother* sided.”
Brody stiffened beside me, fingers curling into his thighs. “That’s not—”
Matt barked a laugh, cutting him off. “Dude, dont even try to.”
I didn’t defend him—not because I was scared or whatever, but because watching Brody squirm was objectively hilarious. His neck flushed pink, his biceps flexing as he gripped his knees like they’d personally offended him.
The car erupted into laughter—even mine—while Brody slumped lower, his shoulder bumping mine. The contact lingered, warm and familiar, his skin radiating heat through the thin fabric of his shirt.
The conversation shifted like Derek had flipped a switch, steering us toward casual get-to-know-you territory with the precision of a puppeteer. And of course he succeeded.
But then there was the only problem I knew was coming: Six hours. Six fucking hours of Matt’s knees jostling, Derek’s aftershave clinging to the AC vents, Brody’s thigh radiating heat against mine like a furnace. By hour four, I’d memorized the exact shade of pink Brody’s ears turned when Matt teased him about his protein shake addiction. By hour five, Derek had orchestrated a debate on whether pineapple belonged on pizza (Matt: "Fruit’s fruit, man"; Brody, horrified: "It’s a *vegetable*"). By hour six, the car smelled like sweat, energy drinks, and the ghost of Derek’s cologne, and I was ready to claw my way out.
The cabin materialized like a mirage—two stories of weathered wood nestled in a cradle of snow-dusted pines. No yard, not that we needed one; the surrounding mountains were yard enough. Derek killed the engine with a satisfied sigh, stretching his arms until his shoulders popped. "Home sweet home," he declared, like he’d built the damn thing himself.
Matt was out first, cracking his spine with a groan that bordered on obscene. Brody unfolded himself next, his bulk momentarily blocking the sunlight as he stepped onto the gravel. I lingered, savoring the sudden space, the quiet. Three jocks in a confined space was... a lot. Not that I minded the view—Matt’s quads flexing as he hauled bags from the trunk, Derek’s back muscles shifting under his shirt as he stretched, Brody’s arms flexing as he hefted two duffels at once—but Christ, even eye candy got overwhelming after a while.
The cabin’s porch creaked under our collective weight. Derek jangled the keys like a game show host revealing a prize. "Beds are upstairs," he said, pushing the door open. "Two singles and a double. Double was for Pete and Olivia, but..." His smirk hooked sideways as his gaze flicked between Brody and me. "Given the new *dynamic*, figured you two could share."
Brody didn’t hesitate. "Sure, no problem," he said, shrugging like Derek had asked him to pass the salt. The utter lack of hesitation—the way his tone carried zero awareness of why this was *not* just a casual sleeping arrangement—made my stomach flip. He wasn’t imagining tangled limbs or shared body heat; he was picturing bunking like we had as kids, just with less elbow-jabbing over comic books.
Meanwhile, my brain had already sailed past Sex Island and was constructing a detailed itinerary.
Derek’s smirk deepened as he tossed Brody the keys. "Thought so."
Inside, the cabin was all rough-hewn wood and overstuffed furniture—a big open area with a kitchenette, a living room dominated by a stone fireplace, and a wooden staircase leading up to the bedrooms. We dumped our bags in the double room—queen bed, slightly saggy, with a quilt that looked like it had survived the 90s—and Brody immediately started unpacking his clothes with the focus of someone building a fort.
---
The day blurred into exploration—hiking through snow-dusted pines, mapping the cluster of vacation cabins around us, trekking into the tiny town further up the mountain. The place was postcard-perfect: wooden storefronts strung with fairy lights, a general shop that doubled as a ski rental, and behind it all, the looming silhouette of ski lifts waiting for tomorrow’s chaos.
Derek orchestrated everything with lazy precision, herding us into a diner for burgers, debating trail maps with Matt while Brody inhaled his food like it was a personal challenge. I watched the way Matt’s thighs flexed under the table when he stretched, the way Derek’s fingers drummed against his soda can in a rhythm only he understood, the way Brody’s biceps strained his sleeves every time he reached for the ketchup.
For them, it was just a weekend trip—another excuse to drink, hike, and bullshit around a fire. For me, it was a carefully orchestrated fuckfest waiting to happen. Every movement, every accidental brush of skin, every low laugh from Derek or dopey grin from Brody sent sparks skittering under my skin. My dick had been at half-mast since we left the car, and by the time we stumbled back to the cabin after dinner, I was dangerously close to popping a boner in front of everyone.
By the time we trudged back to the cabin, the cold had seeped into our bones, and the promise of tomorrow’s skiing hung in the air. We’d agreed—early start, gear rented by sunrise, full day on the slopes.
Now, back in our room, Brody flopped onto the bed with a groan, his weight making the frame creak. "Man, I’m beat," he muttered, rubbing his face. His shirt rode up, revealing a strip of golden stomach, the trail of hair leading south like an arrow.
I swallowed, toeing off my shoes. "Long day."
Brody hummed, rolling onto his side to face me. In the dim light, his eyes were darker, his expression softer. "You good?"
The question was so *him*—simple, earnest, like he genuinely cared if I was tired or cold or whatever. But my brain had been stuck on a loop all day: Derek’s smirk when Matt wolf-whistled at some ski instructor, Brody’s thighs flexing against mine in the car. My jeans were practically a death trap by now, and Brody’s dumb, sweet concern was the last straw.
I let my shoulders slump, exaggerating exhaustion as I flopped onto the bed next to him, lying on my stomach—close enough that our arms brushed. “Yeah, just... wound up, I guess.” I propped my chin on folded hands, watching his face through my lashes. “You know how it is—whole day with you guys flexing and laughing and making *comments*—”
Brody blinked. “What comments?”
The innocence in his voice was almost painful. Derek had spent half the drive making deadpan remarks about the way Matt’s cycling shorts clung, and Matt had volleyed back with graphic descriptions of his *equipment.* Meanwhile, Brody had just... nodded along, occasionally adding, “Yeah, thighs are important,” like they were discussing carb intake.
I rolled onto my side, facing him fully. “You’re seriously asking?” My fingers crept toward his waistband, hooking into the fabric just enough to tug. “All that *energy* bouncing around the car... Derek eye-fucking everyone, Matt talking about his *endurance,* you—” I trailed off, biting my lip.
Brody’s forehead wrinkled. “I wasn’t—”
“No, you *weren’t.*” I laughed, skimming my hand up his chest. “Which is worse. You’re just *there,* being all—” My palm flattened over his pec, thumb brushing his nipple through the thin cotton. “—and expecting me not to lose my mind.”
His breath hitched. Good.
I pushed up onto my knees, straddling his thigh—not quite grinding down, just letting him feel the heat of me through our jeans. “So yeah, I’m wound up.” My voice dropped, sugar-sweet. “And since *someone* dragged me on this trip...”
Brody’s hands settled on my hips, broad and warm, his thumbs pressing into the divots of my pelvis. “You want me to... help?”
The hesitation in his voice was adorable. Like he wasn’t already hardening under me, his dick twitching against my leg.
I leaned down, lips grazing his ear. “Only if you *want* to.” Letting the words curl, teasing. “I mean, you’ve been *so* good today—carrying bags, sharing the bed...” I leaned down, my teeth nipped his lobe. “Might be nice to let you... *unwind.*”
Brody’s grip tightened. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I rocked forward, just once, letting him feel the friction. “You could *thank* me.”
His exhale was ragged. “How?”
Idiot. Beautiful, oblivious idiot.
I guided his hand to my zipper, watching his pupils blow wide as his fingers brushed the bulge underneath. “However you want.”
Brody swallowed hard, his other hand sliding up my back to fist my shirt. “I—I could...” His hips jerked upward, seeking pressure. “You’d let me?”
As if I hadn’t spent six hours fantasizing about it.
And man, did he look kissable—lips slightly parted, his stupidly broad chest rising fast under my hands, all that raw strength coiled beneath me but holding perfectly still like he was afraid to move wrong. The thought flickered in my head—*just fucking kiss him already*—and then I was leaning in, slow enough to give him time to pull away if he wanted.
Brody didn’t pull away.
His breath hitched when I got close, eyes darting between my mouth and my gaze, but he didn’t tense up, didn’t hesitate. Just waited, lips barely an inch from mine, his big hands flexing on my hips like he wasn’t sure what to do with them. So I closed the gap.
The first press of his mouth against mine was warm, surprisingly firm—not tentative at all, like he'd been waiting for this as long as I had. I was a bit surprised; I didn’t expect him to kiss so *good*. Maybe it was my lead, maybe he was a natural or just mimicking what I did—didn’t matter. His lips were soft but insistent, his tongue sliding against mine with none of the awkward hesitation I’d braced for. Five seconds, max—not too long, not too short—just enough to leave my mouth wet and my pulse thudding in my throat. When we broke apart, his breath was uneven, eyes dark and focused on my mouth like he was already calculating when he could dive back in.
I licked my lips, tasting him—salt and the faint tang of the energy drink he’d chugged earlier. “We could try,” I murmured, trailing a finger down his chest. His muscles tensed under my touch. “I’ve been using toys the past couple weeks. You might even fit.”
Brody blinked, his brow furrowing. “Women never had to prep for me,” he said, like it was a point of pride and confusion all at once.
I snorted, rolling my hips against his thigh just to watch his nostrils flare. “Yeah, well, women are *designed* for it.” My fingers crept lower, skimming the waistband of his jeans. “But an ass? Tight from the first inch. Grips you *everywhere*.” I leaned in, nipping his bottom lip. “Way better, thats why you have to prep. Good doesn’t come from nothing, right?”
Brody’s brow smoothed out—simple terms, simple logic. His grip on my hips tightened, thumbs pressing into the divots above my pelvis like he was mapping the space. “Right,” he breathed, and then his hands were sliding up my back, pulling my shirt loose from my waistband. The fabric bunched under his palms, exposing a strip of skin that his fingers immediately traced, rough and warm.
I shifted, straddling him properly now—one knee planted on either side of his hips, my weight settled low against the thick ridge of his cock. He hissed, hips jerking up instinctively, but I pressed him back into the mattress with a hand to his chest. “Slow,” I murmured, watching his throat bob as he swallowed. “Gotta make sure you’re ready too.”
His hands flexed against my ribs. “I *am*—”
I smirked, dragging my palm down his chest, feeling the ridge of muscle twitch beneath my touch. "Aren't you a stallion," I murmured, fingers skimming the waistband of his jeans.
Brody's brows knit together for half a second—processing—before his expression smoothed into something stupidly proud. "Yeah," he said, flexing instinctively, his cock jerking against my thigh. The utter lack of awareness—the way he took it as literal praise for his physique rather than dirty talk—made my stomach flip. He didn’t *get* it, but god, that only made it hotter.
His hands slid up my sides, rough palms catching on fabric as he bunched my shirt higher. There was no hesitation in the way his fingers dug into my hips, no shyness as he arched up against me—just raw, eager want.
I rocked forward, grinding down onto the thick line of his erection, and Brody’s breath stuttered. His grip tightened, hauling me closer until our chests pressed together, heat radiating through our clothes.
"Off," I ordered, tugging at his waistband.
Brody obeyed instantly, and as I stood up, my feet planted on each side of his hips, I kicked my pants and underwear off in one messy motion, leaving me bare except for the oversized shirt clinging to my shoulders. Brody’s gaze dropped—exited—before he fumbled with his own jeans. His thick fingers popped the button with ease, yanking them down to his knees in one rough motion. His cock sprang free, already slick at the tip, and I didn’t wait.
I straddled him again, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his torso, my ass hovering just infront of his dick—close enough that his breath hitched when the heat of me brushed against him, but not quite touching. His hands gripped my hips like he was afraid I’d vanish if he loosened his hold. "Hold on," I murmured, nodding toward the nightstand. "Grab my toiletry bag."
Brody didn’t hesitate. His arms—stupidly long, stupidly thick—stretched past me toward the bedside table. The movement made his shirt ride up, revealing the flex of his abs, the shift of his pecs beneath the fabric. I watched, mesmerized, as his fingers closed around the small bag, his biceps swelling with the effortless motion. He handed it to me without a word, his pupils blown wide.
I dug out the lube, tossing the rest aside—the soft thud of it hitting the carpet barely registered. Uncapping the bottle, I coated my fingers, letting the excess drip onto Brody’s cock. He twitched, a groan punching out of him as I spread it slowly, deliberately, working him until he was slick and shining. His hips jerked when my thumb swiped over the head, but I pressed a palm to his stomach, pinning him down. "Easy," I chided, though my own breath was uneven.
Shifting back, I reached behind myself, fingers tracing my rim before pressing in—one, then two, working myself open with slow, practiced motions. Brody watched, transfixed, his hands flexing next to me like he wanted to help but didn’t know how. The stretch burned sweetly, familiar but still intense, and when I glanced down, his lips were parted, his chest rising fast.
"Ready?" I asked, though it wasn’t really a question.
Brody nodded, swallowing hard. "Yeah—*yeah*."
I lifted myself just enough to line him up, the blunt head of his cock pressing against me. Then, with a slow roll of my hips, I sank down.
The stretch was *immediate*—thick, unrelenting, stealing my breath in a sharp gasp. Brody’s hands found theyer way back to my thighs, his whole body tensing beneath me as I took him inch by inch. His head tipped back, throat working as he choked out a ragged sound. "Fuck—*fuck*—"
I paused halfway, panting, adjusting to the stretch before rocking forward slightly, letting him sink deeper. Gravity helped, but only so much—Brody’s cock was *thick*, the kind of stretch that made my thighs tremble just holding myself above him. Sweat beaded along my hairline as I forced myself down another inch, my rim burning sweetly around the girth of him. Two-thirds in, my body outright *stopped* me, muscles clamping down like a vice. I gritted my teeth, rocking back and forth in tiny, frustrated motions, but it was no use—my ass just wouldn’t take more right now.
"Fuck," I hissed, fingers digging into Brody’s pecs. His chest was heaving beneath me, his abs flexing with every shallow breath. I’d wanted this to be *perfect*—wanted to swallow him whole on the first try, leave him ruined for anything else. But my body had other plans. "Sorry," I muttered, grimacing. "I—I can’t—"
Brody’s hands, which had been feeling my thighs with rough appreciation, suddenly shifted—his palms sliding under me, thick fingers digging into the meat of my ass. Before I could process it, he *lifted* me like I weighed nothing, holding me suspended just above his cock while his hips rolled up in tiny, testing thrusts. The movement was effortless for him, like he was bench-pressing air, not a whole person. His biceps barely strained, veins barely popped—just pure, stupid strength on display.
“You’re good,” Brody rumbled, his voice thick like he was holding back a groan. His thumbs dug into the meat of my ass, kneading as he held me aloft—effortless, like I was nothing more than a bag of groceries. “Feels *fuckin’* good, Mika.”
The frustration simmering in my chest eased slightly as Brody’s thumbs kneaded into my ass, his grip firm but not bruising—just enough to make me feel held. I’d wanted to be *perfect* for him, but I guess that was the thing about Brody: he didn’t care about perfect. He cared about *this*—the way my thighs trembled around his waist, the way my breath hitched when he tilted his hips just right, the way my fingers scrambled for purchase on his chest when he eased me down another fraction of an inch. His cock stretched me *relentlessly*, but he didn’t rush, didn’t force it—just let me adjust to the burn with tiny, rocking motions that made my toes curl.
Brody’s exhales were ragged, his breath hot against my collarbone as he murmured nonsense—"Fuck, you feel—" and "Yeah, just like—" without finishing the thought. His hips rolled up in slow, testing thrusts, each one dragging his cock deeper until my back arched involuntarily, my body instinctively trying to accommodate more of him. He groaned when my rim fluttered around him, his fingers flexing against my skin like he was fighting the urge to just *take*. But he didn’t. Instead, he adjusted his grip, lifting me slightly before easing me back down—over and over, letting me sink onto him at my own pace until the stretch went from sharp to sweet, until my thighs stopped shaking and my breaths came easier.
His patience was maddening. And hot. *So* fucking hot.
By the time I’d adjusted—not fully, but enough—Brody’s chest was puffed, his abs flexing under my palms with every controlled movement. His lips were parted, his eyes dark and fixed on where we were joined, like he couldn’t believe this was *happening*. And then—finally—he let me take over.
I leaned forward, bracing my hands on his shoulders, and crashed my mouth against his. The kiss was messy, all teeth and tongue and shared breath, but Brody met me eagerly, his hands sliding up to grip my waist as I started to move. At first, it was just shallow bounces—testing the angle, the depth—but then Brody’s hips jerked up, and *fuck*, that hit *right*—sparks shooting up my spine as I gasped into his mouth.
Brody didn’t miss it. His hands tightened, guiding me into a rhythm—up and down, just the top half of him, but *harder* now, *faster*, his cock dragging against that sweet spot inside me with every thrust. His breath came in ragged bursts, his moans low and gravelly, like he was holding back—like he *wanted* to flip me over and fuck me senseless but was too damn *polite* to do it without permission.
I didn’t give him permission.
Instead, I rode him *properly*—rolling my hips, grinding down, savoring the way his muscles jumped under my touch. Brody’s expression was *priceless*—his brows furrowed, his lips parted, his gaze locked on me like I was the only thing in the universe. Every time I clenched around him, his breath stuttered; every time I lifted too high, his fingers dug in like he was afraid I’d stop.
And god, the *noises*—those rough, punched-out groans, the way his throat worked when he swallowed hard, the way he muttered *"Mika—fuck—"* like it was the only word he knew. His whole body was taut beneath me, his pecs flexing, his biceps bulging as he held himself back from *taking*—but I didn’t *want* him to hold back.
So I didn’t either.
I let myself *go*—chasing the pleasure, riding him harder, faster, until the bedframe creaked and Brody’s moans turned *desperate*.
Somewhere between the slick slap of skin and the ragged drag of breath, his thumb hooked under the waistband of my shirt, tugging it up just enough to expose the flex of my abs, the flutter of my belly as I rocked down onto him. The fabric bunched between us, trapped between our sweat-slick skin, riding higher with every thrust until his fingers brushed my nipple—*rough*, calloused from weights and garage work, the contrast of his touch against my oversensitive skin making me gasp.
Brody didn’t pause—didn’t hesitate—just dragged his thumb over the peak again, watching my reaction like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen. His other hand fisted the sheets, the muscles in his forearm standing out in sharp relief as he fought the urge to *grip* me, to *take*. But his hips—*god*, his hips—rolled up in short, sharp jerks, driving deeper with every snap of his pelvis until I was *full* in a way that bordered on painful.
I choked on a moan, my fingers scrambling for purchase on his shoulders as pleasure coiled tight in my gut. Brody’s breath hitched when I clenched around him—*intentionally* this time—his thighs trembling beneath me as he fought to keep his rhythm. His forehead pressed into my sternum, lips parted against my skin, panting hot and wet as his control frayed.
"Close," he gritted out, the word more vibration than sound.
I nodded—*too* close, the pressure building so fast I couldn’t even speak—and slid my hand up Brody’s chest, fingers curling into the damp fabric of his shirt. His hips stuttered beneath me, his cock twitching inside me as I rocked down one last time, grinding deep until his breath hitched and his whole body locked up. His hand spasmed against my ribs, fingers digging into the soft skin under my shirt as his abs flexed beneath me, taut as steel cables.
“Mika—” His voice cracked, rough and wrecked, and I slapped my palm over his mouth just in time to muffle the groan that punched out of him. His lips were hot against my skin, his breath ragged as his hips jerked up involuntarily, driving deeper as he came. I *felt* it—the pulse of him, the thick, wet heat filling me up—and it tipped me over the edge so fast my vision whited out for a second. My back arched, my thighs trembling as I spilled between us, striping his abs and the rumpled fabric of his shirt with streaks of white.
Brody’s hips kept moving, shallow, uneven thrusts as he rode out his climax, his cock still twitching inside me. His fingers flexed against my ribs, barely registered over the rush of blood in my ears. His breath was hot against my palm, his lips moving against my skin like he was trying to say something, but all that came out was a broken, muffled noise that sent a fresh shudder through me.
I finally lifted my hand from his mouth, and Brody gasped like he’d been drowning, his chest heaving as he gulped in air. His lips were slick with spit, his pupils blown so wide his eyes looked almost black. “Fuck,” he rasped, voice wrecked. His hands slid up my sides, thumbs brushing my nipples through the fabric of my shirt and I shuddered, oversensitive and twitching.
Brody didn’t seem to notice. He just stared up at me, his expression dazed, his cock still half-hard inside me as his thumbs traced idle circles over my ribs. “You’re—*fuck*,” he muttered, like his brain had short-circuited. His hands drifted lower, fingers skimming the mess on his stomach like he wasn’t sure what to do with it.
I laughed breathlessly, shifting slightly—wincing at the stretch—and reached for the hem of my shirt. “Here,” I murmured, tugging it off and using it to wipe his stomach clean. Brody watched, his brow furrowing slightly as I tossed the soiled fabric aside, but he didn’t protest. Just flexed his hands against my thighs, his grip warm and steady.
I leaned down, pressing my forehead to his, our breaths mingling in the space between us. Brody’s eyes flickered shut for a second, his lashes dark against his cheeks, before he blinked up at me. “Good?” he asked, voice rough but earnest.
I grinned, nipping his bottom lip. “*So* good.”
Brody’s expression softened, his hands sliding up to cradle my hips as he exhaled heavily. His thumb brushed the jut of my hipbone, his touch impossibly gentle for someone built like a brick wall. “If I’d known how good fucking an ass was,” he muttered, voice still rough, “I’d have done it way earlier.” Then his eyes widened slightly, like the words had just caught up to him. “Shit—sorry. For the, uh. Language.”
I laughed, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “It’s fine. I don’t mind when you lose a bit of that polite-boy act.” Rolling off him, I clenched instinctively to keep his spend from dripping onto the sheets before landing belly-down beside him, ass still bare and tingling from the stretch. The mattress dipped as Brody shifted, tugging his pants back up with a quiet rustle of fabric, followed by the soft snick of his button closing.
When I glanced over, he was standing, stretching—his shirt falling back into place over his abs like a damn curtain closing on the best show in town. Then he looked down at me, sprawled out and shameless, and swallowed hard. “I never thought I could find a guy sexy,” he admitted, voice low. His fingers flexed at his sides. “But you—shit. You look real good.” A flush crept up his neck, and he rubbed the back of it awkwardly.
“You too,” I said, grinning when his blush deepened. For a heartbeat, we held eye contact—something unspoken flickering between us—before I broke it with a chuckle. “Hey, can you check if the coast is clear? I need to make a bathroom run.”
Brody nodded, padding to the door with that quiet, bear-like grace of his. He cracked it open, peering into the hallway before glancing back. “Both of ‘em are downstairs,” he murmured. “You’ve got a few minutes. Better now than later.”
I pushed up onto my elbows, wincing slightly at the sticky ache between my thighs. “Go ahead. I’ll catch up.”
Brody hesitated, his hand lingering on the doorknob. “You sure?”
“Yeah.” I waved him off, already calculating the fastest route to the bathroom without dripping on the hardwood. “Go before they wonder why we’re both MIA.”
He ducked out, the door clicking shut behind him, and I exhaled, flopping back onto the mattress for one indulgent second. The room smelled like sweat and sex, the sheets rumpled beneath me, and for the first time all trip, I didn’t feel wound tight with wanting. Just... content.
Then reality kicked in. I rolled off the bed, biting back a groan as Brody’s release threatened to escape. Clamping a hand over my ass, before grabbing my discarded underwear and pants from the floor, snagging a fresh shirt from my duffel, and bolted for the bathroom like a man on a mission—half-naked, clutching my clothes like a shield.
The hallway was mercifully empty, but the hardwood floor was *cold* against my bare feet. I skidded around the corner, nearly colliding with the bathroom door before wrenching it open and locking it behind me. The big mirror hung over the bathroom sink, and I caught a glimpse of myself—flushed, disheveled, fully naked—before turning on the faucet to mask any noise.
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