Cabin Fever
The mountains were already quiet by the time Jackson’s truck curved off the main road and onto the long dirt drive. Leaves crunched under the tires. Smoke curled from the cabin’s chimney in the distance.
He rolled his window down and let the chill bite his jaw.
It was the kind of silence he needed.
But not the kind that lasted.
Logan sat beside him, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the tree line. He hadn’t said much since they stopped for gas. Just sipped his drink, rolled his shoulders, stared out like something out there might answer what was bothering him.
Jackson clocked it. Didn’t press.
“You good?” he asked.
Logan shrugged. “Long week.”
Jackson nodded. “It’s gon’ be a longer weekend if you stay locked up like that.”
Logan exhaled through his nose. “I showed up, didn’t I?”
Jackson smirked. “Yeah. You did.”
He let the silence settle again.
The cabin came into full view—two stories, cedar siding, wide porch, stone fireplace built into the side. A fire was already lit. Jackson had arranged everything ahead of time—keyless entry, food delivered, whiskey stocked.
He wanted it right.
Because this weekend mattered more than the others had.
Not just for the group.
For him.
For Logan.
Inside, the heat hit immediately. Logs snapped in the fireplace. Whiskey waited on the counter. The air smelled like pine and old stone.
Jackson set the bags down and stretched.
Logan stood by the window, still quiet, still far off.
“You sure you good?” Jackson asked again, this time slower.
Logan didn’t turn. “I filed.”
Jackson’s chest tightened. “Filed what?”
Logan glanced back. “The papers. Divorce.”
Jackson didn’t speak.
Didn’t need to.
“You tell the others yet?” he asked.
“No.”
“Why’d you tell me first?”
Logan looked him dead in the eyes.
“Because you’re the one I keep thinkin’ about when I’m not supposed to.”
The bottle was low. The air was hot. Shirts were long gone, and sweat glistened on bare chests as the fireplace spit sparks behind them.
They’d moved to the floor—DeShawn and Wyatt on one side, Jackson leaning against the stone hearth, Logan still half-shadowed near the couch. Quiet but watching everything.
DeShawn wiped his mouth and pointed. “Logan. Dare.”
Logan raised a brow. “You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Jackson watched closely. Logan didn’t blink.
“Fine,” Logan said. “Hit me.”
DeShawn grinned. “Strip down and stroke for sixty seconds. No holding back.”
Wyatt whistled low. “Goddamn. Straight to the meat.”
“Rules is rules,” DeShawn shrugged.
Jackson didn’t say anything. Just shifted slightly where he sat, slow and calm like he’d been waiting for this.
Logan didn’t argue.
He stood.
Unbuttoned his jeans.
Dropped them, no hesitation.
Thick. Hanging heavy. His thighs were firm, his waist tight, and his whole body looked like it’d been built to carry something and fuck through it.
Jackson felt his own cock twitch at the sight.
Logan spit into his hand, gripped his dick, and started stroking—slow, like he didn’t care who was watching. Like he’d been ready to let this part of himself out for a while.
Nobody said a word.
DeShawn leaned back.
Wyatt shifted, hand casually pressing against his own hard-on through his pants.
Jackson’s eyes never left Logan’s hand.
Or the way his abs tightened every few strokes.
Or the little grunt Logan let out as his grip got faster.
“Time,” DeShawn called.
Logan stopped. Let his cock bounce against his thigh. Still hard. Still leaking.
He sat back down—bare now, breathing heavier, but not embarrassed. Just… unlocked.
“Jackson,” Wyatt said next. “Dare.”
Jackson took a swig of his drink and nodded once. “Same one.”
He stood.
Dropped his pants.
Thick. Long. Veins prominent. His build was different than Logan’s—broader up top, with that slow-moving dominance that said “I’m in control even when I’m naked.”
He started stroking.
Right there across from Logan.
Eyes locked.
That’s when DeShawn grinned. “Double dare.”
Jackson didn’t stop. “What’s that?”
“Face each other. Stroke while lookin’ in each other’s eyes. First one to leak loses.”
Wyatt barked a laugh. “Hell yeah.”
Jackson looked at Logan.
Logan didn’t flinch.
They got up.
Sat on the rug, knees nearly touching.
Two grown-ass men, cocks in hand, breathing hard, muscles tight, eyes locked.
They stroked slow at first.
Matching each other’s rhythm.
Logan’s lip twitched like he wanted to smirk but couldn’t break.
Jackson kept his jaw tight, steady strokes, his thighs flexing every time his hand slid down his shaft.
Then Logan’s precum bubbled at the tip.
Wyatt saw it first. “He leakin’!”
Logan grunted, dropped his head back. “Shit…”
Jackson chuckled low. “That’s one for me.”
But the moment didn’t end.
They stayed like that, inches apart, still stroking.
And DeShawn, already tugging his own meat now, said what everyone was thinking.
“Ain’t no way we’re stoppin’ here.”
It was DeShawn who moved first.
One tug too many on his cock, one more second of watching Logan and Jackson—thick, glistening, unbothered—and his self-control shattered.
He stood up, dropped his pants, and started stroking without shame. His eyes locked on Logan.
“You don’t stroke like a straight man,” he said, low and rough.
Logan gave a sideways grin. “You don’t either.”
That’s all it took.
Wyatt followed—stripped fast, boots still on, heavy meat in his hand as he leaned back against the leather chair and went to work.
The heat in the room wasn’t just from the fire anymore.
Logan didn’t even blink when Jackson shifted closer—legs touching now, their strokes almost synchronized.
The air between them pulsed.
“You good?” Jackson asked, voice like gravel.
Logan didn’t look away. “I need more.”
Jackson tilted his head. “Then take it.”
It happened in a flash.
Logan dropped his hand and leaned in—not for a kiss, not yet—but to whisper, chest brushing Jackson’s shoulder.
“I been thinkin’ about how you fuck,” he said. “Every damn time we link, I wonder if this was the time I’d finally let go.”
Jackson gripped Logan’s thigh. Firm. Claiming.
“You ready to give it up?”
Logan’s nod was slow. But his eyes were hungry.
The shift was instant.
Jackson got up, spit in his hand, and walked behind Logan—who got on all fours right there on the rug like it was meant for this.
The others kept stroking, eyes wide but mouths shut.
Nobody stopped this. Nobody even blinked.
Jackson lined up, thick head pressed against Logan’s hole, and pushed in—slow, deep, stretching him open inch by inch until Logan growled and dropped his head between his arms.
“Fuck,” Logan hissed. “That’s it.”
Jackson didn’t say much. He just gripped Logan’s waist, adjusted his stance, and started drilling him slow and deep, hips rolling like he had all night to stay inside.
The fire popped.
DeShawn was biting his lip, stroking fast now.
Wyatt was fully leaned back, whispering, “Goddamn,” over and over.
Logan grunted with every thrust, body flexed, sweat dripping down his spine.
And then came the shift.
Jackson pulled out—still rock hard, glistening with Logan’s slick—and flipped Logan on his back.
“Want you lookin’ at me when I finish,” he said.
Logan didn’t speak. Just opened his legs wider.
Jackson slid back in. Hard. All the way.
The thrusts got faster. Sloppier. Jackson’s chest brushed Logan’s. Their foreheads touched. Breath mixed.
And when Jackson groaned and nutted deep, Logan wrapped his legs around him and whispered,
“Eat it.”
Jackson froze.
Then slid back, dropped to his knees between Logan’s thighs, and licked his own cum from inside the man who just gave it all up to him.
Tongue slow. Mouth wide. Making sure Logan felt every swipe.
And then—
Logan pulled Jackson up.
Grabbed his jaw.
And kissed him.
Full. Mouth. Kiss.
Not just a peck.
Not just a moment.
But a shift.
The others kept stroking. Nobody stopped. But the air changed.
The look on Logan’s face said it all.
This wasn’t just a release.
And Jackson?
He kissed him like he already knew.
The sound of Jackson licking his own nut out of Logan echoed like a goddamn drum in that quiet cabin.
Wet. Slow. Messy.
Logan was laid out—legs wide, chest rising fast, mouth still tingling from that kiss they both hadn’t meant to give but couldn’t stop.
And Jackson?
He wiped his mouth, looked Logan dead in the eyes, and said low,
“Ain’t no goin’ back now.”
DeShawn was first to bust.
Didn’t say a word. Just let out a low growl, head tipped back, nut painting his abs while he looked straight at Jackson and Logan like he’d never seen them like that before.
Wyatt followed—legs wide, jaw tight, both hands on his thick meat as he spilled across his stomach, chest heaving like he just ran a mile uphill.
Nobody spoke.
Not at first.
They just laid there, spent, the fire still burning, smoke hanging in the air like a secret.
Jackson finally stood.
Still naked.
Still hard, half-dripping.
He poured himself another drink like it was just any other night.
Logan sat up slow, still breathing heavy, wiping the sweat off his chest. He didn’t look embarrassed. Didn’t flinch.
He looked… clear.
“Y’all good?” Jackson said, voice low and rough.
Wyatt chuckled. “Better than good.”
DeShawn smirked. “Gotta admit—didn’t see that kiss comin’.”
Logan looked at them both.
Didn’t apologize. Didn’t explain.
“Guess I’m tired of lying,” he said simply.
The room stayed quiet after that.
Not awkward. Just different.
Like a door had been opened, and nobody could pretend it wasn’t.
They all got up one by one, cleaned themselves with towels tossed from the hallway closet. Some stayed nude. Others threw on sweats. The fire still cracked, but the energy had shifted.
Jackson sat on the couch, legs spread, drink in hand.
Logan came to sit next to him.
They didn’t touch.
But they sat close.
Shoulders brushing.
And they didn’t move.
That night, nobody brought up what happened again.
But everybody felt it.
And somewhere deep in that silence, Logan knew something had broken free inside him—something he wasn’t about to shove back in.
Not after Jackson.
Not after that kiss.
Not after how full he still felt.
End of Cabin Season.
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