"Christ, it's hotter than a blacksmith's forge out here," Jack muttered, swiping sweat from his forehead with his fisted-up shirt. The trail had vanished twenty minutes ago, swallowed by undergrowth, but he kept pushing forward — boots crunching over dry twigs, socks damp with perspiration. His shorts clung to his thighs, the fabric sticking uncomfortably.
A break in the trees revealed a sunlit clearing, and in its center stood a cabin that looked like something out of an old folk tale — rough-hewn logs, a mossy roof, smoke curling lazily from a stone chimney. Jack hesitated, torn between curiosity and the unspoken rule of backcountry etiquette: don’t intrude. Then he saw him.
The man was enormous, easily six and a half feet tall, his body a landscape of muscle and sun-bronzed skin. He stood bare as the day he was born beside a freshly chopped woodpile, axe resting against his thigh. Jack’s breath caught. The man turned, unhurried, and met his gaze with a slow, easy smile. "Lost?" His voice was deep, amused.
Jack’s mouth went dry. "Uh. Yeah." He gestured vaguely behind him. "The trail disappeared." His own half-naked state suddenly felt ridiculous, standing there in boots and sweat-soaked shorts while this mountain of a man didn’t even blink at his own nudity. The heat between them had nothing to do with the sun.
The lumberjack — Paul, he introduced himself — stepped closer. The scent of pine resin and honest sweat clung to him. "You look thirsty," he rumbled, eyes trailing down Jack’s body with open appreciation. "There's a creek just past the cabin cool enough to take the edge off." His thumb brushed Jack’s wrist when he handed him a dented canteen, and the contact sent a jolt through them both.
Paul’s grin widened. He didn’t move away.
Jack swallowed hard, the canteen cold against his palm but his skin prickling with something hotter than the afternoon sun. Every instinct screamed at him to step closer, to let his fingers brush against that broad, hairy chest, to see if the man’s beard would scratch his lips raw. He took a shaky sip instead, the water doing nothing to douse the fire simmering low in his gut.
The lumberjack’s chuckle was a deep rumble, fingers plucking the canteen from Jack’s grip like it weighed nothing. “You ain’t even seen the creek yet.” His calloused thumb dragged over Jack’s lower lip, wiping away a stray droplet. The touch lingered, deliberate. Jack’s breath hitched.
Then Paul turned, bare feet silent on the packed earth, and Jack followed without hesitation — past the cabin, past the stacked logs, into the dappled shade of towering pines. The creek glittered ahead, sunlight dancing on its surface, but Jack barely registered it. His pulse roared in his ears, blood rushing south as he watched the play of muscle across Paul’s back with every unhurried step.
At the water’s edge, Paul turned, sunlight catching in his beard, his gaze molten. He reached out. Jack met him halfway.
Their mouths crashed together — no tentative first kiss, no questioning pause. Paul’s hands spanned Jack’s waist, hauling him flush against that furnace of a body. Jack gasped into the kiss, fingers tangling in sweat-damp chest hair, the coarse curls catching under his nails. He could feel the lumberjack’s heartbeat against his own, the proof of their mutual want pressing hard between them.
Paul broke away just enough to murmur against Jack’s lips, “It's been a damn long time since someone wandered into my clearing.” His hands slid lower, kneading the swell of Jack’s ass through damp shorts, pulling a whine from Jack’s throat. “I'm gonna make sure you don’t regret it.”
Jack shuddered as Paul’s beard scraped down his neck, lips nipping at his pulse point. He arched into the touch, fingers digging into Paul’s shoulders, the man’s skin hot and slick under his palms. The creek burbled beside them, but all Jack could hear was the ragged sound of their breathing.
Paul knelt suddenly, peeling Jack’s shorts down with one rough tug, leaving him bare except for his boots. The cool air against his overheated skin made Jack gasp, but the sensation vanished as Paul’s mouth closed around his thick, hard cock, hot and wet and perfect. Jack cried out, fingers twisting in Paul’s hair as the lumberjack took him deep, tongue swirling in a rhythm that had Jack’s knees buckling.
He barely registered the splash as Paul dragged him into the shallows, the icy water shocking against his flushed skin. Paul crowded him against a smooth boulder, his own arousal pressing insistently against Jack’s hip. “Wanted to cool you down,” Paul growled, nipping Jack’s earlobe. “But you’re still burning up.”
Jack reached between them, wrapping his hand around Paul’s thick length, stroking slowly just to hear the man groan. “Maybe you should put me out,” he panted, tilting his hips invitingly.
Paul’s chuckle vibrated against Jack’s collarbone as he knelt again, this time spreading Jack’s cheeks with rough, reverent hands. The first lick was a slow drag of tongue from taint to tailbone, deliberate and savoring. Jack gasped, fingers scrabbling at the rock behind him. Then Paul’s mouth was on him properly, lips sealing over his hole while his tongue pressed in relentless circles. Jack’s knees trembled as that wet heat breached him, Paul’s nose nuzzling against his perineum while he fucked Jack open with his tongue in slow, deep thrusts.
“Jesus — fuck —” Jack’s voice cracked. His cock twitched against his stomach, leaking onto his abs as Paul growled against him, the sound sending vibrations straight through Jack’s core.
Then strong hands gripped his thighs, lifting him effortlessly. Jack clung to Paul’s shoulders as the man stood, their chests pressing together. Jack hooked his legs around Paul’s waist, the shift making him acutely aware of how exposed he was — his asshole still wet from Paul’s mouth, clenching around nothing.
Paul kissed him deeply, letting Jack taste himself on his tongue, while one broad hand cradled Jack’s ass, fingers spreading him wider. The thick head of Paul’s cock nudged against his entrance, sticky with precum. Jack moaned into the kiss as Paul pushed in, just an inch, the stretch already overwhelming.
“Easy,” Paul murmured against his lips. He rocked forward, another torturous half-inch, Jack’s body yielding gradually. Every slow press inward was met with Jack’s shuddering breaths, his nails scraping lightly down Paul’s back.
When Paul was fully seated, they both went still, foreheads touching. Jack clenched around him experimentally, drawing a ragged groan from Paul. “God, you feel good,” Jack whispered.
Paul’s answering thrust was slow, a deep roll of his hips that had Jack seeing stars. He set a rhythm like that — leisurely, almost lazy, each movement wringing gasps from both of them. Jack clung tighter with every drag of Paul’s cock inside him, the slide made smoother by spit and precum, the stretch just shy of too much in the best way.
Paul kissed his neck, his shoulder, murmuring praise between each press of lips — how good Jack felt, how tight, how perfect. Jack arched into him, the pleasure building slow and sweet, their bodies moving together like they had all the time in the world.
The creek lapped at their thighs, the cold water a sharp contrast to the heat between them. Jack gasped as Paul shifted his grip, lifting him slightly higher, changing the angle — and then Paul was hitting just right, each thrust ruthlessly prodding Jack's prostate, making his vision blur. He dug his fingers into Paul’s shoulders, toes curling in his boots, thighs trembling with the effort of holding on.
Paul’s breath came ragged against Jack’s ear, his rhythm faltering as pleasure coiled tighter. “Gonna cum inside you,” he growled, the words sending a fresh wave of heat through Jack. He nodded frantically, too overwhelmed to speak, his own cock leaking against his muscle-laddered abdomen. Paul’s hand slid between them, wrapping around Jack’s length, stroking in time with his thrusts.
Jack came with a cry, his body clamping down around Paul as pleasure ripped through him. Paul groaned, burying himself deep as he followed, his hot sperm pulsing inside Jack, his hips stuttering through the aftershocks. They clung to each other, breathless, sweat and creek water mixing on their skin.
Paul kissed him softly, lingering, before easing Jack down into the shallows. The water was shockingly cold now, but neither of them moved, content to stay tangled together. Paul traced idle circles on Jack’s hip, his gaze warm. “You’re staying for dinner,” he said, like it wasn’t a question.
Jack laughed, breathless, and leaned into him. “Yeah,” he agreed. “I am.”
The creek washed away the evidence of their passion, though the heat of Paul’s hands lingered on his skin, branding him in ways the water couldn’t erase. Jack watched droplets slide down Paul’s chest, catching in the thick hair there before disappearing into the current. His fingers followed the path, tracing idle patterns over the man’s pectorals, marveling at the sheer solidity of him.
Paul caught his wrist, pressing a kiss to his palm. “Come on,” he murmured, voice rough with satisfaction. “I have venison stew simmering.” He stood, pulling Jack up with him, their bodies sliding together with the ease of newfound intimacy.
The walk back to the cabin was slow, unhurried. Jack didn’t bother with his discarded shorts, relishing the way the evening air teased his oversensitive skin, the way Paul’s gaze kept dropping to his bare form with possessive hunger. Inside, the cabin was cozy, the scent of herbs and woodsmoke thick in the air. A cast iron pot bubbled over the hearth, filling the space with rich, meaty aroma.
Paul handed Jack a worn flannel shirt — soft from years of use — before shrugging into one himself. The fabric swallowed Jack’s frame, the sleeves falling past his fingertips, the hem brushing his thighs. Paul chuckled, reaching out to roll the cuffs back for him. “Suits you,” he said, fingers lingering on Jack’s wrist.
Jack caught his hand, interlacing their fingers. “You don’t even know my last name,” he pointed out, though the words held no weight, not when Paul’s thumb was stroking his knuckles like that.
Paul leaned in, his breath warm against Jack’s lips. “That doesn’t matter,” he said simply, and kissed him again — slow, deep, like they had all the time in the world. And maybe, Jack thought as he melted into the embrace, they did.
The stew was forgotten as Paul guided Jack toward the bed — a massive thing of rough-hewn timber piled high with furs. Jack sank into them with a sigh, the scent of pine and musk clinging to the pelts. Paul followed, his weight pressing Jack into the softness as their mouths met in another searing kiss.
Outside, the wind rustled through the trees, and somewhere distant, an owl called. But inside, there was only the crackle of the fire, the slick sound of their lips parting and meeting again, and the quiet, breathless noises Jack couldn’t suppress as Paul’s hands roamed his body.
Later, when they finally ate, the stew was only room temperature, but Jack didn’t care. Not when Paul’s fingers were tangled in his hair, not when the man’s laughter rumbled against his skin, not when the promise of tomorrow — and the day after that — hung between them, warm and certain as the embers in the hearth.
Jack traced the scar on Paul’s shoulder — a pale, jagged thing from an old axe mishap — with his tongue, earning a sharp inhale. “You’re gonna be trouble,” Paul muttered, catching Jack’s wrist and pinning it to the furs. His beard scraped Jack’s throat, lips nipping at his pulse point, and Jack arched beneath him with a breathless laugh.
Outside, the first fat raindrops of an evening storm pattered against the roof, the sound swelling to a steady drumbeat. Paul stilled, listening, then rolled onto his back, pulling Jack atop him. “Hear that?” His palm slid down Jack’s spine, coming to rest at the small of his back. “The forest’s singing for us.”
Jack pressed his ear to Paul’s chest, the man’s heartbeat steady beneath the rain’s rhythm. He thought of his empty apartment in the city, the silent hum of appliances, the way his footsteps echoed. Here, everything was alive — the creak of timber, the rustle of pelts, the heat of Paul’s skin against his own.
Paul’s fingers carded through his hair, gentle now. “Stay,” he said again, though they both knew the answer. Jack turned his face into the man’s palm, kissing the callouses there. The storm thickened outside, wind howling through the pines, but inside, the firelight painted their bodies gold, and the furs cradled them like an afterthought.
Morning would come with the scent of wet earth and the damp chill of the storm’s passing. Jack would wake to Paul splitting firewood shirtless in the mist, his muscles flexing with each swing of the axe, steam rising from his skin in the cool air. He’d step outside barefoot, the dew soaking his ankles, and Paul would turn with that slow, knowing smile — the one that said mine.
But for now, there was only this: the rain, the warmth, the way Paul’s arms tightened around him as the storm reached its crescendo. Jack closed his eyes and let the rhythm of their breathing carry him under.
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