Cedar Sweat and the Firefighter Next Door

The July heat in Savannah had already won. I was shirtless on my knees on the new flagstone behind the Jones Street house, trowel in one hand, sweat sliding down my spine into the waistband of my work shorts. Live oaks broke the sun into pieces. The cedar pool house sat at the back of the lot with its door propped, and every time the breeze shifted I caught chlorine and warm wood. I was twenty-nine, shoulders thick from years of hauling stone, and the day had cooked the patience out of me.

A truck door slammed on the street. Boots came down the oyster-shell path. I looked up and the man filling the side gate made my mouth go dry. Broad chest, thick arms, a firefighter's build that came from work and not a mirror. Soot still marked one forearm. Short brown hair, a jaw that had healed a little crooked. His gray T-shirt was plastered to him. He stopped with a six-pack sweating in his fist.

- You Reid?

- Yeah. You Marcus's brother?

- Cole. Thirty-four, in case you're doing the math I already did on you. He said you'd still be out here killing yourself.

I stood. We were close to the same height, but he had more chest and I had more back. His eyes dropped to my stomach, the dirt streaked across it, then came back up and stayed.

- You always work half naked?

- Only when this town tries to drown me.

- Pool house has a shower. Hose out back if you want the neighbors in on it. Shower's better.

- You sticking around?

- Nowhere I need to be till seven.

- Then rinse off with me.

He didn't smile big. He nodded once, like we'd agreed on a lift, and followed me across the hot stone. Inside the pool house the air was closer, cedar planks warm under my bare feet, a bench along the wall, the shower a tiled corner under a rainfall head. I pushed the door mostly shut. Light came through the slats and cut stripes across the dust in the air.

He set the beer on the bench and peeled his shirt off. I did the same. Pale scars crossed his ribs. My hands were rough, nails short, forearms burned brown from the job. We stood there breathing the same wet air, both of us already hard under our shorts, neither of us pretending otherwise. His voice came out low.

- You sure?

- I'm sure. You?

- Been sure since I saw you bent over that stone. Say stop and I stop.

- I won't want you to stop.

That was the last thing either of us said for a long while. He stepped in and kissed me hard, mouth open, beer and salt and heat. His hands clamped my waist and walked me back until cedar hit my shoulders. I got his belt open, then mine. Shorts and boots hit the floor in a tangle. His cock was thick and heavy, already wet at the tip, and when I wrapped my fist around it he groaned into my mouth and shoved his tongue deeper. I stroked him slow, feeling the vein jump under my thumb, while his rough palm found me and squeezed, perfect pressure, thumb sliding over the head until my knees went loose.

He turned me and put my palms flat on the bench. The wood was warm and a little damp from the humidity. He dropped behind me, spread me with both thumbs, and put his mouth there, hot and shameless. His tongue worked me open while one hand reached under and kept stroking my cock. I pushed back into his face. The wet sound of him filled the little room and ran up my spine. My thighs shook. He spit, pressed a finger in, then two, curling until white flashed behind my eyes and I had to bite my own wrist.

He stood. I heard the wrapper tear and the slick sound of his fist. The head of his cock pressed against me, broad and patient. He waited until I rocked back and took the first inch myself. Then he gave me the rest in one long push that knocked the air out of my chest. Full. Stretched. A burn that turned sweet after three hard breaths. He held still, one big hand spread over my lower back, the other gripping my hip hard enough to mark.

When he started to move it was deep and even, hips snapping, balls tapping the backs of my thighs. Every stroke dragged over that spot inside me and lit me up. I braced harder on the bench and met him, ass up, taking all of it, sweat dripping off my chin onto the cedar. He fucked me harder. The bench creaked under my forearms. His chest dropped onto my back and I felt the hair there, the furnace of him, the broken grunt he let out each time he bottomed out.

I reached under myself and he knocked my hand away, took my cock in his fist, and stroked me tight while he drove in. Heat broke low in my gut. I came hard over his fingers and the bench, body clamping around him. He slammed deep and stayed, pulsing as he finished in the condom, forehead between my shoulder blades, breath hot on my skin. His hand stayed on me through the last shakes until I was empty and held up by the wood and his weight.

We didn't move until his heart slowed against my back. He pulled out, turned the shower on, and soaped my shoulders with those big hands, slow and careful. I leaned into his chest under the steam, cedar smell rising, his mouth on my neck, Savannah still burning past the slats.