Linebacker Heat in a Santa Fe Steam Room

The Santa Fe Athletic Club sat quiet at five, mountains already blue beyond the glass. Most members had cleared out for chile and a beer. I hadn't. A day setting flagstone on a Canyon Road wall had locked my shoulders, and the cedar steam room was the only fix I trusted. I pushed through the door with a towel knotted low on my hips and stopped.

He was on the upper bench, elbows braced on his knees, head down, steam peeling off him in sheets. The body under it looked made for collision. Chest wide enough to block a doorway, neck thick, thighs that still carried a linebacker's bulk. A thin gold chain stuck to the hollow of his throat. When he lifted his face, his eyes were darker than the wet boards.

- You mind?
- Not even a little. I'm Cole.
- Andre. Flew in from Dallas this morning.

We did the half-naked small talk men use while they decide whether to keep looking. He was a chef, he said, about to open a kitchen off Garcia Street, but the muscle was older than any kitchen. College ball. Inside linebacker. Thirty-six. I told him I was thirty-four and he nodded like that settled something. He laughed when I told him I laid stone for a living and dragged a thumb up the inside of my forearm, slow, like he was testing a cut of meat. Heat stacked in the little room. A bead of sweat ran the channel of his stomach and slipped under the towel. I tracked it. He let me.

- You've been staring at my mouth.
- Yeah. I have.
- Then get up here.

He caught my wrist and hauled me onto the bench, and after that neither of us bothered with words. The towels hit the floor. His mouth was salt and the orange he'd eaten in the locker room, and the kiss started careful and turned hungry fast. I wrapped a hand around the back of his neck, dense and slick under my palm, and the sound he made in his chest went straight to my cock. I thickened against his thigh. He was already hard against my hip, heavy, the slick head dragging a wet line across my skin every time he shifted.

I took him in my fist. He was thick and cut, hot as the room, veins lifting under my fingers when I stroked from root to tip. He answered with that big hand closed around me, a steady pull that made my stomach drop and my knees go loose on the cedar. We knelt facing each other, foreheads almost touching, breathing the same soaked air, working each other while the steam hissed and the bench creaked under our weight. His thumb smeared the wet at my slit. I bit the muscle of his shoulder and tasted soap and salt.

He turned me with a palm between my shoulder blades and I went, hands flat on the lower bench, back bowed, ass tipped up into the heat of him. He spat into his hand, slicked himself, then pressed two fingers to me and waited. I pushed back. The stretch burned in a way I wanted more of. He opened me without rushing, crooking those fingers until my thighs shook and I was rocking on his hand, the bench edge biting my knees. When he lined his cock up and sank the first inch in, the air left me. He held there. One broad palm spread over my lower back. The other locked on my hip, hard enough to mark. I nodded against the wood. He gave me the rest.

The ache flooded into heat. He fucked me in long strokes, drawing almost out and driving back until his hips slapped my ass and the sound jumped off the cedar walls. Sweat off his chest ran down my spine. I reached under and stroked myself in time with him, every thrust shoving me into my own fist. He folded over me, the gold chain ticking against my shoulder blade, breath ragged at my ear, and shifted his angle until he hit the spot that whited the edges of my vision. I groaned into the bench. He stayed on that angle and didn't ease up, hips snapping, the wet clap of us louder than the steam, his balls swinging against me with each drive.

I came first, sudden, spilling over my knuckles and onto the wood, my body clamping down around him so hard the rhythm broke. He drove in deep and stayed, pulsing, filling me with heat while both hands clamped my hips and that heavy frame shuddered against my back. We held still. The room dripped. My arms shook under me.

We moved to the private shower off the steam room, and the water hit hot across my shoulders. He soaped the knots the stone had left, thumbs digging until I hissed, then kissed the side of my neck. I turned, dropped to the tile, and took him in my mouth under the spray. He tasted like both of us. I worked him slow, tongue along the underside, hand at the base, his thighs bracketing my ears, his fingers loose in my hair. He thickened again against my tongue. When his breathing went short he pulled me up, kissed me open, and finished between our stomachs with my fist on him while the water ran over us.

We stood under the last of the heat with our foreheads together. Past the adobe wall a truck downshifted on Alameda. His chain had gone cold against my chest.

- I'm off tomorrow. Come by the kitchen. I'll feed you.
- I'll bring the appetite. He grinned like he still knew how to hit, and kissed me once more like he meant to collect.