Locked the Steam Room With a Denver Hunk

The desert had gone purple by the time I found him. The resort outside Scottsdale sat low against the mountains, stucco walls still throwing the day's heat, and the wedding reception had spilled across the lawn in string lights and melting ice. I was thirty-two, shoulders pink from a morning on a Phoenix job site, and I had come alone because the bride was my cousin. He stood at the far end of the pool deck with his jacket off and his sleeves rolled, a glass sweating in one big hand. Marcus. The groom's older brother. Thirty-six, out of Denver, built like the linebacker he used to be and the gym he owned now. Chest thick under a white shirt, arms that strained the cotton, jaw dark with stubble. He looked at me like the decision was already made.

I walked over with a beer I did not need. Up close he smelled like cedar soap and sun-warmed stone.
- You the cousin who builds houses?
- Commercial. HVAC and steel. You the one who used to hit people for a living?
- College. Now I just make them sweat on purpose.
- Looks like it stuck.

He laughed, low, and the sound went straight down my spine. His hand closed over my bottle and set it on the stone ledge. His knuckles brushed mine and stayed there a second too long. The reception noise thinned behind us. Somebody's aunt laughed too loud. The pool lights shivered on his throat.
- This thing's dying. Spa stays open till midnight for guests.
- That an invitation?
- It's a door. You walk through it or you don't.

I walked through it. The path behind the casitas was gravel and warm air, ocotillo shadows raking the walls. His shoulder kept finding mine. We did not talk until the spa door clicked shut and the night dropped away. Tile the color of wet clay. Benches slick. Steam already banked in the corners, thick enough to taste. He slid the staff lock on the outer door and looked at me, asking without a speech.
- Still good?
- Lock it. I'm good.

He locked it. The bolt thudded. Heat climbed my ribs. I pulled my shirt over my head and the steam hit sweat I had not known I was holding. He watched my chest, my stomach, the line of hair under my navel, then worked his own buttons with blunt fingers. The shirt came off and I got the full of him: heavy pecs, a soft trail of dark hair, shoulders round from years under a bar. His pants followed. So did mine. We stood in the wet heat in nothing but skin, cocks already thick, his a little longer, mine flushed dark and lifting. He stepped in until our chests touched and the shock of it, hot skin on hot skin, made my breath catch.

He kissed me hard. Not polite. Mouth open, stubble scraping my lip, tongue pushing in like he had wanted this since the vows. I grabbed the back of his neck and kissed him back, tasting lime and whiskey. His hands went to my ass and hauled me in so our cocks dragged together, slick already from the steam and from how fast we had gotten here. I wrapped a hand around both of us and stroked, feeling the thick vein along his shaft jump against mine, the heads smearing wet across my knuckles.

He turned me toward the bench. The tile was warm and wet under my palms when I braced. His chest covered my back, heavy and damp, chest hair scraping between my shoulder blades. One thick arm locked across my collarbones. The other hand wrapped my cock and stroked, slow, thumb working the wet at the head until my hips stuttered. I pushed into his fist and back against the heavy length of him riding the cleft of my ass. Steam beaded and ran down my ribs. His mouth found the side of my neck and bit, not enough to break skin, enough that my knees went loose.

He spat into his palm. I heard it, then felt the rough warmth of his fingers working me open, one then two, patient and thick, curling until a bright jolt ran up my spine and my cock jerked in his other hand. He lined himself up. The head pressed, broad and hot, and he held there one beat like a man who knew the size of what he was asking. I pushed back. He sank in. The stretch burned, then opened, then filled, inch by slow inch, until his hips sat flush to my ass and the weight of him was seated deep enough that I felt it behind my navel. He stayed still, palm spread low on my stomach, not moving until I rocked and took him again on my own.

Then he fucked me. Long strokes first, dragging every nerve, the wet slap of his hips. The bench bit my thighs. Every time he bottomed out the press went deep and my cock jumped in his fist. He drove harder, breath rough at my ear, sweat slicking where we joined, and I met him. He pulled out, turned me, and dropped to his knees. His mouth took me to the root, throat working, two fingers back inside me so I was full at both ends. The sight of him there nearly finished me. He hauled me to the cot. I straddled him and sank down in one long take, riding until the angle went mean and my vision whited out. He sat up, arms locked, and thrust into me chest to chest. I came across his stomach, clenching so tight he buried deep and spilled hot inside me.

He eased out slow. I felt the loss and the slick warmth after. He cleaned us with a towel, careful on my thighs, then kissed my shoulder once.
- Room 214. Door'll be cracked.
- Ten minutes. Don't fall asleep on me.