Pinned Under a Tahoe Storm

The sky over Lake Tahoe went the color of a bruise while I was still on the ladder, nailing the header of an A-frame with no glass in the west wall yet. House wrap snapped in the wind. Pine sap stuck to my forearms. Rain came in sideways and cold. I was thirty-four, shirt sweated through, shoulders burning from a day of framing, and I had not counted on the owner's brother driving up from Carson City.

Ryan came through the open bay already soaked. He had said on the phone he was thirty-one, a year out of the Marines, built like he still ran the obstacle course for fun. The gray tee was plastered to his chest. His shoulders made the raw doorway look small. He shook water out of his dark hair. A scar cut one eyebrow. His mouth did not waste time.

- You Brett?

- Yeah. Your brother said you might swing by. Storm's early.

- Roads are already shit past Emerald Bay. I'm not driving that tonight.

I climbed down. Sawdust and rain smelled sharp together. Up close he was thicker than I had pictured, neck corded, arms heavy, jeans dark to the knee. I was no small man either. Years of carrying lumber had put size on my back and thighs, and the summer had left me brown to the waist. Thunder walked the ridge. The lake was gone behind the rain.

- Power might drop. Generator's in the shed.

- Then we get the tools in. And you can stop pretending you haven't been looking at my chest.

We hauled the saw and the cable under the eaves. Lightning stitched the ridge white. Back inside, his shirt was transparent over his pecs, nipples dark against the wet cotton. He caught me looking and did not look away. He stepped in until our boots touched. Heat came off him hard enough to cut the cold.

- Take it off. I want to see what I'm dealing with.

- Only if yours comes off too.

- Deal. Lock the side door.

I peeled the damp tee over my head. His eyes moved over my chest, the ridge of my stomach, the dark line of hair into my jeans. He stripped his own shirt. Water beaded in the hair between his pecs, over a faded eagle warped by the muscle under it. He kissed me hard, mouth open, stubble scraping my lip, one hand already at my belt. I threw the deadbolt and came back with both hands on his waist. He pushed into the touch like he had been waiting on it.

He opened my jeans and shoved them down with my briefs. Cold hit my cock a second before his fist did. He was thick when I got him free, heavy in my palm, the head already slick. We stroked each other under the rafters, foreheads together, breath loud against the rain. His hips rolled into my grip. Mine jerked in his. Callus dragged just rough enough to loosen my knees. He smelled like wet cotton, pine, and clean sweat, and every time I tightened my hand he made a low sound and kissed me harder.

He turned me to the sawhorse and bent me over the padded top, one broad palm between my shoulder blades. I heard him spit. His fingers found me, wet and sure, working me open while his other hand kept stroking my cock in the same slow rhythm. One finger, then two, then the thick push of a third, twisting until the burn went sweet and I shoved back onto his hand. My boots stayed planted. The horse creaked. He lined up, the blunt head of his cock pressing, and I reached back and pulled his hip in.

The stretch made my thighs shake. He sank in inch by thick inch, holding me so I could not rush it, until he was seated deep and I was full to the edge of too much, his balls warm against me, his chest a furnace on my back. I ground back. He fucked me in long strokes that slapped skin on skin, filthy under the storm. Each thrust knocked a grunt out of my chest. Sweat ran my spine. His hand found my cock and stripped it in time with his hips, thumb smearing the slick at the head, grip tight and steady.

He pulled out, turned me, and lifted me onto the horse like I weighed less than a sheet of plywood. I locked my legs around his waist. Face to face I watched his jaw tighten and his abs flex every time he drove back in. I held his shoulders, thick and slick, and met every stroke. He kissed me messy, teeth on my lower lip, and fucked harder, the horse scraping across the subfloor. I came first, sudden, spilling over his fist and my stomach, clenching around him so hard he lost the rhythm and buried himself to the hilt.

He followed with a broken sound against my throat, hips stuttering, heat pulsing inside me in thick waves. We stayed locked while rain hammered the house wrap and our breathing came back in pieces. His forehead rested on mine. My hands would not leave his back. His cock softened slowly, and neither of us moved until thunder shook the frame.

- Roads are still shit.

- Then you're not driving. Mattress is in the loft. I'm not done with you.

- Good. Neither am I.