The Linebacker Who Bent Me in Malibu

The canyon held the heat like a closed fist. I was thirty-one, shirtless since noon, cedar dust stuck to the sweat on my chest and the dark line under my navel. I drove screws into the new deck rail and heard a truck door slam on the gravel below the house. My shoulders burned. My jeans hung low. I did not look up until a shadow cut the sun off my hands.

He had to duck the bougainvillea. Six-four, easy, built like the program had never released him. Deacon, the owner's friend, thirty-four, ex-linebacker in board shorts and nothing else, cooler under one arm. Thick neck. Thighs that fought the fabric. A chest wide enough to eclipse the Pacific behind him, hair dark across it, nipples drawn tight in the canyon breeze. He set the cooler on the boards and looked me over from the sawdust on my forearms to the sweat at my waistband, slow, like he was measuring a lift.

He dropped his voice like the neighbors could hear, though the nearest house was a ridge away.
- You Cole?
- Yeah. Deck's close to done.
- He said you were built. He sold you short.
- You planning to stare, or is there water in that cooler?

He laughed and tossed me a bottle. I drank half and dumped the rest over my head. It ran through my hair, down my throat, over my pecs, and his eyes tracked every trail. My cock shifted in my jeans. He caught that and did not look away. The want on him was as plain as the sun on the cedar.
- House water's still off.
- Outdoor shower by the casita works. I turned it on when I got here.
- You checking pipes or checking me?
- Both. You want to stand on this deck all afternoon acting like your dick isn't hard?
- I'm not acting. Show me.

I set the drill on the rail and followed the width of his back across the hot boards. The casita sat in a cut of scrub and stone, hidden from the road. The outdoor shower was a cedar stall with no roof. He twisted the valve. Warm water coughed, then ran steady. He shoved his shorts down. His cock swung out thick and heavy, already lifting, the head flushed dark under the spray. I kicked my boots off and peeled my jeans. We stood naked with the water beating us, his size making the stall feel smaller, my own cock hard against my stomach, pulse loud in my ears.

He put a broad hand on the back of my neck and pulled me into his mouth. Salt, beer, heat. I opened for his tongue and felt it push deep while his other hand closed around my cock, rough palm, slow stroke, thumb dragging the slick slit until my knees softened. I grabbed his ass with both hands. Solid muscle, hot skin, a little hair. I hauled him in so our cocks dragged together under the water, the friction mean and perfect, his shaft thick against mine, heads catching, slipping, catching again. His chest hair scraped my nipples raw. I dropped to the wet boards.

His cock filled my mouth and still left inches for my fist. He tasted like clean skin and the musk the shower had not washed off. I worked my tongue flat along the underside, then tight around the head, sucking until his thighs jumped and his hand settled in my wet hair. He did not shove. He rolled his hips in short thrusts that bumped my throat and made my eyes water. I breathed through my nose and took him deeper, spit and water running down my chin onto my chest. I cupped his balls, heavy and tight, and felt them draw when I hollowed my cheeks and moaned around him. My own cock throbbed untouched, leaking onto my thigh.

He pulled me off him before he finished, hauled me up, and walked me dripping into the casita. A wide daybed sat under the window, linen already warm from the sun. He bent me over the foot of it, forearm across my upper back, and I heard him spit into his palm. Two thick fingers pressed at my hole, circled, then pushed. The stretch burned sweet and immediate. He worked me open with a patience that did not match the shake in his breath, one finger, then two, scissoring, curling until he found the spot that made my cock jump and smear the linen. I pushed back on his hand. He added a third and held them deep while I swore into the mattress and stayed open for him, wanting the rest.

He lined the blunt head of his cock up and sank in slow. Inch by inch the burn widened into a deep full ache that flipped into pleasure so sharp I had to lock my arms. When he was seated he held still, and I felt every throb of him, the thick stretch, the heat. Then he fucked me. Long strokes first, dragging out until I clenched on the head, driving back in until his hips slapped my ass and the daybed knocked the wall. He picked up speed. Each thrust knocked a grunt out of me and shoved my cock against the linen. His hands bruised my hips in the best way, big fingers digging in, holding me where he wanted me.

He changed the angle and hit that place dead on. My vision went white at the edges. I got a hand on myself and stroked hard, fist tight, head swollen and slick. I came in heavy pulses, striping the linen, hole clamping around him so tight he lost the rhythm and cursed into my shoulder. He fucked through it, shorter, rougher, then buried himself and came, heat flooding deep, his cock kicking, chest crushed to my back, breath ragged on my wet skin. When he eased out I felt the emptiness and the slow trickle down my thigh. The deck could wait.