Chapter 17 #2
Rudy looked at them and smiled. “Proof,” he said.
“Of what?” I asked.
“That we were here.”
The ache in my chest sharpened. I slung an arm around his shoulders and pulled him close. “Come on,” I said roughly. “You’ve got to learn how to chop wood before I’ll let you back in the house.”
He gasped, hand to heart. “Cruel.”
“You’ll survive.”
The woodpile sat near the shed, half-covered by a sloped tarp weighed down with cinder blocks. I pulled it back, revealing split logs stacked in neat rows. The block I used for chopping sat a few feet away, embedded in packed snow and frozen soil.
Rudy eyed the axe on the ground with theatrical suspicion. “That looks like something from a horror movie,” he said.
“It’s just a tool,” I said, picking it up. The familiar weight settled into my palms, handle worn smooth from years of use. “Like a kitchen knife. Or a laptop. Or a plunger.”
“Those are three very different vibes,” he said.
“Point stands.”
He snorted.
“Okay,” I said, setting a log on the chopping block. “First lesson: stance. Feet shoulder-width apart. Knees soft. You’re not trying to wrestle the wood into submission. You’re letting the axe do the work.”
“Very zen of you,” he murmured.
I shot him a look over my shoulder. “Come here.”
He stepped up behind me. For a second he hovered at a careful distance. I reached back, caught his hip, and pulled him fully against my back.
“There,” I said. “Closer.”
His breath hitched. I pretended not to notice. His hands slid around my waist, then up my arms when I nudged them there.
“Follow my movement first,” I said. “Then we’ll swap.”
I lifted the axe slowly, letting him feel the way my shoulders and back engaged, the shift of weight in my feet. Then I brought it down in a controlled arc. The blade bit cleanly through the log, splitting it into two satisfying halves.
“Oh,” he breathed. “Okay, that was… hot.”
“It’s just physics,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said faintly. “That’s what I meant.”
I swallowed down a laugh. “All right, Woodsman Rudy. Your turn.”
We traded places. He picked up the axe with both hands, expression caught somewhere between eager and nervous.
“It’s heavier than it looks,” he said.
“I know.” I stepped in close behind him again. “Set your feet like I did. Good. Hands a little wider. There.”
My palms covered his, adjusting his grip. The contact zinged through me, awareness sparking low in my stomach. He leaned back just enough that I could feel the curve of his ass against my thighs.
“This feels very not OSHA-compliant,” he said, voice a touch breathless.
“We’re off the clock,” I said. “Now lift. Don’t muscle it. Just raise it and let gravity help.”
We brought the axe up together. His shoulders trembled slightly under my hands. When we swung down, we were a little off-center. The blade grazed the edge of the log and buried itself in the block instead.
He yelped, stumbling forward a step. I caught him around the waist, pulling him back against me before he could pitch sideways into the snow.
“Sorry,” he gasped, laughing shakily. “I almost killed us both.”
“Just the chopping block,” I said. “We’re fine.”
He turned his head, eyes wide, pupils blown just a little wider than the near-miss warranted. “You’re very close,” he said.
“That’s because you’re very distracting,” I said honestly.
His mouth curved. “You like me dangerous and incompetent. Good to know.”
I huffed. “You’re not incompetent. You’re learning.”
“Mm.” He wiggled his hips back deliberately. “Maybe I need more hands-on instruction.”
Heat licked through me, fast and sure. “Rudy.”
“Graeme,” he echoed, sing-song, head tipping back against my shoulder so he could look up at me. His nose was pink. His lips were damp. His eyes, though, were pure mischief. “It’s cold out here,” he said. “Don’t you think we should go inside and… warm up?”
I didn’t need to be asked twice.
I took the axe from his hands, wedged it safely into the block, scooped up a few split logs and stacked them against my chest, then tugged the tarp back over the woodpile with more haste than grace.
When I turned around, he was already heading toward the house, glancing over his shoulder with a grin that made my blood heat.
“I see how it is,” I said, catching up in three long strides.
“How is it?” he asked innocently.
“You tease,” I said. “You stir things up. Then you run.”
“I’m not running,” he said. “I’m leading.”
He wasn’t wrong.
We were both rosy-cheeked and breathless when we tumbled inside, dragging in a gust of cold air and the sharp scent of snow. Our boots clattered onto the mat. Hats and gloves hit the bench. I stacked the split logs in the rack beside the fireplace, then went after him.
My fingers ached to touch him properly—skin, heat, the softness he gave me.
“Shower,” I said.
He arched a brow. “Is that an order?”
“It’s a safety recommendation,” I said, tugging a snow-packed curl off his forehead. “You’re freezing.”
His eyes swept down my body slowly, lingering. “Gonna make sure I don’t slip?”
“I’ll supervise,” I murmured.
Steam filled the bathroom fast, fogging the mirror and softening the light until everything looked a little hazy, a little dreamlike.
We undressed without hurrying—layers sliding to the floor, socks being peeled off, skin emerging bit by bit.
He shivered only once; I wasn’t sure if it was from the cold or the way I was watching him.
Under the spray, Rudy gasped as hot water hit his skin. His pale chest flushed pink instantly. Droplets clung to the soft red hair dusting his sternum before streaking downward in thin trails. His curls darkened, flattening against his forehead as he tipped his head back with a relieved sigh.
That sigh almost undid me.
I reached for the washcloth—not to hide my hands, but so I’d use them gently, not greedily.
“Turn around,” I said.
He did, bracing his palms lightly on the tile, the muscles in his back shifting as he adjusted his stance. Steam curled over his shoulders. The faint bruises from last night’s sex were still visible, and something warm and possessive kicked low in my stomach.
I soaked the cloth thoroughly, rubbed the bar of cedar-scented soap against it until it foamed rich and white, then pressed it to the back of his neck.
He exhaled shakily.
The scent rose immediately—woodsy, clean, familiar. It curled through the steam, settling under my skin.
I washed him slowly this time. Real washing. Up and down the length of his spine. Over the narrow slope of his shoulders. Across the soft plane of his lower back.
He made a soft sound when I swept the cloth across the dimples above his ass.
“You’re warm now,” I murmured.
“Mm. Getting there,” he said, voice breathy and loose.
I rinsed the cloth and knelt, the tile warm against my knees.
Water ran down his calves in white streams. His thighs tensed as I washed the backs of his legs—soap, water, slow circles—my knuckles brushing up toward the place where thigh met cheek.
I didn’t linger. Not yet. Not until he told me he wanted more.
His fingers curled slightly against the tile, but he didn’t pull away.
“Lift your foot,” I said softly.
He did, trusting me entirely as I washed the arch of his foot, his heel, between each toe. He swayed a little and I steadied him with a palm to his hip.
“Turn,” I said gently. “Let me see you.”
He pivoted slowly, water coursing down his chest, dripping from the ginger trail of hair leading to his cock… and yes, even there, the red was deeper, darker, wet and inviting. The sight hit me with a rush I felt in every muscle.
I stood and cupped his cheek. “Arms up.”
He lifted them obediently. I soaped his arms, his shoulders, the dip of his collarbone. He was breathing faster now, each inhale lifting his chest into my hands.
When I washed his stomach, he sucked in a breath. When I dipped lower, to the soft skin just above his hipbones, his knees pressed together a little.
“Okay?” I asked.
He nodded, too breathless for anything else.
I didn’t touch his cock—not yet. I wanted to, God, I wanted to, but I wanted the moment to build. So I washed the inside of his thighs instead, my thumbs brushing up higher with each careful stroke, close enough that he trembled.
When his head fell back slightly, curls dripping water down his nape, I stepped closer and tilted his chin toward me.
“Rinse,” I whispered.
He let me guide him under the spray. Soap slid off him in frothy rivulets, revealing warm, flushed skin beneath.
Then his hands were on my chest.
“My turn,” he said.
I opened my mouth to argue that he didn’t need to—he silenced that thought with the press of his palms, slick and warm, moving slowly down my ribs. He wasn’t washing me yet. He was exploring me under the guise of washing me, and the restraint in his touch made my whole body tighten.
“Rudy…”
“I know you said I don’t have to,” he murmured, leaning in so the water hit his back instead of mine, his lips brushing my ear. “But I want to. Let me.”
His fingers slid down my stomach, featherlight, reverent. My breath stuttered. I braced one hand on the tile behind me, the other gripping his waist.
He soaped his hands—no cloth this time—and pressed them to my chest. The warmth. The slick glide. The contrast of his small hands against my larger frame. It was all I could do to keep breathing.
He washed me like I had washed him—slow, deliberate, intimate. Across my pecs. Down my stomach. Around my hips. Behind my shoulders.
Every stroke built heat, gathering inside me like a storm.
Then he sank to his knees.
Not hurried. Like kneeling for me was something he’d wanted to do all along.
Water ran down his face, dripping from his lashes. He pushed his wet hair back with one hand, then wrapped the other around my thigh for balance.
He looked up at me.
Red curls plastered to his forehead. Pupils blown wide. Mouth parted. Steam curling around him.
“Let me taste you,” he whispered.
My hand went to the back of his head, fingers threading into wet ginger curls, guiding him.
Rudy’s lips parted wider as they rimmed the head of my cock, and I felt the heat of his mouth and it made my knees buckle slightly.
The shower's spray rained down over us, mixing with the saliva that dripped from his mouth as he took me deeper.
His tongue swirled around the shaft with a hunger that matched the heat in my veins.
I tightened my grip in his damp curls, not forcing myself but steadying myself as he hollowed his cheeks and sucked, drawing out a guttural moan from deep in my chest.
Rudy worked me with expertise, bobbing his head in steady pulls that had my hips twitching forward.
His free hand slid up my thigh, his nails grazing the skin before cupping my balls, massaging them with gentle rolls that sent sparks shooting up my spine.
Water ran down his back, tracing the curve of his spine.
His erection strained untouched against his belly.
He hummed around my length, the vibration buzzing through me like a live wire, and I watched through half-lidded eyes as his throat flexed, taking me to the back with ease born of practice and desire.
"Fuck, that's perfect," I rasped, my voice echoing off the tiled walls.
He responded by quickening his pace, his lips sliding slickly along every inch, his tongue flicking the sensitive underside on each upstroke.
Droplets clung to his lashes as he glanced up, those blown pupils locking onto mine, seeking approval in the midst of this erotic act.
I gave it with a nod, thrusting shallowly into his mouth, feeling the tight seal of his lips stretch around me.
The pressure built relentlessly, coiling tighter in my gut, my balls drawing up as the edge approached.
But I wasn't ready to finish like this; not when I could bury myself in him instead.
With a strained growl, I pulled back, his mouth releasing me with a pop that left strings of spit bridging the gap.
“Not yet, Rudy. I need to fuck you properly.” He rose unsteadily, his cheeks flushed deeper than the steam could account for, his cock bobbing hard and leaking.
We shut off the water, the sudden chill raising goosebumps on our skin as we grabbed towels.
I dried him roughly, over his shoulders, down his chest, between his legs, before turning the towel on myself, but the urgency clawed at us both.
“Hurry.” We raced down the hall, his laughter breathless and teasing, my pulse thundering as I shoved the door open.
Inside, the bed waited as Rudy spun to face me, but I pinned him against the wall first, crashing my mouth into his in a bruising kiss. Our tongues tangled, tasting of soap and salt, my skin prickling with anticipation.
I lifted him effortlessly, his legs wrapping around my waist as I carried him to the bed, laying him down with his head on the pillows.
I grabbed the lube from the nightstand and slicked my fingers; I pressed one into his tight heat, then two, twisting and thrusting to open him up.
He arched, gasping, his hands fisting the sheets.
“Graeme, please fill me.” I added a third finger, curling it to graze that spot inside him that made his cock jerk and pre-cum bead at the tip.
Withdrawing my hand, I suited up and coated my shaft and positioned myself between his spread thighs, the head nudging his entrance.
“Breathe for me,” I instructed, pushing in slow and steady.
The resistance gave way, his ring clenching around me as I sank deeper, inch by inch, until my hips met his ass.
We both groaned at the fullness, his walls hot and velvet around my length.
I paused, letting him adjust, then pulled back and snapped forward, setting a deep, grinding pace.
His nails dug into my shoulders, urging me on as I drove into him, the bed creaking under our weight.
Each thrust hit home, his prostate taking the brunt, drawing whimpers that turned to cries.
I hooked his legs over my elbows, folding him nearly in half to plunge even deeper, our sweat-slick bodies sliding together.
“So tight, you’re made for this,” I panted, one hand dropping to pump his cock in rough strokes, my thumb smearing the slickness over the head.
He shattered first, his body seizing as he came with a shout, ropes of cum splattering his stomach and my fist. The rhythmic squeeze of his ass pulled me under; I buried myself to the root, my hips stuttering as I flooded him, pulse after pulse of release marking him inside.
We rode it out, breaths ragged, until I collapsed beside him, pulling him into my side.
His head was tucked under my chin, our heartbeats slowing in tandem, the world outside forgotten for now.