8. Embers #3
The walk back to the cabins had been short, the whiskey still warm in their veins and the memory of the fire still hotter.
Reed’s hostile-takeover story had lasted exactly as long as the distance required.
At Cabin Two’s door he clapped Milo on the shoulder once, firm, lingering a second too long, and muttered, “Night, kid,” before continuing toward his own.
Milo slipped inside alone.
He didn’t turn on the lantern. He kicked off his boots, lay back on the narrow bunk, and pulled the wool blanket to his waist. Eyes closed. Breathing steady. Pretending.
He wasn’t asleep.
His cock had been hard since the fire. Now it lay thick and rigid against his stomach, still growing, the smooth circumcised head pushing past his belly button and resting there like a blunt, flushed claim.
The shaft throbbed visibly with every heartbeat, veins standing proud, a steady bead of precum sliding down the underside and soaking into the dark trail of hair.
The cabin door creaked open.
Milo’s pulse slammed. He kept his eyes shut. Heavy footsteps crossed the floorboards. The scent of woodsmoke, whiskey, and warm skin filled the room.
Reed.
The older man stopped at the foot of the bunk. Milo could feel that stare dragging over the blanket, pausing at the obvious ridge, then settling on the exposed head of his cock where it lay flushed and proud above his belly button. Reed didn’t speak. He simply stared, breathing slow and deep.
Then the blanket was drawn down to Milo’s hips.
Cool air kissed overheated skin. His cock twitched hard, the head flaring darker as another thick bead of precum welled and rolled down the shaft. Reed knelt beside the bunk.
A rough palm settled on Milo’s sternum, sliding upward over the surprisingly athletic chest he usually hid. Reed’s thumb brushed one nipple. Milo’s back arched before he could stop it.
Then the hand was replaced by lips.
Reed kissed the center of his chest, open-mouthed, reverent, before moving to the left nipple and sucking gently. Milo’s cock jerked against his stomach. Reed switched sides, licking, sucking, grazing the peak with his teeth just hard enough to make Milo’s hips twitch.
“Been watching you pretend since the fire, kid,” Reed murmured against wet skin, voice gravel-rough. “That pretty cock doesn’t know how to lie. Look at it, head already past your belly button and still leaking for me.”
He dragged his mouth lower, following the treasure trail, breath ghosting over the aching length. Then Reed wrapped one big hand around the base, not stroking yet, just holding, feeling it throb, and pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the swollen head.
Milo’s entire body jolted. Reed licked the slit, tasting the precum, then took just the head into his mouth and sucked gently.
Milo’s hands fisted the blanket. He was supposed to be asleep. He was supposed to stay still. But his cock pulsed on Reed’s tongue, feeding him another steady leak.
Reed pulled off just long enough to growl, “Gonna swallow every drop, kid. Right down my throat while you keep pretending to sleep.”
Then he sank all the way down.
No teasing. No halfway. Reed took Milo to the root in one smooth, wet glide, nose pressing into the dark hair at his base, throat opening and contracting around the thick head. The sudden, perfect heat and pressure ripped the orgasm out of Milo before he could even try to hold it back.
Milo came with a silent, broken cry, hips jerking, thick ropes pulsing straight down Reed’s throat. Reed swallowed every drop, greedy, rhythmic swallows that milked the shaft and pulled more from Milo’s balls until the younger man was trembling and empty.
Reed stayed down for three long seconds after the last spurt, throat working, making sure nothing was wasted. Only then did he slowly pull off, lips shiny, a single string of spit and cum connecting them for one filthy second before it broke.
He tucked the softening cock back under the blanket like something precious, kissed the center of Milo’s chest once more, and stood.
“Sleep,” he whispered. “When you’re ready to stop pretending… my cabin door stays unlocked.”
The door clicked shut.
Milo’s eyes flew open the second the latch caught. His hand shot down anyway, wrapping around his spent cock, and he came again, a weak, oversensitive second orgasm, biting his own forearm while Reed’s words and the memory of that throat swallowing every drop echoed in his ears.
Outside the cabin, hidden in the shadow of the pines, Canyon Thibodeaux stood motionless.
His silver eyes glowed faintly in the dark. His nostrils flared, drinking in the scent of fresh cum, hot skin, and the unmistakable spike of Milo’s release. He could hear the younger man’s frantic heartbeat, the wet sounds that had just stopped, Reed’s low chuckle fading into the night.
Canyon’s cock was rock-hard in his jeans.
He didn’t move. Didn’t interrupt.
But his fangs had dropped fully, sharp and aching, and the mountain itself seemed to hold its breath as the ancient predator listened to one of his humans being claimed by another, and decided, with terrifying patience, exactly how he would collect what belonged to him when the time came.