The lumberjack boyfriend - Chapter 5 (Patreon)

Chapter 5

I woke up with my eyes swollen and my throat tight.

Sunlight cut across the wooden floor of my cabin in thin, sharp lines. For a few seconds I just lay there staring at the ceiling, feeling the dull ache deep inside me and the heavier one sitting in my chest. Morgan’s words from the night before were still stuck in my head like splinters.

You’re just the skinny little faggot who can’t keep his legs closed.

I rolled onto my side and pressed my face into the pillow. I could still smell him on my skin no matter how hard I’d scrubbed in the shower before bed. Whiskey. Sweat. Sex. The ghost of his mustache scraping my mouth.

I didn’t want to get up.

When I finally forced myself outside, the July heat was already rising off the lake. My parents were on the porch of the bigger cabin with coffee. Morgan was there too — shirtless, jeans low on his hips, a bottle of beer already in his hand even though it wasn’t even noon. He looked like he hadn’t slept much. Dark circles under his eyes. Jaw tight. He didn’t look at me when the screen door slapped shut behind me.

“Morning, sweetheart,” Mom said, smiling “You look tired. Didn’t you sleep well?”

“I’m fine.”

I sat as far from Morgan as the table allowed. Every time I reached for the toast or the juice I felt the weight of his presence like a hand on the back of my neck. He didn’t speak. He just drank his beer and stared out at the water like the rest of us weren’t even there.

After breakfast my parents decided to go for a hiking and I had to refuse tree times before mom could take no for an answer. 

The moment their car disappeared down the dirt road, the air between the two cabins turned heavy enough to choke on.

I went straight back inside and locked the door.

I tried to read. The same page of Haunting Adeline stared back at me for twenty minutes without a single word sinking in. My body still felt opened. Used. Every time I shifted on the bed I felt the ghost of him and hated how much I still wanted it.

Around three in the afternoon someone knocked hard on my door.

I already knew who it was.

I opened it anyway.

Morgan stood there in nothing but khaki shorts and barefoot, hat in one hand, chest bare and shining with a thin layer of sweat. He smelled like beer and heat and the same confusion that had been written all over his face the night before. His eyes dragged over me once, old t-shirt, shorts, bare feet and something dark moved behind them.

“We need to talk,” he said.

“I think you said enough last night.”

He stepped forward without asking, forcing me to move back so he could come inside. The door shut hard behind him. Suddenly the cabin felt too small for both of us.

Morgan tossed his hat onto the dresser and turned to face me. His jaw was working like he was chewing on words he didn’t want to say.

“What happened between us was a mistake,” he started, voice low and rough. “All of it. The woods. The bed. Everything. You’re Jenna’s little brother. I shouldn’t have touched you.”

I laughed once, short and bitter. 

“You made that pretty clear when you threw me out.”

“Watch your mouth.”

He took a step closer. I backed up until my shoulders hit the wall. Morgan kept coming until he was right in front of me, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. The heat coming off his bare chest was almost suffocating.

“You came into my cabin,” he said, quiet and accusing. “You put your hands on me. You kissed me like you had any right. You said you didn’t want her to come back. You think that doesn’t fuck with a man’s head?”

“I didn’t force you to do anything.”

“No.” His voice dropped even lower. “You didn’t. That’s the problem.”

He lifted one hand and wrapped it around the front of my throat, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make my pulse jump against his palm. His thumb brushed the underside of my jaw. The same hand that had held me open against the tree the day before. The same hand that had shoved me out of his bed.

“I can’t stop thinking about the way you felt,” he muttered, almost like he hated admitting it. “The way you sounded. The way you looked at me when I was inside you. It’s under my skin and I don’t fucking like it.”

My mouth went dry.

Morgan leaned in until his forehead almost touched mine. The smell of beer and sweat and man filled my nose. His other hand came up and gripped my waist hard through the thin t-shirt.

“This is what you’re going to do,” he said. 

“You’re going to stay the hell away from me when your parents are around. You’re not going to look at me like that at the table. And when Jenna comes back, this ends. Completely. Understand?”

I should have said yes.

Instead I whispered, “Then why are you still touching me?”

Something in his expression cracked.

Morgan made a low, frustrated sound in his throat and kissed me.

It wasn’t gentle. It was angry and hungry and full of everything he didn’t want to feel. His mustache scraped my skin raw as his mouth opened mine. He kissed me like he was trying to punish both of us for the night before. I kissed him back just as hard, hands fisting in the thick hair on his chest, even though every part of me still ached from the way he’d spoken to me.

He spun me around and shoved me face-first against the wall. One big hand planted between my shoulder blades, holding me there, while the other yanked my shorts and underwear down in one rough motion. I heard open the velcro from his shorts. A second later the thick head of his cock, already hard, pressed against my hole.

He pushed in with one long, relentless thrust.

I cried out against the wood. Morgan didn’t give me time to adjust. He started fucking me hard and deep right away, hips slamming against my ass, the wet sound of it loud in the quiet cabin. It was almost punishing — every stroke edged with the same frustration that had been in his voice.

“This is all it is,” he growled against the back of my neck. “Just a tight little hole I can use while she’s gone. That’s all you’re good for. You understand me?”

I moaned brokenly in answer, cheek pressed to the wall, taking every thick inch of him. His chest was hot and sweaty against my back. One hand stayed locked on my hip hard enough to bruise while the other reached around and wrapped around my throat again, tilting my head back so he could bite at the side of my neck.

The rough pace lasted maybe two minutes before something in him shifted.

His thrusts slowed, got deeper, more deliberate. The hand on my throat softened just enough to become almost careful. He turned my face toward him and kissed me again, messier this time, open-mouthed, like he couldn’t help himself. A low, helpless sound left his chest when I kissed him back.

“Fuck,” he muttered against my mouth. “What the hell are you doing to me…”

He pulled out only long enough to drag me to the bed and throw me down on my back. Then he was on me again, shoving my thighs apart and sinking back inside in one smooth, powerful stroke. This time he stayed close, chest against mine, forehead pressed to mine, fucking me with long, deep rolls of his hips while he kissed me like he was drowning.

I wrapped my legs around his waist and held on.

The cabin filled with the sound of skin on skin and the wet, filthy noise of him moving inside me. Sweat built between our bodies, I felt the heavy weight of him pressing against that spot that made my vision blur. His mustache kept scraping my lips and jaw. His breathing had gone rough and uneven against my cheek.

“You feel too fucking good,” he growled, almost accusing. “This hole was made for my cock and you know it.”

I could only moan in answer, nails digging into the hard muscle of his back. Morgan’s rhythm grew more desperate. He hooked one of my legs higher and drove into me harder, the headboard knocking lightly against the wall. The kiss turned sloppy and open. I could taste beer and heat and pure need on his tongue.

When he came it was with a deep, almost pained sound, burying himself to the hilt and pulsing thick and hot inside me. The feeling of him flooding me again pushed me over the edge. I came hard between our stomachs, hole clenching around him, a broken cry muffled against his mouth.

For a long time afterward he stayed on top of me, still buried deep, both of us breathing hard. His face was turned into the side of my neck. One of his heavy hands was tangled in my hair almost gently. I could feel his heartbeat slamming against my chest.

Then, slowly, he pulled out and rolled onto his back beside me.

The sudden absence of his weight made the bed feel cold.

Morgan stared at the ceiling for a long time, chest still rising and falling. Cum leaked out of me onto the sheets. I didn’t move. I was afraid that if I said anything he would turn cold again the way he had the night before.

Finally he spoke, voice low and rough.

I turned my head to look at him.

Morgan’s jaw was tight. His eyes were fixed on the wooden beams above us like they might give him answers.

“This ends when Jenna comes back,” he added. “No more. No exceptions. You understand me, Gay Potter?”

I swallowed.

“Yeah,” I whispered. “I understand..”

He nodded once, still not looking at me. Then he sat up, grabbed his khaki’s shorts from the floor, and started getting dressed with sharp, angry movements. When he was done he picked up his hat, settled it low over his eyes, and walked to the door without another word.

He paused with his hand on the handle.

For a second I thought he might turn around. Say something else. Anything.

Instead he opened the door and stepped out into the bright afternoon light, leaving me alone on the bed with his cum still leaking out of me and the clear, terrible knowledge that neither of us actually believed a single word of what he’d just said.

I lay there staring at the ceiling long after the sound of his feet had faded, heart still racing, body still open and aching, already dreading, and craving the next time he decided he needed to use me again.