The lumberjack boyfriend- Morgan’s POV - Chapter 4 (Patreon)

Author’s note: All my characters are consenting adults (18+). All sexual acts depicted are consensual between the characters.

Chapter 4 – Morgan’s POV

I closed the cabin door harder than I needed to and locked it out of habit.

My body still hummed from what I’d just done behind the trees. The boys’s hole had taken me deep, wet and greedy, and I’d filled him until it spilled down his thighs. I could still feel the ghost of that tight heat around my cock. The whiskey bottle was already in my hand before I even thought about it. I took a long pull, the burn doing nothing to quiet the static in my head.

Jenna’s little brother.

I stripped down to my boxer briefs, tossed the dirty clothes into the corner with the rest of the mess, and dropped onto the edge of the bed. The Scream mask stared up at me from the floor like it was judging me. Empty cans everywhere. The bed still unmade from the night before. I looked like exactly what I was—a man who’d been living alone too long with too much time and too little discipline.

Then the soft knock came.

I already knew who it was.

I opened the door and looked down at him. Glasses fogged a little from the humid air, cheeks still flushed, that skinny frame swimming in the same clothes he’d been wearing when I bent him over outside.

“You’ve got the wrong cabin, kid.”

He swallowed. “Can I come in?”

I should’ve shut the door in his face. Instead I stepped aside.

“Come on in, kid.”

He slipped past me and I closed the door again. The cabin suddenly felt smaller with him inside it. I watched him take in the mess—the mask, the bottles, the unmade bed—and something ugly twisted in my chest. He looked so out of place here. Soft. Bookish. Everything I wasn’t supposed to want.

“I’d offer you a drink,” I said, “but you probably couldn’t handle it. You’re not man enough.”

I laughed at my own jab because it was easier than admitting I was already half-hard again just from the way he was standing there. What the fuck was wrong with my libido?

“You want a Coke instead?”

He nodded and gave me a quiet yes.

“Hey, buddy. Speak up when you’re talking to me. I just fucked you behind the cabins, remember? You scared of me?”

I grabbed a Coke from the fridge, popped the cap with my keys, and watched the metal hit the floor. When I handed him the bottle his fingers brushed mine. He was shaking.

I told myself it was leftover adrenaline from the woods. I told myself a lot of things.

“Thanks.”

I stepped closer without meaning to. Close enough that I could see every short dark hair on my own chest reflected in those thick glasses of his. Close enough to smell the sex still on both of us.

“Eyes on me, chico.”

I took his face in one hand—rough, calloused, the same hand that had held him open against the tree—and made him look at me.

“The eyes chico, they never lie.”

He pushed against my chest. The heat of his palm against my skin made my stomach tighten. I let him step back and watch him almost choke on the Coke.

“Easy… easy.”

I took the bottle from him and set it down.

“We don’t need anyone drowning in the lake tonight. Your sister would never forgive me if I let her baby brother die.”

I lifted the Jack again and drank. The whiskey didn’t help.

“When’s she coming back?” he asked.

“No clue, kid. I’d like to know myself.”

I shrugged, but the question sat wrong in my gut. Jenna was supposed to be the one I was waiting for. The one I was supposed to be loyal to. Not the soft-spoken kid who kept looking at me like I was something out of one of his books.

Then he said it.

“I… I don’t want her to come back…”

Barely a whisper.

Something cold and hot at the same time moved through my chest.

“I don’t think I heard what you said.”

My voice came out harder than I meant it to.

“I told you to speak up when you’re talking to me. What, you’re mute now? Or are you deaf too? Didn’t seem that way when you were moaning with my dick inside your ass.”

I walked him backward until his shoulders hit the wall. The framed hunting print rattled. My breath mixed with the whiskey and the leftover sweat from earlier. His lips were right there. Soft. Open.

“You gonna say that to my face?”

He couldn’t get the words out. Kept stumbling.

“I… I… I think… I need some alcohol before I can say it. C-can you give me some?”

I laughed. Loud. Too loud.

“You need liquid courage, Gay Potter? A magic potion from one of your little books?”

I tipped the bottle against his mouth. He coughed hard and sprayed whiskey across my chest. The burn of the alcohol mixed with the salt of my sweat. I laughed again, but it felt thin.

“Just like I expected! Told you couldn’t handle it, kid.”

“I’m sorry… I’ll clean you up.”

His hands came up, trembling, wiping at my chest. The soft pads of his fingers dragged through the wet hair there. It should have felt ridiculous. It felt like a live wire.

I grabbed his wrist.

Hard.

Then I shoved him back into the wall. The painting hit the floor.

“Talk, Gay Potter!” My grip tightened. “What’d you come here for? And what was that thing you muttered about your sister?”

He was shaking. I could feel the fine tremor running through his arm. I should have let go. I should have opened the door and thrown him out right then.

Instead I stood there and felt his hand spread wider against my chest. Slow. Deliberate. Like he was learning the shape of me. The short dark hairs scraped his palm. My heart was hammering under his fingers and I knew he could feel it.

“I came because…” His voice was barely there. “Because I can’t stop thinking about you.”

The words landed somewhere deep and dangerous.

Then he leaned in and kissed the center of my chest.

Right where the whiskey had landed.

Soft. Careful. Almost reverent.

Another kiss higher, closer to my collarbone. 

His breath was warm. The smell of him—sex, lake air, and something sweet that was just him—cut through the whiskey and the sweat. His hand stayed on my chest the whole time, feeling every change in my breathing.

“I know you’re hers,” he whispered against my skin. “I know this is fucked up. I know I’m supposed to stop. But I… I can’t.”

Something inside me broke.

A low, rough sound left my throat before I could stop it. My hands went under his thighs and I lifted him clean off the floor. His back hit the wall again and my mouth was on his—hungry, open, desperate. I kissed him like I was trying to erase the words he’d just said and keep them at the same time. His tongue met mine. My mustache scraped his skin raw. He tasted like Coke and whiskey and the woods.

I carried him to the bed and dropped him onto the messy sheets. The springs complained under our weight as I came down on top of him. Skin to skin. The coarse hair on my chest dragged against his softer body. One of my thighs forced his legs open.

“Fuck,” I muttered against his mouth between kisses. “You little shit… coming in here saying shit like that…”

I yanked his shorts off. My boxer briefs followed. Then I was on him again, the thick length of my cock sliding against his as I kissed him deeper. My hands were everywhere—grabbing his ass, sliding up his sides, fisting in his hair so I could tilt his head the way I wanted.

When I pushed inside him it was different from the tree. Slower. Deeper. My forehead pressed against his as I worked every thick inch into that tight heat. Both of us breathing hard into each other’s mouths. The stretch still made him shake, but the way he looked at me while I did it made something in my chest twist hard.

“Morgan…”

“Don’t.” My voice came out shaky. “Don’t say my name like that.”

I started moving. Long, powerful strokes that filled him completely each time. The bed creaked in steady rhythm. Sweat built between us almost immediately in the humid air. Every thrust forced soft, broken sounds out of him that I swallowed with another kiss. My mustache kept scraping his lips. My chest hair dragged against his skin. The whole cabin smelled like sex and whiskey and the two of us.

He clung to me like he was drowning.

His hands ran over the hard muscles of my back. He kissed my neck, my jaw, the corner of my mouth, anywhere he could reach, while I fucked him deeper than before. This wasn’t the rough, almost angry sex from the woods. This was heavier. Something that felt like it could break both of us.

My rhythm grew harder, more desperate. Breathing turned ragged against his ear. One hand slid under his lower back, tilting his hips so I could go even deeper.

“You’re gonna ruin everything,” I muttered, almost like I was talking to myself. “You know that? Coming in here… touching me like that… saying you don’t want her to come back…”

He could only moan in answer, legs wrapped around my waist, taking every thick inch of me.

When I came it was with a deep, almost pained sound, burying myself to the hilt and pulsing hard inside him. The heat of it flooded him all over again. He followed right after, spilling between our stomachs while his hole clenched around me.

For a long time neither of us moved. I stayed inside him, chest heaving against his, face buried in the side of his neck. His fingers traced slow lines up and down the sweat-slick muscles of my back. The cabin was quiet except for our breathing and the distant sound of the lake.

I could have stayed like that.

I wanted to stay like that, for hours if I was being honest.

Then the weight of what I’d just done crashed down on me all at once.

I pulled out of him abruptly and rolled onto my back, staring at the ceiling. My chest was still rising and falling hard. Cum leaked out of him onto the sheets. The sudden absence of his body made the bed feel cold.

“Get out.” The words were flat. Cold. They didn’t even sound like mine.

He turned his head, still half-dazed.

“What?”

I sat up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. I didn’t look at him. I reached for the half-empty bottle of Jack and took a long, harsh swallow.

“I said get the fuck out of my cabin, boy.”

The change was so sudden it felt like a slap even to me.

“Morgan…”

“Don’t.” My voice came out harder now, almost angry. “This was a mistake. All of it. You’re Jenna’s little brother. I shouldn’t have touched you. I shouldn’t have let you in here. And I sure as hell shouldn’t have just… done that.”

I stood up, still naked, and grabbed my jeans from the floor. The muscles in my back were tight with tension I couldn’t shake.

“Get dressed and leave boy. Now.”

He sat up slowly. The sheets stuck to his skin. My cum was still leaking out of him. I could see it and it made my stomach twist with something that wasn’t just guilt.

“I thought..”

“You thought wrong.” I finally looked at him, and the expression on my face was pure conflict—anger, guilt, and something darker mixed together. “I got a girlfriend. Your sister. And you’re just the skinny little faggot who can’t keep his legs closed. That’s all this is. Now get the fuck out before I throw you out.”

The words left my mouth like I was trying to cut something out of myself.

He scrambled off the bed, hands shaking as he pulled his shorts back on. He couldn’t look at me. His eyes were already burning. He grabbed his t-shirt from the floor and didn’t even bother putting it on properly before he headed for the door.

I didn’t stop him.

I didn’t say another word.

The door shut hard behind him.

I stood there naked in the middle of the cabin, the whiskey bottle still in my hand, listening to his footsteps fade across the grass. Then I heard the soft, broken sound of him sitting down on the smaller porch steps. The quiet, choked breathing of someone trying not to cry too loud.

I sat back down on the edge of the bed.

The sheets were still warm from his body. The smell of him was everywhere—on my skin, in the air, in the wet spot where he’d come between us. My cock was still half-hard, slick with him and with me. I took another long pull from the bottle and stared at the floor.

What the fuck was I doing.

I’d just fucked Jenna’s little brother in the woods and then again in this bed like he belonged under me. I’d kissed him like I was starving. I’d looked into those soft eyes while I was buried inside him and felt something shift that I didn’t have a name for. And then I’d thrown him out with the ugliest words I could find because the alternative was admitting that I didn’t want him to leave.

I dragged a hand down my face.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. I was supposed to be the solid one. The man Jenna left here as collateral. The guy who fixed things and drank whiskey and kept his word. Not the man who couldn’t stop thinking about the way her brother looked when he whispered that he didn’t want her to come back. Not the man whose chest still burned where those careful, reverent kisses had landed.

I could still feel the shape of his hand on my skin.

I could still feel how perfectly he’d taken me.

And the worst part—the part that made the whiskey taste like nothing—was that when I’d told him to get out, some deep, ugly piece of me had wanted him to refuse. Had wanted him to stay and fight and force me to face whatever the hell this was turning into.

I set the bottle down hard on the nightstand and listened to the silence outside.

He was still out there. I knew it. Sitting on those steps with my cum running down his thighs and my words still cutting him open.

I should have gone after him.

I just sat in the dark, naked, breathing in the smell of what we’d done, and tried to convince myself that the ache in my chest was only guilt.

It wasn’t.

And that scared me more than anything else. I was hurting myself by hurting the boy… and he only wanted my attention.

Fuck!