Chapter 5

FIVE

T hey get back just as it begins to pour in earnest.

The thunder that has been rumbling, the distant threat of the storm, finally crashes down just as Bruce slams the door shut behind them and drops the damp cat he grabbed off the porch onto the floor. Simon shakes his arms and a spray of drops falls onto the carpet.

"I can walk back to the inn–" he tries to say as he wipes the lenses of his glasses with the damp hem of his shirt.

"No," Bruce grits out and peers out the window before letting the gauzy curtains fall back into place. "The flash flooding will take you out at the knees. This is a real fuckin' storm, the first one we've had all fall. The ground isn't saturated enough, the water will run right over all the dirt and wash you right into the sea." He swears under his breath and starts stripping.

"Whoa, whoa—" Simon stammers as he jams his smeary lensed glasses back on his face but Bruce barely spares him a glance, already out of his hat and jacket.

"Get outta the wet clothes," Bruce says. Simon can barely hear his soft spoken voice over the pouring rain outside, over the rushing of the wind and the crashing waves even further down the shore, but he turns red all the same. "You'll go hypothermic. I know it doesn't look like much, but I got hot water, and we'll be safe in here until the morning."

Simon slowly unwinds his scarf from around his neck and drapes it over the arm of the couch. "Are you sure? I could make it."

"You're staying," Bruce says with a distinct air of finality. "I might not like you, Simon, but I'm not leaving you to the goddamn elements." With that, he yanks his damp shirt off his head and drops it in a small wicker basket with the rest of his clothes.

His chest is broad—just as strong and wide as Simon could've hoped it would be under all those clothes—and his pectorals are bisected with two long, pale scars. They're old, shiny and nearly pearl white, and smaller rings of the same scars surround his rosy nipples. Bruce stretches his muscular arms up towards the roof and his thick stomach raises in turn, dark hair curling down over his belly button and towards his groin. Simon is distantly aware of the fact that his mouth has gone dry, that Bruce hasn't taken his eyes off of Simon since he tugged his shirt over his head, and that, if his shirt was removed, his own skin would surely be flushed bright red.

Christ, of course Bruce is built, and handsome, and—

"I'm taking first shower," Bruce grunts and disappears into a small connected room, the only part of the shack that isn't open concept. He leaves behind the scent of smoke and salt, and Simon swallows hard to try to wash it out of his sinuses.

His pants are wet and, even though Bruce just stripped down to his underwear, Simon feels too uneasy to do the same. Instead, he removes his flannel and jacket and hangs them on the small wooden coat rack by the door to dry. Barely audible over the rain, the shower starts, and Simon can't help but imagine Bruce under the water, rivulets dripping down his chest, gleaming drips caught in the thatch of hair across his stomach.

"Fuck," he hisses and smacks the tops of his thighs to distract himself. It might be the only time he gets to see inside the small shack by the sea, and he might as well take advantage of it.

The kitchen—if it could be called that—is crammed against the wall in between the quartered-off bathroom and the rear wall of the shack and is made up almost entirely of a small fridge and a hotplate on a lone countertop. Bruce's bed is against that same back wall, the foot directly in front of the entrance, and the rest of the house is sparsely decorated. There's an old quilt folded on a vintage trunk, covered in old, peeling stickers and ripped leather. The bed itself is plain– another, simpler quilt covering a blue, checked duvet. There are two pillows, but they're stacked together right in the center, like Bruce hasn't had company in a long time. A ball of yarn is on the small table beside the bed, jabbed through with two thin needles, and the grouchy still-damp cat bats at the tail end as it trails off the side of the table. On the wall above, just beside the window, there's a small corkboard displaying postcards, origami, leaves that even Simon would admit are in cool shapes, and a few business cards.

There's one that catches his eye, a jotted down email address on a green sticky note: [email protected]. There's a scribble of a lighthouse, a scratchy little sketch, and Simon drags his finger over the pen. What did Bruce think of him before he arrived in Caerlloyd yesterday?A week ago when they emailed?

"Your turn," a deep, sleepy voice says behind Simon, who spins around to see Bruce, now wearing clean, dry boxer briefs with water dripping from his curly hair. Simon's mouth does that terrible, embarrassing thing again where it goes dry, makes his voice raspy and low, and he swallows twice to wet it. "While you're in, I'll dig out the heater and try to find some spare clothes that'll fit you for tonight."

"I could think of another way we could keep warm," Simon says before he can stop himself, the impulsive flirty instincts that always arise with his low level mania reaching for his throat.

The wind roars outside; it scrapes against the walls and sends bolts of water straight into the reinforced glass windows. Bruce Cadogan is quiet, studying Simon up and down like he could see beneath his soggy clothes without removing them.

"You just think I'll let you have me, now that you know I have a pussy?" Bruce drawls and grabs his jeans from the pile, fishing out a cigarette from the pocket.

"No! I—" Simon splutters as Bruce calmly lights up, exhaling the first drag nice and smooth. "I didn't mean— I wasn't thinking you would bottom," he finishes lamely and tugs at the hem of his shirt. "I'll go shower. I— I just thought, maybe—"

"Shower first," Bruce murmurs from behind another puff of smoke, a quiet smile playing at the corner of his lips. "Get yourself real nice and clean, then we can talk. My bed's plenty big for two."

Simon knows he's burnt red all the way to the roots of his hair. "I—Okay, I'll go," he says and darts into the small bathroom before he can overthink it.

When he emerges from the shower, half-hard with an old, familiar kind of anxiety taking root in his chest, Bruce is sitting at the head of the bed. Simon stops in his tracks. The man is naked now, save for the leather harness wrapped around his hips proudly holding a thick, dark blue strap-on between his legs. Bruce has draped a towel over the bedspread and Simon can see from here the small bottle of lube sitting beside his right knee.

"Oh," Simon says.

Bruce looks up from the book he has pinched in his fingers.

"Oh?" he repeats and slides a tasseled bookmark in between the pages. "Where'd your confidence go, sweetheart?" He sets the book down on the small, handmade-looking bedside table and drags his fingertips across his stomach. "You clean up real nice?"

"I did," Simon breathes and moves, kneeling on the bed. The towel falls off and slumps onto the floor. "God. I thought you hated me." A gust of cold air pummels the outside of Bruce's house but all Simon feels is the heat coursing through his veins, the warmth from Bruce's heavy gaze as he crawls closer.

"Eh," Bruce mutters and reaches down between his legs, rubbing himself underneath the leather harness holding his dick in place. "Resent what you're doing to the town, to the lighthouse. Can't say you're not pretty, though, and it ain't like we have much else to do while it storms out." He lets his head lull to the side and looks over Simon's body slowly, like he's savoring each glance. "We've got all night, don't we?"

Simon moves even closer, daring to rest his hand on Bruce's thigh. "That we do," he breathes and fits his knee between Bruce's spread legs. "I—Can I kiss you?"

Bruce's lips quirk up in the first smile he's offered Simon since they met. "Yeah, Simon. You can kiss me."

Bruce's beard is thick and well-groomed and his lips are soft, softer than any of the last couple of men Simon has kissed. Simon reaches up and cards his fingers through the coarse hair, presses softly at the man's jawline, and kisses him, quickly growing dizzy with it. Bruce's mouth tastes of ash and toothpaste and his tongue presses so sweet against Simon's, lazy so unlike the whirling storm outside.

Simon moves his hand instinctively to cup Bruce's dick and stops when he touches smooth plastic.

"Roll over," Bruce instructs and pulls away from Simon. "On your knees."

Simon can't swallow the quiet groan that works its way up his throat at Bruce's firm tone. He follows directions at once, eager to please.

"Good boy," Bruce murmurs, and a startled gasp falls from Simon's throat. "Yeah? You seem like one to like this, like it when another man takes control." At the familiar click of a lube bottle cap, Simon shifts his knees to find the most comfortable position, pressing his cheek into Bruce's pillow. It smells like him—cigarettes and the vaguely floral, musky soap he found in the shower. "You like it when they fuck you into the mattress, hm? Makes up for all your goddamn snark." Bruce drags his slick finger over Simon's entrance and massages over his hole, dragging lube and sweat over his opening, before beginning to press in slowly with one impossibly thick finger.

"Christ, Bruce—Fuck," Simon whines and bucks back onto the welcome intrusion.

Bruce works him open for what feels like hours, what could be days, and his quiet breaths and gentle praises as Simon takes one, two, three of his fingers feel like echoes of the storm outside, like thunder roaring through Simon's electric body. Bruce is big, and hot, and when he finally pulls out his middle three fingers and clicks open the lube again, Simon is nearly sobbing with want .

"Raise yourself up," Bruce says and presses a whiskery kiss to the crest of Simon's asscheek. "C'mon, show me how much you want me." Simon rocks back just as Bruce reaches between his legs and strokes him a few times. He makes sure Simon is fully hard before returning his attention to Simon's ass. One warm hand rests hot on Simon's spine and the slick, blunt end of Bruce's plastic dick presses against his entrance.

"Fuck me already," Simon hisses.

"So impatient," Bruce breathes and strokes a feather-light touch down Simon's spine. "Trust me, Simon."

All Simon can do is let out a shaking sob as Bruce presses inside, slowly working deeper with every thrust until his hairy thighs rest against Simon's ass. It's been a while since he's been fucked like this, deep and intoxicatingly smooth, slow and hard , and he thinks he might explode if Bruce doesn't pick up the goddamn pace.

"You need to learn to appreciate taking things slow," Bruce murmurs and leans down to drag his lips across Simon's spine. "Learn to appreciate the quiet things." He's still, waiting for something Simon's desperate mind is too blurry to figure out, but after a moment he seems satisfied and presses in fully in one deep thrust. Simon bites down on his lip and buries his face in the sheets.

Bruce pulls out, just for a moment, and Simon almost sobs until he realizes that Bruce is just slicking himself up again. He wonders briefly, fuzzily, how the strap feels against Bruce, how the cup of the harness must rub against him, before the telltale sound of a vibrator begins to hum. It's barely audible against the storm, a gentle buzz, but Bruce grunts and shifts the way the harness rests on his hips before pressing in again, long and slow.

Bruce fucks like he seems to live—slow, methodical, and intuitive. Every time Simon cries out he adjusts, intent on finding the perfect angle to drive him crazy. Their bodies fit together like old-worn floorboards and the hair on Bruce's thighs against the soft, untouched skin of Simon's hips is raspy and fucking delicious . They meet each other beat for beat, thunderclaps outside mirroring the lightning-strike pleasure of each one of Bruce's movements, and Simon can barely see through tears blurring his vision. Everything he begs for, Bruce offers tenfold. They're so in sync with every movement and just as Simon feels his climax approaching, Bruce's thrusts begin to grow sloppy.

"C'mon," Bruce grunts and reaches down to grip Simon's cock, stroking him in time with every quiet thrust. It's almost too much, being pinned between Bruce's dick and his hand, but Simon just allows himself to feel and rides through his orgasm, digging his fingers so hard into the bedsheets that, if he had any mind to care, he would worry they tore. Bruce fucks him through it until Simon collapses forward onto the bed, sweaty and exhausted. There are still pricks of overwhelmed tears threatening to fall from his eyes from the sheer stimulation, but Simon just presses his face into the pillow to wipe them away before turning to watch Bruce.

He's gripping the thick blue cock in his hand, but he isn't jerking it off—Simon supposes that makes sense. Instead, he uses it as a handhold, grinds against the harness itself—and the vibrator hidden inside— until he stills and his mouth tips open, coming with a silent cry.

"Yeah, baby," Simon murmurs as Bruce reaches between his legs, under the harness, and switches off the toy. He tilts onto his side and collapses into the bed as well, settled in beside Simon with their bodies bent like quotation marks, and doesn't even move to unbuckle the harness. They lay there for a moment, breathing heavily and basking in the afterglow, before Bruce gets to his feet again with a quiet groan.

Simon shuts his eyes. He listens to the soft, muted noises of Bruce moving throughout the small house, but he doesn't look at what he's doing until he feels a warm washcloth drape across his lower back.

"Clean up, then we can sleep," Bruce says. Sleep sounds good, sounds excellent , especially in the arms of the man who just fucked him so good he can't fucking think, so Simon wipes off his stomach and ass and hands the washcloth and towel that was wedged under their bodies back to Bruce. The other man putters around for a minute more, but Simon just tugs the quilt up over his shoulders, buries his face in Bruce's ashy pillow, and falls asleep to the sound of the rain.