4. Wild Seeds

FOUR

Wild Seeds

L ush canopy stretched to even lusher paths.

Not that path was the right word. For in this wilderness, there was no road to limit Luca's wandering. Instead, he weaved through the buff furrows of Douglas-fir pines, like a gentle gathering of Christmas trees. That festive aura was only enhanced by the smattering of western yew, already decorated with their distinctive red berries, bowing out like bells around the softer seeds.

And yet, beautiful though this scene was, it still wasn't right for what he had planned—a grand theatre of earth and wood, bringing forth its ancient inspiration.

Not that Luca was worried about that.

It would be here, somewhere.

Just waiting for his arrival.

As his boots forged their path, a bubbling stream guided him down the slopes. Chipmunks darted up trunks and jackrabbits bounded through grass. The early afternoon chorused with robins and goldfinch. When the trees broke into clearings, he caught glimpses of grazing elk and great granite mountains.

He came to a stream, one among many, and filled his metal canteen with contents so clear it was practically invisible. When he splashed a handful against his sweat-beading forehead, it still carried the kiss of high mountain peaks, like the snowmelt of early spring was staying long into this slow and peaceful summer.

Deeper in the woods, the sky became shaded and the soil gathered more moisture. There, he came to a family of red-trunked trees, their mighty russet towers as wide as Luca was tall, with broad leaves cascading down stringed bark and resting over a cool covering of ferns.

The breeze smelled of dew and rich soil. And something else, too. Something that brought back memories of graphite sliding across paper. Of fawn-coloured wood curling against neon plastic. Of trapper keepers and erasers and blue-lined notebooks—clean and waiting for their first entries.

Luca breathed deep the heady smell. The trees were red cedar, bringing the nostalgic kiss of recently shaved pencils.

Perfect .

Luca sat on a throne of fallen cedar, the great trunk shoulder height and moss covered from years of rest.

It was later in the afternoon, probably just after three. It wasn't the sun that told him that, barely visible through the canopy that shaded the babbling stream. It was the shift in the air. In the falling away of the peak heat. In the way the moisture of evening was starting to gather among the bracken .

By morning, it would lay as thick fog and clear dew. But now, it simply made the air sweet—adding a depth to the birdsong and an ease to the ever-present rustling.

Not that Luca was participating in that tranquility.

Instead, he was chewing ferociously on a stubby pencil and staring at the notepad. The heel of his boots—dangling a few feet above the forest floor—tapped absently at the spongy bark.

Luca had never seen his own writing face before, but he'd been told it was something to behold. Apparently whatever story he was writing played out completely on his face—eyebrows raising and tongue flicking and making little intakes of breath whenever he got a good idea, even though he never registered himself doing it at the time.

And he was making all of those expressions now as he waxed poetic on the nature of longing, using a writing style more formal than his natural tone—one befitting a publication that collected Pulitzers like other people collected wild berries.

The ancient Greek philosopher Plato once likened lust to a prison of the soul, where each act of indulgence was like pounding a fresh bolt into our own cell door. True, perhaps. But who among us wouldn't risk a few nights in the slammer for a few nightly slams.

He smiled at that line, sure to make the breakfast brigade of Seattle's high society titter over their espresso—single estate and sourced all the way from Ethiopia, you know .

It was just like the lines he'd written about his first meeting with Artair on the earlier pages.

I introduced myself to Red Bear with my most alluring and sensitive angle. Indiscreet and overexposed and appearing to invite a course of action that was most certainly not on the table.

Or under it, even.

Red Bear was the moniker he'd decided for Artair—code names being standard for those writing professionally about their own sexual adventures. Real names were only ever used with consent, and Luca wasn't in any rush to explain this situation to Artair.

The man had barely wanted to speak about life beyond the woods, turning quiet when Luca had asked the most basic questions about jobs and future plans.

He could only imagine how badly Artair would harden if he found out about the article.

He would tell him, of course.

Eventually.

When the time was right.

Luca nodded as the words flowed. It was a week since he'd found Artair's camp, and the article was coming along much better now.

The first reason for that improvement was the framing device he'd used: starting the article with an honest retelling of his interview at the Gazette, explaining the unfortunate challenge he'd set for himself. It was a good start—warm and humorous and inviting the reader into the absurdity of his situation.

And the second reason for the writing going better was that Luca was using it as a coping mechanism for his own frustrations.

Every day for the last week, ever since he'd stumbled across Artair's camp—and simultaneously gained the knowledge that the playful stud was just a leisurely hike away—he'd thought about visiting him again. Thought about slipping on the familiar leather of his boots and taking the stroll toward temptation. Toward company and conversation and finding out more about the fascinating man, obviously so talented and intrepid, but for some reason reluctant to talk about his life.

And every single day, he'd forced himself to write instead. To hike in the opposite direction from the river cabin. To engage honestly with his frustrations and weave that reality into his story. To speak on desire and restraint and ask himself some honest questions about why he was so damn conflicted .

Like why, despite knowing everything at stake, he still had to fight these urges?

Like why, despite lucking out and getting this opportunity with the Gazette , he would even consider sacrificing four decades as a leading conversation shaper for forty minutes of transient pleasure?

Like why he was staying away from the man?

Like why he hadn't accepted Artair's offer of staying for dinner?

Like why he hadn't trusted himself to do that?

It was a fascinating thing to ponder. Because staying celibate should have been the ultimate no-brainer. A logical choice. An obvious choice—given the risks and rewards.

And yet, it hadn't felt logical in the moments.

On the balcony of their first meeting, Artair's touch had been so tempting that it almost broke him in two. Making Luca forget everything he was working toward.

In the camp of their second meeting, that temptation had only grown stronger. At the man's playfulness and easy appeal and comfort with his surrounds. At Artair's warm presence and fascinating ability to live in the middle of nowhere with practically no supplies.

It had made Luca want to stay. To learn. To get closer to him.

But why did he have this temptation? How could his desire and his logic be on such poor speaking terms with one another?

Fortunately, that dilemma hit the perfect spot for Luca—the one he loved about writing. It was the little spark that said: There's something here. Follow this path. See where it leads.

It was the same fascination that made his mind flare and his fingers itch. It was the indescribable pulse of curiosity that jolted him awake at three in the morning, grasping for a pad and spending the next few hours scrawling notes in the half-light of the bedside lamp. When the words couldn't stay locked away. When the questions had to be written down.

Because this mattered to Luca.

His readers might not know why it mattered. There were very few that did.

And Luca wasn't in any rush to change that.

He'd learned that lesson the hard way.

Luca shook the ache from his hand.

He was about to break open the nut bar he'd stashed in the pocket of his bright green gym shorts when he was joined by an unexpected visitor.

Among the distant sway of ferns popped a carrot-colored head, giving Luca the same curious expression that he'd received a week prior .

It was Bowie, looking tiny and inquisitive and entirely adorable among the undergrowth, like he was wearing a green medieval ruff of leaves.

Luca lowered the pencil. "Hey there, buddy! What are you doing out here?"

He tensed slightly as he waited for the fox's friend to appear from among the trees. But Artair didn't come. It seemed that Bowie was alone.

The fox twitched his nose in response, cocking his head like a baby staring at a set of rattling car keys.

Luca had seen his fair share of foxes. Or, more accurately, he'd seen evidence of them. In the torn-apart supplies of poorly stored food while camping, as well as the occasionally upturned bin in the suburbs of Lynden.

Usually, they were cautious creatures.

Usually.

Luca chuckled as the fox bounded toward him. It wasn't the low and stalking crawl of an animal hoping to go unnoticed, but a carefree trot, like a curvy girl strutting into a club in a body-hugging dress, knowing that every eye was on her and loving every moment of the attention.

When Bowie arrived at the fallen trunk, he immediately started sniffing Luca's boots, setting his little teeth on the dangling laces.

The fox made adorable, high-pitched growls when Luca pulled his boots just out of reach, only stopping when he returned them to snapping distance. The yanks were quite strong for such a little thing, but even Bowie's jaw was no match for laces woven with hiking in mind.

When the fox finally grew tired of the game, he jumped up on the tree trunk beside Luca, flopping down like a ginger floof—bushy tail swishing gently against the bare skin of Luca's lower thigh.

Luca was once again mesmerized by the strangely puppy-like behavior, with the fox doing everything short of barking at the mailman and humping his leg.

In fact, it was such a dog-like act that Luca momentarily forgot that he was dealing with a wild animal, reaching over and giving a heavy scratch between the pointed ears.

The fox gave a growl at the pressure, making Luca yank his hand back. But instead of being a warning, Bowie headbutted Luca's palm, driving soft but wiry fur deeper into his touch.

And then Luca realized that it wasn't a growl. It was a purr . Soft and content and calm, like a cat sleeping in a sunny spot.

After a time, when Luca finally stopped patting Bowie's dense coat and got back to his writing, the fox wandered away.

"Thanks for the cuddle, Bowie!" he said, as the orange flash disappeared into the undergrowth.

The air was cooler now, and it was probably time to make his own journey back. There were still a few hours of sun left, but Luca didn't like to leave the tower unattended for too long—despite Sandy's encouragement that he not glue himself to the seat all day.

And yet . . .

The reappearance of Luca's first visitor to the tower turned his mind to his second —as it had every night since he laid eyes on the stunning man.

His mind drifted to the soft-focused scenario of being trapped under the desk once more, splayed and vulnerable and exposed. It drifted to what might've happened if, rather than saying Whoa! and Luca banging his head in shock, the beefy boy had instead swung his sweaty shirt over his shoulder, hairy chest slicked salty from his long hike, and said, Hey bro, looks like you're stuck. Need someone to help get you out of that sticky situation?

No, Luca would have replied, popping his booty even higher and inviting the stranger inside. I'd rather someone got me into a sticky situation.

When Luca opened his eyes, another trunk had joined the forest. His bulge was stretching the breathable fabric around the head of his hard cock.

His cheeks came over red as he looked around, half-expecting a random hiker to wander by. Half-hoping that a specific one might.

But there was no one. Just as he knew there wouldn't be. Because there was no one around for miles, was there?

Right now, he was alone.

And he could do whatever he damn well wanted...

Biting his lip, now curled into a mischievous grin, Luca hooked the waistband of his shorts, lifting his hips to slide them down the twin mounds of his beefy ass and the rigid peak of cock. The latter sprung back and smacked into his belly, leaving a trail of dew against soft caramel skin, dripping clear across a treasure trail of dark hair.

He wasn't wearing underwear. The feeling of the soft material against his dick had been too nice to contain.

Luca was planning to stop his shorts there, leaving the elastic stretched around his stout thighs.

But a sudden boldness overtook him.

Lifting his knees, left and right in turn, exposing his most sensitive place to the woods beyond, he pulled the shorts past his boots, leaving himself dressed in a cap and shirt and shoes, but with his lower half completely exposed to anyone who might be watching .

That realization made his cock jump of its own accord, bouncing up at right angles with a great, veiny throb.

With a toothy grin, Luca tossed the shorts onto the forest floor, committing to the moment.

Luca was no stranger to outdoors sex, rushed and dark and slightly panicked. But he'd never done it like this before, leisurely and in the daylight. Not slowly and intentionally and soaking in the beautiful panorama of the wild. Not without anything to hurry him or stop him from taking as long as he liked.

It was as exhilarating as it was freeing.

He pulsed at the public exposure, the intact halo of his foreskin rolling back to reveal the slick scarlet underneath. He shook at the unexpected intensity of the sensation—at the way the breeze on his cock head and the cool moss under his ass made the veins of his girth bulge even harder. And he shook harder still as he lay back fully against the age-softened bark, lifting his legs and showing the whole forest the place that he longed for the stranger to focus on.

No, not the stranger.

Artair.

Not Arthur —some boring, mainstream name. But Artair.

Luca rolled the name around in his mind as he rolled his sensitive skin back, forcing slowness where haste was instinctual.

The name sounded like some Irish knight from medieval times, strong and armored and off to slay mythical beasts in faraway lands. And before he took off on his adventure, with his sword sharp and face set in brave resolution, it was Luca's task to show the knight what he was fighting for. To lead him to a tranquil meadow, far from the castle proper, and give him a reason to return safe .

And Luca would do so. Because his splay across the tower floor was mere temptation. A call to battle. But it wouldn't be how the real act would take place—with the warrior forced to do all the work.

No, he had to preserve his vigor.

And his reward for such bravery was that he would be worshiped .

Luca would lay him back on a mattress of soft grass and gentle dandelions, the dancing firelight of their hideaway emphasizing the stock in his arms and the strength of his shoulders. He would run warm fingers over hot skin. Relish the curves and the weight of the man beneath him. Remove the heavy plates of steel. Unfasten the clasps of linen and wool.

And then, with his valiant knight's body at ease, soft and calm save the raging spear between his powerful legs, Luca would mount him—eyes transfixed on his protector's face, yearning to capture the moment of bliss and relief that only he could provide.

And in that moment, Artair would witness him back.

Worthy.

Equal.

Artair would see the sheer joy on Luca's face as his thick cock slid slowly into Luca's gripping ass, grazing hard against the spot that always made him lose himself in the deep, sliding sensation.

Without ever breaking that eye contact, Luca would lower himself—each hard inch driving him further into bliss. Promising all the pleasure that would soon come.

He would pause when he reached those big full balls, relishing the length and the hardness inside him. Just as he would pray to whatever God might take him that the feeling never end. That the man keep himself safe. So they could have this . Share this . Come together in such unity and such connection like this .

His knight would run hands across Luca's ass—feeling the weight and the curve. Just as he would also run hands along the rest of his body. Savoring the swell of his hips and the bounce of his belly.

And Luca would see it across Artair's face.

Joy.

Thanks.

A prayer of gratitude that all this thickness was his . That all this heft and girth and power was his to enjoy.

And enjoy it he would.

Luca would see to that.

Holding firm against Artair's chest, he would rise his tight hole on that rock-hard cock—so big and thick and dominant, even after all their times together. He would feel the ridge of the swollen cock head slide like silk over steel.

He wouldn't be able to control himself after that, the sounds of grace stuttering from his hot mouth. Made louder when he lowered himself down once more, joined by the guttural groans of his lover. Feeling Artair deep inside.

Faster he would rise and fall on Artair's slippery cock, each stroke sending him deeper into the trance. Knowing that his body was making Artair feel just as incredible. Just as hot and hungry and desperate for more.

Wiping sweat from his knight's brow, Luca would turn his thumbs toward Artair's nipples, hard and yearning. The gasp would be sharp then. The tease and the torture. The look in the bigger man's eyes that said he didn't want to lose his load too early.

And Luca would relish that. Own that. Feel the urgent throbs of the cock against his prostate. Feel Artair's thighs tense up as he desperately tried to keep his cum at bay.

Slow down, baby , Artair would whisper, somewhere between a dream and dominance.

Never! Luca would say, pinning Artair's arms against the grass and growling into his burning mouth. It's mine!

Oh, fuck! You can't help yourself, can you? You need my cum in you.

Every fucking drop of it! Give it to me! Fill me up with your ? —

Luca's eyes twitched at the unexpected eruption. The historical fantasy snapped away, replaced by great torrents shooting over his shoulder and shirt. His toes fluttered in their leather confines as his whole body shook with his ejaculation—blast after blast across his face and beard and chest.

His balls tensed as the pulse gripped his ass hard, making his hole squeeze tight and causing him to thrust his hips from the wood, projecting his boiling shots even further.

"Oh . . . My . . . God . . . !" he gasped, each word shook by another pulse.

When the last spurt finally finished, Luca collapsed against the trunk, bare legs dangling on either side of the wood, the moss as his chilled pillow.

Fucking hell . . .

His face was soaked even worse than his chest. His hands were sticky and his mind was still strolling through the medieval meadow.

It wasn't like swords and sorcery were even a big sexual fantasy of his. It had just felt right in the moment. In the man's name and his heft and in the woods they shared. Something about imagining himself far away from the noise and the cities. Something about imagining themselves as the only men in a world of grass and firelight.

As Luca's joy softened the late afternoon even further, he glanced lazily to his surrounds. Behind him—impressively distant—some ferns had received a healthy soaking of dew.

And as he admired the quantity of his wild seed, the air growing cool and the sky shifting from blue to pale yellow, he couldn't help wish that the fantasy might play out to its perfect conclusion.

A warm and handsome face against his chest.

A thick and furry arm across his shoulder.

Eyes, green as swaying ferns, looking up at him.

And words, husky and deep, telling him that he mattered.

Just as Luca was basking in the afterglow, a now-familiar flash of orange darted through the undergrowth.

Before Luca realized what was happening, Bowie had reappeared, grabbing Luca's shorts from the ground, little mouth closing over the nut bar in his pocket.

By the time Luca had scrambled off the trunk, pins-and-needles stabbing his heels and bits of bark stuck to his bare ass, the fox was already gone.

And Luca was left to walk back to the tower, covered in cum and naked from the waist down.

Luca reached the tower in the orange glow just before sunset, thankfully avoiding too many rogue bushes. The birdsong was shifting as the insects prepared for their own serenade. Across the valley, the distant mountaintops were drizzled with honey .

And Luca almost had the piss scared out of him by an unexpected voice from the balcony.

"I'm trying really hard not to look at your dick!" called Artair, as Luca rounded the water tank. "But I'm not doing a very good job at it."

Luca yanked his t-shirt down on instinct, popping a bunch of stitches and bringing a strong focus to the starchy stains across his chest. Contrary to the naughty fantasy of getting caught, the reality of the situation was more like dunking a foot into icy water. Immediately, his dick shriveled and his balls jumped up into his body.

Luca stared across the twenty feet of distance between them, heart thumping from the surprise appearance. " Again , I swear this wasn't intentional."

Artair had the same demeanor he always seemed to have—like he belonged on a blanket watching clouds, humming some catchy jingle to himself. He was leaning casually against the railing, one hand propped under his chin, with the other reaching down to pat the guilty-looking fox at his side. Around his flannel-covered chest was some kind of satchel, so full that various leaves and twigs were poking out the top.

"Eh, don't stress about it. It's just our thing now, right? We can't visit unless there's some nudity involved?" said Artair, making no attempt to hide his smile. "And nice milk stains on the shirt. What's that, half and half?"

Luca bit his lip, trying to avoid the smile. " Please . It's whole milk or nothing for this boy."

"I'll give you some hole milk."

At that, Luca's groin made an unwelcome reversal from the shock, forcing him to pull even harder at the shirt. His big balls lowered to their natural weight. His dick hung thick and soft, with just the slightest hint of firming.

Oh . . . no . . .

From somewhere deep inside came a tiny, terrible voice saying, Oh no! You're naked and he's fully dressed, and he can see all of you! Isn't that shameful and embarrassing?

"Ahhh, yeah," said Luca pulling so hard on the shirt that the neckhole felt like it might rip. "Good joke."

Artair leaned into his propped arm even more, clearly loving the effect he was having. "Should I tell it again? I could make my voice even more husky."

"Please no."

"What if I come over there and licked the milk stains. I'd love to guess the brand."

" Artair! " said Luca, having to pop his booty back to stop his rapidly hardening dick from showing.

"Okay, okay. I'll be good," he chuckled, pulling out a familiar flash of fabric from his pocket. "I'm guessing these are yours? There aren't many guys that would wear neon green in the woods."

"Yeah, well, I couldn't afford to get a bunch of new hiking shit before I came out here. So I just packed what I had."

"Ah, that explains it."

They both stood in their respective positions.

The sun slowly set as Luca slowly rose. "God, you are such an ass. Can I please have my shorts back, Artair? "

"Of course! Why didn't you ask sooner?" he said, balling the shorts up and tossing them over. "There are some pretty bad chew marks on the left pocket though. No idea what caused that."

Artair tapped the toe of one boot to Bowie's flank. The fox hung his head in shame. If it weren't for the whole getting startled while naked thing, it might have been cute.

Luca caught the shorts and stared at them, taking far too long to realize how many free hands he'd actually need to put them on.

And as he did the math, Artair just kept looking at him—enjoying how badly this was going.

Luca cleared his throat, the focused stare somehow making his dick even harder beneath his shirt. "Are you going to turn around?"

"But then I'll miss the show!" Artair said with an adorable pout.

"Fifty percent, Artair!"

" Fine ," he said, turning around with an exaggerated sigh.

Luca jammed the shorts back on—the waistband straining at the thickest part of his ass, not helped by his trunk-hard cock, which was yanking the fabric on the other side.

"You're uncut," said Artair, still facing away.

"And you're cut."

"It suits you, you know? Matches the heft you've got going on down there."

"Can we please not talk about my cock?"

"Oh? Given how much you show it off, I thought you wanted me to comment?"

"Please. Like you can talk."

"You're right. I'm just as bad. Should I get mine out and we can compare?"

"Artair!"

Artair raised his hands in surrender, his shoulders shaking from laughter. "Okay, okay! I'll stop. But you've got to admit, we're making a habit of this."

Now dressed, Luca stomped to the door, scowling when he came within eyeshot. The man was grinning just as widely as he'd expected.

Part of him wanted to be mad at how the guy was deliberately making this situation as awkward as possible. But it was a difficult feeling to maintain when his dick was this hard, and the man's smile was so damn contagious, and Bowie skulked over and gave his knee an apologetic lick.

"Naaaw," said Artair. "See, he's sorry he stole your shorts, and he promises that he'll never do it again!"

"If he's friends with you, I doubt he can keep that promise."

"Hey, it wasn't like I trained him to do that!" said Artair, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "Although, it would make another killer pickup technique."

"As good as your thumb in the belt loop one?"

"What? You mean like this ?"

"No! Stop it!" barked Luca—which only made Artair grin wider. Hunting for some piece of normal among the absurd, Luca pointed at the bag full of twigs at his waist. "Are you that hard up for firewood?"

"Nah. I was out foraging when Bowie came back with your shorts. That's how I got here before you. There are some really good spots near the tower. See, just look at all this bling!"

Luca stared at the bag's contents—the absolute opposite of bling . There was a collection of little leaves and some flowers still covered in dirt at the roots. The bottom was full of small and unappetizing berries, colored a pale orange and half squashed. "What is all that... stuff ?"

"Let's see. We've got salmonberries. Fiddlehead ferns. Morel mushrooms. That's lemon balm over there. And there's a bunch of other things I'm pretty sure aren't poisonous."

"How sure is pretty sure ?"

"Seventy percent?"

"Those aren't great odds. "

"Yeah, but think of the excitement as we wait to find out!"

Luca raised an eyebrow. " We? "

"Of course! I have to make up for the shorts theft. Come by the camp tomorrow night and I'll show you what I can whip up with this stuff ."

Luca stared at him skeptically. Part of his hesitation was the sketchy-looking ingredients. But a bigger part was everything he'd written about earlier in the day: the temptation and the risk that he might slip up.

And besides, if he hadn't trusted himself to stay for dinner last time, this conversation was doing nothing to change his mind. Because Artair was just too damn good at deliberately getting him hot under the collar. And even if he was mostly doing it as a joke, that didn't change the effectiveness—exposing Luca's unfortunate soft spot for brats.

Just as Luca was about to politely decline, the man's expression shifted. It was small, just a tiny sliver among the unbreakable smile, but it was still there. Luca couldn't pinpoint the expression exactly, but he knew that it wasn't about sex.

If anything, it seemed like a pang of loneliness . A desire to just hang out with someone for a few hours?

Luca felt immediately stupid that he hadn't thought of that sooner. Because why should an innocent invitation surprise him? Surely even wilderness hikers wanted some company now and then. To just have someone over for a conversation and a laugh and to not feel totally alone in these woods.

And would Luca say no to the invite, just because he also found the guy hot? Would he turn down the offer for dinner, just because he was worried that he couldn't control his own sexual urges ?

No, that wouldn't just be stupid, it would be downright cruel. Luca was the only other person in the whole woods. And what kind of asshole would turn down the invitation for some company?

Besides, even if they obviously both wanted to fuck each other's brains out, it didn't mean they had to.

Luca's expression softened. "Yeah, of course man. That sounds great. Do you want me to bring anything?"

"A clean shirt?"

"Ha... ha . Tell you what. I'll put on a clean shirt if you promise not to cook anything that might kill us?"

"Oh come on! Why don't we think of it as an adventure?"