5. First Sparks

FIVE

First Sparks

L uca stared at his reflection in the window—the closest thing he had to a mirror. The afternoons were usually too bright for that, but it had been raining on and off throughout the day. Not so heavy that Luca needed to stay in the tower, but teetering on the edge of a storm that Sandy was keeping an eye on.

"Oh, just stay already," he muttered to himself.

After almost three weeks at the tower, his naturally thick and wavy black hair was getting longer than he liked and was refusing to cooperate with the cheap plastic comb he'd found at the back of a drawer. Brushing right made it stick up awkwardly at the back. Brushing left made him look like a well-mannered schoolboy.

After far too long glaring at himself in the glass he gave up, running rough hands through his mane and letting it fall where it liked.

After all, it wasn't like this was a date .

And it wasn't like he needed to impress Artair, either.

It was just dinner .

Yet, after so many weeks out of the city, the evening still felt like something he should put effort into. Like visiting a nice restaurant for a friend's birthday.

That was why he chose his best-fitting jeans, the ones that cupped his booty just right and made his thighs look extra juicy. Why he chose the cleanest and softest of his flannel shirts, cool green and dark navy. Why he made sure to shower before he dressed and use the nicer of his two body washes—the one that smelled of clove and cinnamon.

Because tonight was a little bit of an occasion.

A fun event to dress up for.

Something nice with the only other guy out here.

That was all.

The rain passed in the late afternoon.

It was the strangest thing. One minute it was pattering down, the next it shifted into full sun, the solid sheet sweeping through the southern valley like slate-colored broom bristles.

Left behind was a world of green, the saturation turned to maximum. Mist curled in dragon tendrils from the lowest parts of the valley, the accumulation of humidity finally able to rise.

Luca checked one last time with the Command Center—not Sandy, who usually finished her shifts around two, but one of the rotating old men who manned the microphone when she wasn't around. They confirmed that the storm was turning north, and the evening was predicted to be clear and cool.

Not that any of those men in the Center knew what Luca was actually planning for this evening. Even Sandy didn't know that Artair had hung around.

It wasn't that Luca had kept it from her. It just hadn't come up in conversation after that first day. And he hadn't been in a rush to prompt it.

As he stepped out the door and into the softness of late afternoon, he realized that he hadn't brought anything to share for their dinner. It wasn't like Artair was expecting him to. In fact, he'd specifically told Luca not to worry about bringing anything.

But still, you had to bring something , right?

That was basic manners.

Luca leaned his head back into the tower and frowned at his shelf of food, not due to be replenished until the next helicopter drop in midsummer, three weeks away. There was nothing good there, and even with Artair's own lack of provisions, turning up with half a bag of all-purpose flour or a tin of refried beans didn't exactly scream hostess gift .

If Luca had thought about it ahead of time, he might have tried to collect some honey from the hives and bring Artair a jarful. Not that he had the first clue how to actually do that.

Just as Luca was wondering if it might be worth collecting some wildflowers on the walk, or whether that gesture might set entirely the wrong tone, he remembered something that he'd seen on his first day in the tower.

A rummage among the low roof of the main shed and Luca was palming a few bottles of a dark, golden liquid—the glass dusty but well sealed with their little metal levers. He'd never been a massive drinker, but the only other time he'd seen bottles like this was in his college dorm, when a bunch of people got into brewing their own beer. All competing to see whose mix was best—or, more usually, the least awful .

A move of some heavy sheets revealed the same kinds of jugs and funnels that his college friends had used, confirming that the bottles probably contained something alcoholic, brewed up by whoever the last fire watch was.

Beer? Cider?

Who knew. But still, it was either this or the jumbo pack of marshmallows he'd been consciously avoiding for weeks now.

And besides, a few bottles of mystery drink seemed fitting for the evening's menu.

Why don't we think of it as an adventure?

It took under an hour to get to Artair's camp, a fair bit quicker than last time, aided by both the knowledge of the way and the allure of the destination.

Not that Luca was in too much of a hurry, excited though he was to see Artair again. It seemed wrong to race through the post-rain woods, so crisp and clear. Gold glinted everywhere the misty sunlight filtered, as if every leaf and blade of grass was wearing a sparkling tourmaline earring. The image was enhanced by the gentle clink of bottles in his hiking pack, making the glint clearer and the sparkle somehow more dazzling.

It was funny how quickly he'd adapted back into the outdoors way of life. In Seattle, or even Lynden, wandering off for a two-hour round trip would've seemed mad. But out here, with the slower pace and fewer things to distract him, it was a treat to just take off in a random direction and go wherever he liked .

Each step of waterproof leather through wet shrub brought him deeper into the daydream, imagining the strong, furry man out on the dewy grass, soaking up rays.

Maybe Artair would be on his belly this time, forearms outstretched as his pillow, with his huge bear ass bulging in the post-lunch glow.

Maybe he'd see Luca arriving out the corner of one eye and slide his hips into the air. Waggling those massive cheeks. Offering up his vulnerability to the smaller man.

Willing Luca to take it.

Willing Luca to take him .

Luca would welcome that. He loved either bunk in the bed, and there was nothing hotter than a larger, stronger man giving himself over in submission. Of parting ass cheeks you could barely even grip. Of sliding your tongue into their most vulnerable spot, making the man coo and moan as you took command of their furry?—

Whoah! he thought, deliberately snapping himself out of the inadvertent daydream and the stiffening it had caused. The ease that he'd slipped into those thoughts reminding him of why he'd avoided dinner with Artair in the first place.

Remember what's at stake, horny boy.

Just as Luca was rounding a familiar bend between two mighty spruce trees—the vivid needles dripping with more gems than a debutante ball—he stopped.

Just like last time, he sensed the camp before he sighted it. But this time it wasn't the smell of smoke that told him the path was right .

It was the sound of strings.

The guitar notes were as rich as the late afternoon sun. The chords were as clear and bright as the gentle breeze. And yet, there was no sharpness to them. No insistence they be heard.

It was a soft kind of sound that you could imagine in a lively café—tones that lifted the laughter and framed the atmosphere, rather than fighting it.

Luca crept through the undergrowth, stopping at the edge of the tree line, not wanting to interrupt the song.

Artair was sitting on one of the logs by the fire—the bark deeply colored from the rain. He was barefoot, in jeans and a blue flannel rolled up to the sleeves, highlighting the stockiness of his red-thatched forearms.

The camp had changed since Luca last saw it. Where there'd previously been a few bits of clothing out to dry, now there were dozens —what had to be Artair's entire hiking pack. The smoking hut was packed away, and in its place was a smaller fire more of haze than flame, typical of cool coals and wet branches. Still, some heat was sizzling there, evidenced by Bowie lying flat on his back beside it, belly exposed and snoring.

Artair played the guitar without a pick, and now that Luca could see more clearly, without chords either. Every note was plucked individually, with a delicacy unexpected of so large a man.

His eyes were half closed, utterly relaxed. His lips were set in a contented smile, pleased at his sound or the idyllic scene or perhaps both.

Luca couldn't blame him. The meadow had the texture of a dream, soft-focused around the edges and glowing from every point. The river babbled clear and strong over smooth rocks. The fire crackled, low and unthreatening.

And through it all was the song. One he'd never heard, yet somehow felt he already knew. Because there was something true there. Something absolutely harmonious with the surrounds. As if the notes were being drawn directly from the water and the grass and the post-rain sun.

And just when Luca thought the scene couldn't get any more beautiful, Artair began to sing.

It wasn't words, more the rhythm where words might someday be added. And yet, it didn't matter, because even the melody took Luca's breath away.

The man's voice was like finely aged rum—honey and vanilla and darkest caramel.

Just like the notes, the hum seemed perfectly in tune with its surrounds. The higher notes resembled the mottled golden light through the trees, the deeper tones resembling the swirl of the river. And between them was a richness, like heat and sweat and the promise of long, happy days.

The melody seemed so deep, so personal , that Luca felt like he shouldn't be listening. Like the man might become upset if he discovered that he'd been overheard.

And yet, he didn't look away. How could he in the presence of such beauty?

Instead, he waited, nestled among the shaded bows.

Just listening.

Just watching.

So entranced was Luca by the maestro across the meadow, that he completely failed to notice Bowie wake up from his nap and sprint to Luca's feet.

The sudden yip made both men jump.

And in a flash, Artair's eyes were on him.

Where Luca had feared anger from Artair at being watched, there was only the grateful glow of seeing him again. "Well, look at you all scrubbed up! For little old me?"

Luca clicked his tongue. "Don't flatter yourself. My mother would be pissed if I turned up to someone's house without making effort."

"Good call," he said, putting his guitar away with a little more haste than Luca felt was warranted. "And you're just in time. Look! "

Luca joined him beside the fire, consciously taking the adjacent log, rather than the free spot beside Artair. "Wow, you've been busy!"

What had to be every leftover bowl in the cabin was laid neatly on a checkered picnic rug, full of prepared ingredients.

The pastel orange salmonberries had been separated from their stalks, looking more plump and juicy than before. The mushrooms had been peeled of their outer skin, revealing creamy and fibrous flesh, already smelling deep with flavor. The tips of the fiddlehead ferns had been snipped from the longer stems, curling around in deep green spirals, like the tail of a chameleon.

And next to them were dozens of other forage bowls, full of flowers and leaves and roots that Luca had never heard of before, but which Artair explained enthusiastically.

Wild hazelnut and maple blossom.

Dewberry and wood sorrel.

Elderflower and goosetongue.

Oregon grape and peppercress and spring beauty.

With each new bowl, Artair's face lit up further, explaining his adventures over the last few days, turning over rocks or recognizing leaf shapes. Hunting fruitlessly for hours only to stumble across exactly what he was looking for .

And each time he started a new story, each time those eyes glowed, Luca couldn't help think how handsome the man was. In the little noises of joy he made when reaching for another bowl. In the way he almost vibrated with innocent excitement. In his eagerness to include Luca in this process.

"What," said Artair, blushing slightly from Luca's gaze.

"Nothing," he said, not even attempting to hide his admiration. "It's just incredible that you could figure all this stuff out."

"It's nothing really. Just knowing the names of a few weeds."

The blush grew redder on Artair's cheeks as they gathered skillets and pots to boil, changing the subject and asking Luca about his own experiences cooking.

Luca played along with that, telling stories about helping his dad in the kitchen growing up. At the big family feasts where laughter and friendly arguments played loudly over the meal.

And yet, he couldn't help dwelling on how keen Artair was to avoid praise. How embarrassed he seemed to be at acknowledging his skills.

Coming from four long years in college, and in as competitive a field as journalism, Luca had met his share of blowhards. People who shoved others out of the way to get the first chance on camera or microphone. People who made sure that everyone knew the talents they possessed—and quite a few they didn't.

But he'd never met someone like Artair. Someone who could play beautiful music and survive in the wilderness and figure out how to make a fish-smoking hut in the middle of nowhere, all while acting like none of that was special.

It was an incredibly sexy trait .

But it was also slightly sad.

Because Luca wondered whether Artair actually believed his own dismissals.

Does he really not know how incredible he is?

"So you've been living like some kind of detective novel?" laughed Artair, grabbing a forkful of the tart jam—berries and flowers—the perfect complement to the fatty richness of the smoked trout. When he next spoke, it was in some terrible 1950s noir accent, like a radio play about whiskey and dames. " Luca Torres, private investigator. Don't worry, Toots, we'll catch the rascal! "

"Hey, I don't always use a typewriter," said Luca, swallowing a shockingly delicious fern spiral—flavored with lemon verbena and steamed to perfection, crisp but with a wild, juicy texture. "But maybe I'll start. It's shockingly fun to use."

"I bet. Every single letter probably sounds like it's being yelled across the room."

"Honestly, yeah. It's kinda amazing."

"And so what's this big article about then? Must be important if you're taking a whole summer to write it?"

Luca faked a smile.

The sun had long since set, making the dancing glow of the fire seem even warmer against his face. Around, frogs croaked by the water and leaves rustled in the tree tops.

The evening was going well. Despite only meeting each other a few times, their chatter was easy, with never a moment of awkward silence .

And the last thing Luca wanted to do was ruin that mood by telling the truth. Not with how most men reacted to finding out he was a sex columnist.

Soon . . . but not yet.

Still, he didn't want to tell an outright lie. That wasn't in his nature. He didn't lie to his readers, and he tried not to lie in real life either.

"It's about me," he said, settling for a half truth. "And the experience of isolation out here. How I'm coping with being away from other people and having to make it on my own."

Artair set his face in a posh expression. "I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately?"

Luca chuckled. "Of course you've read Walden."

"Bits of it. I usually prefer my books snappier," said Artair. "So that's what you usually write about? Yourself?"

"Sometimes. But I usually write about other people. That's kinda what I'm known for. Finding interesting people and interviewing them about their desires and goals and stuff."

Artair pondered this, turning a little more serious. "Wait. If the article is about your summer, am I featured?"

"Not by name," said Luca quickly, noting the little rise in Artair's voice. "I only use real names with consent."

"So . . . I have a code name ?"

"I guess you could call it that."

"Okay, you have to tell me what it is."

Luca finished another forkful before answering. It had only been brief, but Artair's realization that he might appear in newsprint was exactly the reason that Luca didn't tell most people about his job. The way people suddenly changed when they found out. The way they hardened and became more cautious. It was more proof that his instinct to not reveal too much was right. "It doesn't matter. I can remove the references if you like? It's no big deal."

"Oh, no, I'm... Look, it's fine if I'm in there with a code name. It's your story. I just don't want everyone knowing how I spend my summers is all?"

"Don't worry, I'll keep it vague and won't include any personal stuff," he said, realizing that he didn't actually know much personal stuff about Artair to include. He didn't even know what Artair did for work—if he even did work, beyond playing music.

Artair thought about this for a while. "And the code name?"

In the circumstances, it felt only right to answer. "Red Bear."

Artair looked at him for a good while. Weighing him. Weighing the name. Then, he burst out laughing, the sound welcome after the brief tension. "Okay, that's a new one. I usually get Artie or Ozzy."

"Oh. I can switch if you like?"

"No, no! I wouldn't want to dent your artistic vision ! If you've settled on Red Bear, then that's what I will be," said Artair, through a mouthful of food. "But you have to let me read this article sometime. It sounds interesting."

"Yeah, I mean. Maybe? I don't even know if I'll finish it in time."

And for the first time all evening, there was an awkwardness. A moment were neither knew quite what to say to the other.

"Oh," said Luca, hunting for something to break that moment—to return to the pleasant and comfortable conversation they'd previously had. He grabbed the bottles from his rucksack. "I totally forgot. I brought something for us to share."

"Oh my God!" said Artair, back on familiar footing. "You peed into a bottle? You shouldn't have."

"No, dummy, it's... okay, I don't actually know what it is. I found it in the shed of the tower. But now that you mention it..."

Artair snatched it, holding the bottle up to the firelight curiously. "I'm guessing that even a fire watch wouldn't be mad enough to bottle their own piss. Hmmm. Probably not beer? That would be cloudier, right?"

"I guess? And a spirit would probably be darker?"

Artair shrugged and popped his lever, the lid coming away without any fizz of carbonation. He gestured for Luca to do likewise. "Only one way to find out?"

Luca did so, sniffing cautiously at the neck. "Oh wow. It smells..."

"Amazing?"

"Yeah, it really does! What is that? It's so familiar."

Artair tapped the bottle against his chin thoughtfully. "Wait, I've got it! It's honey ."

"Oh my God, you're right. So it's mead? "

"I guess so? Your tower has a lot of beehives, doesn't it?" said Artair, offering the bottle across the distance between their two log sofas. "Bottoms up?"

Luca laughed and returned the clink. "You wish, Red Bear. "

The conversation flowed like the mead—sticky and warm and intriguing. Both of them relaxed into the soft sweetness of the liquor. Of the evening .

Tension and worry and any remaining awkwardness drifted away on the caress of the breeze.

Overhead, the stars glowed—a thousand times brighter than in the city, despite the crackling of the campfire, flowing across his skin in warm waves.

Later in the evening, Artair took his guitar out again. The notes he strummed somehow twinkled like the starlight above. Fluttered like the little sparks from the shifting flame. Somehow captured the feel of the fire and the fullness from dinner and the vibe of Bowie, curled up peacefully nearby, his ginger fur dancing with the yellow light.

After a time, Luca came to Artair's side. His own bottle was empty, and Artair's had a little left—which the larger man offered freely, making a joke about how thirsty Luca was.

"That song's really pretty," said Luca, watching as Artair's fingers swayed over steel strings. "When did you write it?"

Artair smiled. "Now, I guess?"

"Really? This is just you riffing?"

" Riffing? What am I? A jazz band in the thirties?"

Luca shoved his arm. "You know what I mean. How do you do that? Just pull from the scenery until the music sounds like it was always there?"

"I don't know? I've always done it. It was just a dumb idea I tried once, and I never really stopped."

"You deliberately make songs that fade into the background?"

"Not fade , exactly. Enhance , maybe? Evoke?" It was a while before Artair spoke again, as if weighing whether to share the information. That hesitation came with glances toward Luca—brief and cautious. "You know the Four Seasons by Vivaldi? Where the music captures the spirit of each season through an orchestra?"

Luca nodded, once again amazed by the man's subtle depths. Those looking at Artair for the first time probably wouldn't imagine that he'd heard of the composer, let alone taken inspiration from him.

"When I dropped out of high school and I was busking, I had this idea to play music that did the same thing. That mirrored the mood of the season and the time of day and whatever was happening on the street. Of capturing the spirit of whatever place I was playing. Of having songs that just..." The ginger man came over in the most adorable blush. "Sorry. I bet that sounds really dumb."

"No," said Luca placing a hand on Artair's forearm. His skin was fire warmed. "It's amazing! People spend months writing songs half as good as that. I'm just surprised."

"About what?"

Luca gave his own playful smirk, similar to the one that Artair so often gave him. "An anonymous guy in the corner that no one notices? Playing subtle music that passers-by might not even register? I thought all Californians were desperate for attention?"

Artair chuckled. "Yeah. I think I missed that gene."

Some might say that's a confidence thing , Luca thought, but didn't say out loud, opting instead for, "so you really don't write any of these down?"

"It's hard to explain, but I don't think there's anything to write down. I'm not writing the songs. I'm just... "

"Living them?"

"Yeah. I guess."

"And every song is different?"

"Yeah. Because every place is different. Every night and every day has its own melody."

Luca glowed with admiration. He'd never heard of anyone making songs like this. "That's really fucking incredible, Artair. You know that, right?"

Artair shrugged, blushing red as ketchup now. "It's nothing, really. Anyone can do it with enough practice."

And with that, Artair swung out the guitar, like a duelist raising their sword. The instrument hung in an inviting position for Luca to take.

"Oh no. Trust me, you don't want to hear me play. I'm good with words. Not notes."

"Oh, trust me , I want to hear you play even more now."

Before Luca could protest, Artair had threaded the wood expertly into his hands.

His direction was authoritative, leaning over and moving Luca's grip on the fretboard. "Okay, put these fingers here—no, let your knuckle actually bend. And that's it!"

Luca stared at his strangely formed claw. "What is?"

"That's the chord you'll love the most."

Luca stared at Artair's grin, entirely missing the joke.

"It's the D chord," said Artair.

Luca groaned. "Oh, God !"

"Exactly. Now, have you got a nice firm grip on your D, Luca?"

"I usually do."

"A quick learner. We love to see it. Now just take your other hand here and move it up and down on the D. That's it. You have to stroke the D confidently if you want the payoff. No one wants a wobbly D in their hands."

Luca bit his lip, trying not to give him the satisfaction of laughing. "Jesus, you're such a dork . "

"No, no. You're confused. I'm a musician . We're all cool and sexy and moody."

"Proof or it didn't happen."

"Oh, you want some proof of the cool? Let's see how you go at plucking the individual strings instead of just doing chords."

In one booty bounce, Artair was properly beside him, beefy bicep to beefy bicep.

The man was tall enough that he could wrap one arm all the way around Luca's broad back, running thick fingers over Luca's hand as he adjusted his playing fingers. Artair's own hands were strong and confident, carrying the experience of strumming strings in dive bars and lashing branches in the wilderness.

His sudden closeness was warm, and made even more so when Artair leaned into the half-hug. It was probably just to give himself more reach, but his beard rubbed rough and welcome against Luca's own.

Luca stifled a gasp at that, the closeness making him think of twisted sheets and deep moans. The collar of Artair's flannel tickled his neck, soft from wear.

It took all his effort not to lean in farther—embracing the perfect bear body that was just made for snuggles. To not rub their foreheads together or move his hands from the guitar and press fingertips along the huge and alluring thighs beside his own. Thighs he wanted to grab with both hands as he plunged his lips around Artair's cock.

Luca felt the sudden twitch beneath the guitar. He tried to banish those thoughts, but it was too late. In seconds, Luca's cock expanded uncomfortably, pointing down in his underwear and unable to escape, like someone was squeezing an unopened juice box. It was joined by the quickening thump of his pulse and a warmth spreading across his cheeks.

Before he could say anything, it was like Artair came to the same realization. Because no sooner was he nuzzled up beside Luca, in the perfect position to guide the strings, than he retreated, all the warmth of his touch gone in a sharp moment of absence.

Artair laughed, shuffling away. "Sorry! Shit. That's probably the last thing you need right now."

Just as Luca was about to respond, Artair snatched an empty plate and shoved it onto his own lap, whistling innocently. As hard as Artair tried to press the plate down, it was very much floating over his jeans, the edges nowhere near his actual thighs.

Luca snorted, his brain making some rapid calculations about the distance between crockery and denim—and exactly what implications that meant for things like girth . "The last thing either of us need?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'm sorry! It's been like two months since I got laid. And I haven't... you know , today."

Luca cleared his throat. "I'm not going to lie, I'm kinda having the same problem? A bit?"

"A bit?"

"Okay, a lot . You're just lucky I've got this guitar here."

"Really? That must be one hell of a monster?"

Luca laughed loudly. "God. If it was that big it might kill someone."

"Yeah, but what a way to go!"

Their shared laughter continued, and Luca was shocked by how hard his dick remained. The fact that they were goofing around should have been an internal signal to calm down. Instead, the sheer playfulness of the interaction was somehow making it worse . The knowledge that just below that plate, Artair was hard as stone and desperate to get off.

And it seemed like Artair was having the same kind of thoughts, given the way the plate kept lifting against his grip every few seconds.

Fuck, he's throbbing like crazy . . .

Artair drummed his fingers against the crockery. "Sooo, I should probably go to the other log, huh?"

Luca smiled at him, warm from the fire and mead.

What he should have said was: Yeah, probably .

Because that would be the smart thing.

Move away from each other.

Wait for the moment to fade.

Laugh it off.

What he shouldn't have done was tell Artair that it was no big deal.

What he shouldn't have done was rationalize that it was nothing.

What he shouldn't have done was say that they could both control themselves. And that it didn't matter. And that he still wanted to learn how Artair played the guitar so beautifully.

What he shouldn't have done was convince the man to retake the position—strong arm around his back. Beards rubbing together. Warmth intertwined.

What he shouldn't have done was sneak a look at the beast that was straining Artair's denim, now on full display and throbbing hard at their contact.

Because it was obvious that he shouldn't do that.

Because it was logical that he shouldn't do that.

And yet, he did.

Artair guided Luca's fingers over the strings. Luca felt haste and hesitation there. Some desire to run slow fingernails up Luca's hand, mixed with the knowledge that he shouldn't.

His touch came with an elevated pulse—two heartbeats drumming in perfect time.

They made casual conversation, totally at odds with the thump they shared—chests and bellies and cocks.

"Well, your D isn't wobbly at least?" whispered Artair, his breath hot against Luca's cheek.

It was meant to be humorous.

A joke.

But neither of them laughed.

Because now Luca's shoulder was burrowing into Artair's soft and inviting chest.

Because now Artair's fingers were brushing against the cuff of Luca's wrist.

Because now Luca was patting Artair's incredibly thick thigh, congratulating him on the joke.

Because now that hand didn't leave the thigh.

Because now Luca squeezed the incredible bulk, causing both of them to moan.

Because now his fingers were running up Artair's leg.

Because now Luca was taking off the guitar, staring deep into the man's emerald eyes.

Because now Artair was whispering. "I want to fuck you so bad, Luca. But I don't want you to regret it."

And in that moment, Luca should have told Artair the stakes.

He should have explained the real reason he was out here.

He should have explained his vow, and all the terrible consequences of breaking it.

He should have told him everything he was risking.

But he didn't .

He couldn't .

The words wouldn't come.

They were drowned out by the glow of the mead and the urge and the moment and the incredible, beautiful, talented man. The one who had no fucking idea how special he really was.

"I could never regret you, Artair," whispered Luca.

Then, they kissed.

And it was like no kiss that Luca had ever experienced.

Rather than anticipation and butterflies, Artair's mouth had the laid-back familiarity of two frisky friends in sweatpants on a couch, with no plans for the rest of the day but slowly worshiping each other's bodies. To lick and press and stroke and fill the evening with groans. Like two guys who'd known each other for years and knew every gooey spot on each other's body.

Just pleasure.

Relaxed.

Unhurried.

Artair's lips were soft against Luca's, a grin fixed as their beards joined. His tongue opened Luca's mouth, heat combined, wetness merged.

Luca moaned as he savored the moment—savored the man . He tasted of smoke and spice and honey-sweet warmth. He smelled of the woods and the wild.

Artair brought Luca deeper into the comfort of his generous stock, the sheer size of the man's chest making him melt, small and grateful. Luca ran a hand underneath Artair's flannel. His belly was perfect, with a thick but soft thatch that reminded Luca of an animal. The kind of belly that made him want to bend over and be slammed hard—feeling tiny and vulnerable and towered-over .

Artair groaned deeply at his tracing touch, his hips swiveling inadvertently—balls heavy and impatient.

Luca reached along the man's belly and toward his shoulder. He'd only meant to complete the embrace, but an errant thumb brushed against the aching peak of Artair's nipple, hard and desperate.

At that, his partner jolted as if he'd been tasered, breaking the kiss and letting out a startled little gasp—unexpectedly high pitched.

Luca throbbed hard at that. At the pureness of the pleasure. At the realization that he'd found a point of total control over the larger man.

He loved when guys had sensitive nipples. When you could make someone lose their mind with just a few flicks of the tongue.

He gave Artair a devious little look that said, wouldn't it be awful if I spent the next few hours slowly doing that again and again and again until you were a shaking, whimpering little puddle, completely at my mercy.

Artair returned the look with a don't you dare! exhale, his expression shifting with a tiny flicker of deference. It was the beautiful moment when the larger bear—far more used to taking command of their sexual adventures—realized that their smaller cub was happy to swap roles. Happy to wrestle them into submission. Happy to show them what it felt like to be on the other end of the pounding.

To emphasize the point, Luca took Artair's hand and ran it down the smaller man's body, past his own stocky chest and bulging stomach. Slowly but commandingly, Luca traced Artair's fingers against the brick in Luca's jeans—thick and uncut and veiny, even through the fabric .

"Ohhh," Artair whimpered, his voice suddenly weak. "You're fucking huge !"

Artair gladly ran his grip over Luca's helmet, engorged and aching and bouncing at the sensitive touch. It ached even harder as Luca ran knuckles firmly across Artair's jeans, knees and thighs and up toward his cock—the most sensitive road on the bear's body.

Almost imperceptibly, Artair's thighs spread as Luca got farther along—the true sign of a man who was prepared to give his ass away. Who didn't know if he wanted to fuck or be fucked, or suck or be sucked. Who suddenly wanted it all and was overwhelmed with the choice.

Artair squeezed Luca's girth through the fabric, making his precum-soaked foreskin slide over his sensitive glands.

" Fuck ," Luca breathed, his voice hot from a month without a man's touch.

And then, at long last, he took a handful of Artair's cock.

As the bulge filled his grip, Luca shuddered again. The beautiful bear had just the kind of dick that Luca had hoped for—hard as hell and thick as a tree trunk. Not quite as long as his own, but so girthy in his straining jeans that Luca could barely get his fist around it.

And after so long fantasing about it, Luca couldn't stand to wait any longer. Because he had to taste him. He had to run his tongue along Artair's shaft and suck on his huge, musky balls and jam his tongue into Artair's tight ass. He had to make the man groan. He had to make him yelp and beg and scream as he blew his load down Luca's masterful throat.

Just as Luca was about to run his thumb along the man's button-fly, gripping the edge and allowing his cock to escape its humid cave, a sudden sound made him stop.

It was distant, but unmistakable .

Thunder.

And shortly thereafter, it was joined by the first spit of rain against Luca's cheek. Then more, suddenly harder.

He opened his eyes. The stars to the west had been stolen by a nasty front of gray, flaring with a light so vivid it was almost purple.

Artair snorted—seeming to know what that meant. Seeming to know that Luca had to get back to the tower.

Luca cursed, knuckles still running over the rock-hard cock he desperately wanted to play with. "I could make it quick?" he whispered.

Artair gave a long sigh before kissing him once again—deep and easy and surprisingly affectionate. "I don't want to be quick with you, Luca. I want to worship your body all fucking night."

Luca shook at the comment, so hot with fire but said so effortlessly. It had none of the expected dismissal that came with casual hook-ups—making sure your play partner knew just how temporary they really were.

With every fiber of his being yearning to keep going, Luca finally withdrew his hand. "I'll see you again soon, right?"

Artair stood, his jeans straining obscenely—a mockery to everything Luca wished he could have. "Promise."