Page 13 of The Uncut Wood

We made out for ages, wrestling in a ceaseless attempt to meld our bodies together, frotting until we were slick with sweat and precum.

“We don’t even have to fuck,” Gunner murmured against my ear. “I swear, I could just hold you like this and keep grinding against you until we come all over each other. I’ve never felt like this with anyone before.”

I chuckled. “You’ve been seriously kiss deprived.”

“Apparently I’ve been depriving myself of yours.”

I’d imagined us fucking a million times, but honestly, I’d daydreamed more about holding his hand when we walked, twining our legs together when we lay on a couch watching TV, and spooning each other while we slept.

We didn’t have to fuck—I would have been fine with his weight on top of me crushing our hearts together all night—but damn did we ever fuck.

The times I’d caught glimpses of Gunner with other men, he’d been the same porny show-off he was on the dance floor or during the Jackolympics. He had a tendency to perform for strangers.

But once he was inside me, he moved with an excruciatingly gentle focus on me. Supporting his weight with his forearms framing my face, he drove into me with a slow, rolling, constant adjustment of his hips, never breaking eye contact. He found the perfect angle, relentlessly repeating the stroke until his expression shifted from a frown of wonder to open-mouthed shock as he came.

He stayed deep within me, pinning me to the mattress as I squirmed against the fullness in my ass while grinding my cock against his belly hair until I caught up with him.

When I came, it was like a blast of sunshine throughout my entire body.

He collapsed on top of me, breathing hard against my neck, absorbing my aftershocks. When the shudders subsided, he rolled off me and onto his side. We lay there staring at each other, sharing quiet grins and what I hoped was a silent affirmation of mutual happiness.

Gunner propped himself on an elbow and moved a lock of hair off my forehead. “What are you thinking about now?”

I sighed. “The joys of winning.”

I smiled, and he covered it with another kiss from his seemingly endless stockpile.

We scraped ourselves clean with a thin, rough towel not much bigger than a napkin. With a sudden burst of inspiration, Gunner braved the cold floor, put another log on the fire, and retrieved our dessert. We sat facing each other cross-legged on the bed, clutching the covers in a tent around our shoulders, devouring carrot cake, and washing it down with beer.

We had to be physically exhausted, but neither of us claimed to be particularly sleepy. I knew I wasn’t ready for this date to be over.

It was my turn to dash across the freezing room and return to our cocoon of warmth with the gift bag and the lantern. “I got you something.”

“Um…” He peeked inside and frowned. “You’re regifting me the axe you won?”

“Nope. It’s a different axe. I ordered it especially for you before I even knew they were giving one as the prize for the contest.” I took the axe out and removed its leather cover. “I can prove it.”

I held the light for him and waited until he discovered his initials engraved on the head, and then I impatiently pointed to his name burned into the wooden handle.

“Wow,” he whispered, tracing the letters with his fingertips. “This is really nice.”

“It’s the Gränsfors Scandinavian.”

“Dude.” He made a sound of mock exasperation. “We’ve been through this. I’m Scots-American.”

“But you have badass Viking hair,” I insisted.

Gunner beamed at me. “Well, thanks to you, I now have a badass monogrammed Viking axe.” He kissed me on the tip of my nose. “Thank you. I love it.”

“Love?” I dared repeat, sensitive to his use of the word.

His brown eyes were warm and direct. “Definitely love.”

The word hung between us on the beams of our smiles.

“Now that we have matching axes,” Gunner said, “are we gonna be one of those couples who dress alike too?”

I snorted. “Don’t hold your breath. I could never walk in heels.”

---