Page 118 of Snowed In

“Not yet,” I tease, sliding the outlines of our cocks alongside each other as I reach for his hand. Guiding it down my hip, I don’t stop until I feel those axe-wielding fingers graze my crease over my boxers.

Lumberjack gasps again, as though he didn’t think he’d be granted the gift of my body, sending a tremor through me. I love how unassuming and sweet he is.

Squeezing my hand over his, I groan at the sensation of him gripping my ass. Fuck. It’s been so long. Why aren’t my dreams like this all the time?

“Marshall,” he croaks.

Uhn. He’s ready. I know I sure as heck am.

“Now,” I rasp, moving my kisses up his jaw in search of his mouth. It’s dark in my room, but I don’t need to see. I can feel his measured breaths in front of my lips.

“Mar-Marshall…” he stammers pleadingly.

I know, Lumberjack.I know.

“Whittle me. Now. Need it,” I whine.

I crash my mouth over his, putting everything I have into this sleepy dream kiss. His lips are firm yet soft. God, he even tastes real.Except… they lack the gusto of an authentic invitation, almost like he’s frozen, letting me do all the work.

Damn it. Nothing can be perfect, can it? Not even a fantasy.

Concentrate, Marshall. Dream big, win big.

Rolling us, I revive my manifestation of the perfect man with my mouth, letting him feel my urgency. His hand retreats from my ass, making me want to cry. The fantasy is crumbling. I’m losing control of it.

No, Lumberjack! Come back!

Wow… There we go. That’s quite the grip on my hip, so realistic, but why is his mouth moving away from mine? His other hand squeezes my shoulder.

Is he pushing me away? What the fuck kind of dream is this?

“Marshall…stop. Wake up, you’re?—”

That awful statement that’s going to get Lumberjack replaced in my next fantasy is interrupted by a loud pounding noise. Lucidity comes crashing violently down on me. The weight of my body. The grogginess of waking up. Why is my room so cold?

Blinking my heavy eyelids, I squint at the invasion of daylight. At least it’s dim, muffled by this thick blanket over my head and…

Wait…

Why does it still feel like I’m on top of Lumberjack? He’s not real, but I’m definitely on top of a firm, warm body.

Raising my head, I blink again…

Why does Lumberjack… look like Ronny?

More thunderous pounding. Like a fist on wood. Is that the rumble of an engine outside?

“Hey! Anyone alive in there? Ronny! Marshall! It’s Sal!”

“Oh, God!” I croak, suddenly all too aware of my body’s placement.

There arepartsagainst otherparts.Holymotherfuckingshit! I did not just dream hump Ronny Carmichael…did I?

From the traumatized way he’s looking at me, I have my answer. Oh God. I totally did.

The next thirty seconds are a frenzied blur of trying to escape the world’s smallest sleeping bag. Foreheads bash. Elbows connect with ribs. Knees hit nuts. It’s a fight for freedom with all the grace of a cat attempting to escape from a plastic bag.

Ronny grunts unhelpful things like ‘Wait,’ ‘Calm down,’ and ‘Ouch!’ He is as useless to me as ever. I will neither wait nor calm down. I just molested him with my touch-starved body and said Lord knows what, like my dick was a cheese grater and his was gouda. I need out of this sack of shame, stat!

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