I looked around. "Now I teach you something."
His eyebrows rose. "Teach me?"
"Yeah." I grabbed his hand and pulled him to the cabinet. "You taught me to knit, and I'll teach you to sand."
"That seems—"
"Fair." I picked up the hand block and pressed it into his palm. I moved close enough that my chest pressed against his back. My hand covered his. "Here. Like this. With the grain, not against it."
"This is a metaphor?" His voice dropped lower.
"Everything's a metaphor." I guided his hand in a long, slow stroke across the wood. "You're not controlling it. You're working with it. Feeling where it wants to go."
He turned in my arms. His eyes opened wider, expression hungry. "If you keep talking like that, we're not finishing this cabinet."
"No?"
I let the sanding block drop, the thud echoing too loud in the workshop. Hog didn't hesitate; his hands were already on my hips, thumbs digging into the denim. He backed me against the workbench hard enough for my tailbone to hit the wood.
He kissed me, his tongue insistent and searching. His beard scraped my cheek, and I wanted to feel it everywhere. He hoisted me onto the bench.
I hooked a foot behind his right leg and yanked him closer. Hog pressed his whole weight against my body, broad, heavy, and deliberate.
He wrenched open the buttons on my flannel—popped half of them. The hands were cold and rough, but the heat between usmade it impossible to care. He ducked his head and dragged his mouth down my neck, nipping at the place where my jaw met my throat. I shuddered.
Hog jerked my shirt wide and peeled the t-shirt up, knuckles grazing my ribs and palms flattening over my chest. Then, he inclined his head, and his mouth, hot and wet, closed around a nipple.
He muttered a fuck against my skin and the world blurred into a mess of sensation—his hands everywhere, mouth following, teeth leaving marks. I clung to his broad back and hooked my legs around his waist, thighs trembling.
Working a little lower, Hog undid my belt buckle and the zipper. He had me stripped before I could think to be embarrassed—the workshop lights overhead, sawdust under my ass, half of Thunder Bay somewhere out there in the night. He kissed down my stomach, tongue flicking the trail of hair, and then he looked up, pupils huge, beard dripping with spit and condensation.
"Okay?" he asked, voice ragged.
"Yeah," I rasped. "Keep going."
He grabbed my cock with a big paw, squeezed until I whined, then brought his mouth down slowly. Sex with Hog was always no bullshit, only greedy lust—like I was the last thing on earth he couldn't live without.
The workshop was cold, but we weren't. His hands were warm against my skin. The workbench was hard against my spine, sawdust everywhere, and I'd never been more certain of anything.
This. Him. Here.
Mine.
Hog didn't waste time. He bent his head, warm mouth swallowing me whole. I swore—the word echoing around the space—and clutched his shoulders, feeling the muscles flex andshift under my palms. He went deep, hand fisted at the base, tongue working the underside, then pulled off with a gasp and a grin, beard glistening.
He was bigger than me by thirty pounds, manhandling me onto my back, legs splayed, my ass skidding against the scarred up wood. The air was cold, and the surface was rough, but none of it mattered.
All I could think about was his mouth on my dick and his beefy palm pressed flat over my hip to keep me pinned. He didn't tease, didn't make anything a slow build, just sucked like it was his job.
Every time I tried to get leverage, he pushed me down. He nearly yanked me off the bench when he reached up to thread his fingers through my hair.
I wanted him closer. I wanted to crawl inside his ribcage and thump against his heart.
"Fuck, Hog—" My voice cracked.
He sucked harder.
I wasn't going to last. Not with Hog and his tongue curling just right. Not when his hand worked in rhythm with his mouth.
