Ethan stood under the rainfall shower, eyes squeezed shut, letting the scalding water drum into his scalp and chase trails of heat down his spine. Steam rose in thick clouds, fogging the glass and swallowing every hard angle of the bathroom into a wet, intimate blur. The air was rich with the scent of cedar, the faint tang of soap cutting through the woodsmoke that clung to his hair and skin. For the first five minutes, he just let the heat work into his joints, thighs, the small of his back—everywhere the trail had left him sore and spent.
He lifted his face to the spray and forced himself to breathe slow, then slower still. This was it. The last wash before everything changed. He scrubbed methodically—arms, chest, groin—each motion exact and almost surgical.
But then it got ritualistic. He reached behind himself, cupping and washing his ass as if to erase the past year—or the past thirty-eight. He lingered longer than he needed, fingertips exploring, working soap in deep. Each time he rinsed the smell of sweat and fear was replaced with something sharper, almost medicinal. Each cycle of water and foam felt like an exorcism,the parts of himself that had been hiding since college finally resurfacing, naked and hungry.
He let his hand rest on the curve of his own bubble butt, massaging in little circles, then ventured further, a slow test of boundaries. He breathed out, imagining—just for a moment—how it would feel when Cole was the one doing this to him, the hands on his hips twice as wide, the pressure firm and unyielding. His cock twitched at the thought, lengthening and swelling until it pointed at the tile. Tonight, he wanted to feel everything.
He turned off the shower and let the air hit his skin, goosebumps rising everywhere. The mirror was a blank haze, so he swiped a towel over it and saw his own reflection. His body looked hard and athletic, all the edges carved sharper by the trail.
He wrapped himself in a towel, thick and perfectly pre-warmed from the heated rack, and padded into the open air of the cabin. The living space was dim but alive with the blue-orange flicker of the gas fireplace. Outside, dusk was settling on the pines, but in here, every log beam was golden.
He laid out his gear on the bed—razor, shaving cream, the small tube of lube Riley had pressed into his palm—and considered his options. The time had come to stop thinking and start preparing, in every sense of the word. Cole deserved that, and more importantly, so did he.
Ethan grabbed the can of shaving cream and set it on the vanity, then knelt on the bathmat, spreading the towel beneath him to catch the fallout. He twisted, bent, and propped one knee on the vanity counter, giving himself a full view of his own ass in the mirror. The position was new, awkward, oddly erotic—he caught a glimpse of his own hole, flushed from the shower, still slick and winking open slightly. He pressed two fingers to it, spreading gently, testing the elasticity.
He shivered at the contact, both from the chill and the sudden image of Cole behind him—Cole’s hands on his hips, thumbs digging in, cock head brushing right there.
He reached for the razor. He started slow, careful, using the edge of the blade to scrape away days of stubble. The metal was cold against his skin, and he worked with the grain first, then against, careful not to nick himself. Each pass of the razor was clean, clinical, but the effect was anything but. With every strip of hair, he felt more exposed, more raw, more ready.
The sensation of being that open—shaved smooth, hole pink and bare, the rest of him taut and expectant—sent another electric charge up his cock. This was a different kind of vulnerability, and he loved it.
He finished his ass, then moved to his cock and balls. He propped his leg up higher, cupped his sac, and gently lathered the whole area. The razor hissed over the skin, and he took his time, making sure every last shadow of hair was gone. He gripped the shaft to hold it steady, the head so swollen it throbbed with each heartbeat. He thought about Cole’s cock—about the way it had felt in his mouth, the way it had tasted, heavy and hot and alive. His hand slipped down to the base, just for a second, and squeezed. A drop of precum beaded and ran down, catching in the light like a jewel.
He wiped himself down and ran his hand over the smoothness, marveling at how it transformed him. The effect was total, a body engineered for pleasure, re-made in the image of what he wanted to become.
He stood and looked at himself, turning slowly, hands tracing the line of his spine, then the rise of his ass, then down the length of his own cock. For a second, he felt like someone new, someone built out of confidence instead of caution. He flexed, watched the muscle roll in his thigh, the way his abs tensed and flattened. Hewondered if Cole liked that—if Cole had imagined this moment, the way Ethan had.
His hands started to shake again, but he channeled the nerves into action. He popped the top off the lube and squeezed a generous bead onto his finger, the cold making him shiver all over. He sat at the edge of the bed, spreading his knees, and braced his free hand on his thigh. The air was cool on his wet skin, and the anticipation of what he was about to do nearly derailed him. For a split second he wanted to bail, to chicken out—but he knew that he couldn’t, not tonight.
He touched the lube to his hole, working it in gentle circles. It was slick and cool, a different sensation than the shower, more urgent and real. He pressed in, just the tip of a finger, and breathed out through his teeth. The muscle gave easily at first, then gripped, then relaxed as he twisted deeper. He rotated his wrist, stretching slowly, savoring the sting.
He pumped in and out, gently working to two fingers, each pass easier than the last. He wasn’t in a hurry; he wanted to feel every second, to draw out the tension and feed it back into himself. His cock was iron-hard now, leaking onto the towel. He squeezed the shaft with his slick hand, then let go, determined to wait for Cole.
He kept stretching, adding more lube, until the burn was replaced by a dull, radiant ache. It felt like he was prepping for something massive, and he knew that was the point. He wasn’t just ready to be fucked—he was hungry for it, desperate to feel what it meant to be opened up, split and filled by someone he trusted. He couldn’t wait to feel that connection to Cole.
As he worked himself, his mind spiraled back through every moment with Cole—the first time he’d made him laugh, the campfire talks, the way Cole had let himself be vulnerable only in flashes. He remembered the storm, the darkness, the warmth of their bodies pressed together for survival.
He added a third finger, groaning low, and rocked his hips into the pressure. The muscle was loose now, pliant and greedy. He pulled out, wiped his hand, and stood up on slightly unsteady legs.
He walked back to the bathroom and faced the mirror. The man looking back at him was red-cheeked, glassy-eyed, still leaking a string of clear from his cock, the tip slick and hungry. He looked powerful, transformed. For the first time in his life, he understood what it meant to want something so badly it hurt.
He ran his hands over his chest, down his stomach, over his hips and ass. Each touch left a trail of heat. He imagined Cole’s hands doing the same, rough and unyielding, fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises. He let his own hand slip down to his cock, giving it a firm, deliberate stroke, and nearly came at the thought of how good it was going to feel.
He forced himself to stop, to savor the edge.
He went to the closet and pulled on a clean pair of jeans, soft and worn. He considered going commando, then decided against it, opting for a new pair of black briefs—snug enough to frame everything, soft enough to feel like nothing at all. He slipped into a plain T-shirt, the fabric catching slightly on his chest. He liked the way it looked, the way it hinted at what was underneath.
He ran a comb through his hair, then splashed a little cologne on his wrists. The scent was smoky, masculine, a perfect echo of the night that was coming.
He stood at the window, watching the dark descend on the pine trees, and took one last inventory—shaved, stretched, dressed, and ready. There was no room for fear now. Only desire.
He grabbed the lube from the nightstand, slipped it into his pocket, and headed for the door.
He paused there, one hand on the knob, and thought about what waited for him at the end of the night. He pictured Cole—shirt off, eyes heavy, hungry and waiting. He pictured himself on his knees, mouth around that perfect cock, and then bent over the bed, Cole’s hands on his hips, the wet press of his cock head as he prepares to enter Ethan.
He smiled, feeling the anticipation flow through every nerve. This was what he wanted. What he had always wanted, whether he’d admitted it or not.
He opened the door, stepped into the night, and walked toward Cole’s cabin.
