I try. I really do. But it’s hard to focus on breathing when he leans forward, when the fabric of my boxers pulls tight against my ass with every shift of his hips, when the friction of the sleeping bag against my hard-on is a maddening, constant tease.
Ace’s hands move lower, tracing the line of my spine, thumbs working into the muscles on either side. I’m a live wire. Every touch, every brush of skin, is magnified. I’m attuned to the scrape of his calloused palms, the strength in his fingers, the scent of soap that clings to him. He’s everywhere. All over me. Inside my head.
“How’s that?” he asks, voice right next to my ear.
“Good,” I breathe. “It’s… good.”
My hard cock is trapped between my body and the sleeping bag, and every small movement he makes sends another joltthrough me. I try to ease my hips for a little relief, but Ace’s weight keeps me pinned.
“Don’t move,” he murmurs. “Let me do the work.”
God. That’s the problem.
“You have trouble letting go, don’t you?” His hands knead my lower back, thumbs pressing into the dimples above my ass. “Always thinking. Always analyzing.” He leans closer, his breath warm against my ear. “Just let it happen, Simon.”
He says my name like a secret, and the sound of it in that low, intimate tone makes my stomach clench.
My resolve crumbles. I let out a shuddering breath and feel the tension drain out of me. I sink into the sleeping bag and stop fighting it. Stop fighting the heat pooling in my gut, the throbbing between my legs, the shame burning through me. Because it feels good. All of it. His hands. His weight. The way he’s taking control.
“See? Not so hard.” His lips are so close to my ear they almost brush it.
Not so hard.Right. If only he knew how hard things are for me right now. In every sense of the word.
The kneading of my lower back shifts into long, slow strokes that slide down to the swell of my ass and back up again. Each pass goes a little lower, lingers a little longer.
I push my face deeper into the fleece, muffling the moan that wants to break free.
“Sensitive here?” he asks, thumbs circling the place where my back ends and my ass begins. The muscles there jump under his touch.
“Y-yeah,” I gasp, the sound swallowed by the fabric.
He leans into it, applying more pressure, and his weight shifts forward. His chest is almost flush with my back now, and I can feel every breath he takes, the rise and fall of his ribcage against my spine.
Is this really how they give massages on the basketball team? It feels so… intimate. But what do I know? The closest I ever got to team sports was a weekend-long Dungeons and Dragons marathon in my friend’s basement. Maybe this is just what confident, good-looking guys do with their friends. Maybe I’m the one twisting it into something it isn’t.
I realize I’m leaking precum. A warm, wet spot seeps through the fabric of my boxers, a sticky evidence of my body’s betrayal. I should be mortified, and I am, but I’m also too lost in the sensation to care.
“You know,” Ace says, his voice a low rumble I feel in my bones, “the key to a good massage is knowing when to switch up the pressure.” He leans back, adjusting the angle. “Too deep for too long, and the muscle just fights back. You gotta ease off, then go back in.”
He demonstrates. His hands move in a fluid, hypnotic rhythm. Hard pressure that makes me gasp, then a light, feathery touch that sends goosebumps racing across my skin. Hard again, then soft. He’s working me like an instrument, and I’m helpless under him, melting into the sleeping bag. My hips start tilting on their own, a small, involuntary motion, chasing the friction I desperately need.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “See? Your body knows what it needs.”
I know what my body needs right now, but it’s nothing I’m prepared to admit out loud.
His hands sweep back up, from my lower back all the way to my shoulders in one long, smooth glide. Then he lifts his weight off me, swinging his leg over and settling beside me on his own sleeping bag.
His sudden absence is a shock. The cold rushes in, and I feel exposed, bereft. I push myself up on my elbows and turn to look at him.
He’s sitting cross-legged, running a hand through his hair. The light from the fire at the cave entrance flickers across his features, catching in his blue eyes.
“Feel better?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice hoarse. “But…”
“But what?”
I don’t know how to say it. That I don’t want him to stop. That I want more. That, for a minute, I completely forgot about yetis and footprints and the storm and just wanted… him.
