Page 18 of Serving Bunt

Diaz’s lips curved. “For now.”

He wrapped his own fist around his thick, hardening length and gave it one lazy stroke, thumb swiping over the leaking head. Matty’s breath hitched at the sight.

“Fuck,” Matty muttered, his hand speeding up. “You look so good like this.”

Diaz groaned. He matched Matty’s rhythm, pumping himself in quick, firm strokes while water sluiced over his aching muscles.

“You like watching me jerk off for you, tesoro? Like seeing how hard you make me?”

Matty nodded, lips parted. “Love it.”

“You want to see me come?”

“Yesss.” Matty groaned. “I want to watch you lose it while you look at me.”

The air between them grew thicker than the steam. They stood just a few feet apart, eyes locked, hands working their cocks in perfect sync. The wet sounds of skin on skin mixed with their heavy breathing and the steady spray of the showers.

“Shit, Matty . . .” Diaz’s voice was strained. “Look at you leaking for me.”

Matty moaned, hips jerking into his fist.

“I’m gonna come, Peter—”

“Do it,” Diaz growled, stroking himself faster. “Come for me. Let me see it.”

Matty came first with a choked groan, thick ropes of cum spilling over his fist and onto the tiled floor, washed away instantly by the water. The sight pushed Diaz over the edge right after him. He came hard, groaning Matty’s name as he pulsed over his own hand, hips stuttering.

They stood there afterward, breathing hard, water still pouring down on them. It was Diaz who made the first move, pulling Matty in for a deep, hungry kiss under the spray.

“Next time,” he murmured against his lips, “I’m fucking you right here against this wall.”

Matty smirked with satisfaction. “Can’t wait.”

Matty

All-Star Break

Eastern Oregon looked a lot like Alabama . . . minus the mountains.

Alabama didn’t do mountains.

It was hard to believe that after three years of living in Oregon, this was only the second time I had ventured east of Mt. Hood.

The first had been a disastrous camping trip with Soren, Pink, and Roman, one that had ended with Roman attempting to “optimize” our campfire using lighter fluid and Pink deciding, at some point after his fourth beer, that he needed to relocate our entire campsite farther upstream to “improve the vibe.”

We’d spent nearly two hours wandering around in the dark with our phone flashlights, trying to track down the missing cooler that Pink had insisted had been hijacked by Bigfoot. Needless to say, we had all gone to bed hungry and stinking of smoke.

It was about three hours into my drive when the Wallowa Mountains first came into view, rising like something out of a children’s pop-up book. By hour four, the dry, sunbaked landscape gave way to lush greenery, like something out of an entirely different country.

No wonder they called it Oregon’s “Little Switzerland.”

And then there was the inn. Juniper Ridge. It was idyllic in that quiet, storybook way that made you feel like you’d accidentally driven onto a movie set. Technically, I guessed I had. This was where we would be staying and filming for the next five days.

“I still can’t believe the Matty Miller is staying at my inn.”

I rubbed the back of my neck, struggling not to smile. “Er, thank you—”

“Lolly."