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Nick eyed Martin’s offering before taking it. Unrolling it and flipping it open, he dropped the blanket to the ground next to Martin’s chair and plopped down onto it, his long legs crossed at the ankles in front of him. All Martin had to do was reach out and he could touch him. He pushed his hand under his thigh to keep from doing just that.
“Any resolutions?” he asked.
Martin’s resolution was: Don’t do anything stupid. And especially don’t try anything stupid with Nick.
Nick shook his head. “Nope. I always fuck them up anyway. What about you?”
Martin didn’t answer; instead, he twisted the lid off the thermos and took a nice long sip. He didn’t think he was the only one fighting an unexpected attraction. More than once, Martin had seen Nick watching him, a speculative, almosthungryexpression on his face. This usually occurred when Martin wandered into the living room or kitchen without putting a shirt on first. He’d started “forgetting” to put a shirt on almost every morning since the first time he’d noticed Nick’s reaction.
“Hot toddy. Want some?” Martin held out the flask.
Nick looked like he might not, but then, to Martin’s surprise, he took the thermos and lifted it to his lips. Martin watched him, already feeling the whiskey invading his system, making him a little warmer and probably a lot reckless. Nick’s Adam’s apple moved as he swallowed, and Martin’s cock twitched in response. A second later, Nick’s eyebrows shot up as he coughed violently and glared back at Martin.
After wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, he managed to rasp, “Fucking Christ, is there any toddy in this, or is it straight whiskey?”
“My own special recipe. One part honey and water and the rest is pure Irish whiskey.”
“Huh. You didn’t say what your resolution is,” Nick said, risking another drink from the thermos.
“Not to do anything stupid.”
“So, buying a run-down resort—that, by the way, is merely cabins, so why the fuck is it called a resort?—was, or wasn’t, last year’s stupid?”
Nick handed the flask back to Martin.
“Buying this place is the best choice I’ve ever made. No, I’m talking about a different kind of stupid. And you’re right, by the way,” Martin continued, working to keep Nick from asking just what kind of stupid Martin had been referring to. “We need a new name. Maybe Cooper Springs Beachside Cabins.”
Nick shook his head. “No flare. It needs to be more. Besides, they aren’t really beachside. They’re more beach-adjacent.”
Another firework shot up over their heads and Martin took another drink. It was New Year’s Eve, after all.
“That was my only idea. You’ve crushed my creative spirit.”
Nick snickered, and Martin’s cock twitched again. He tried to adjust his position to no avail.
“Hand me that whiskey again. Surely we can get the juices going with a little help.”
Martin did as requested, leaving his hand in place so their fingertips touched during the exchange. Meeting Nick’s gaze, Martin released the thermos, and now his dick was throbbing in time with his heartbeat. There was no way he could get up from his seat without his cock announcing its own resolution: A naked Nick Waugh, in his bed.
Raising the thermos to his lips again, Nick held his gaze. Martin couldn’t have looked away if he’d wanted to. He really didn’t want to.
“Detour.”
“Excuse me.” Martin shook his head. “What?”
“Detour. Detour back to ‘not doing anything stupid.’” Nick set the whiskey down, making sure it wouldn’t fall over.
A choking sound escaped Martin’s throat, and Nick must have decided it meant to keep talking. It did not.
“What do you mean by stupid?” Nick asked softly.
Martin opened his mouth to answer, but no sound came out. Nick was rising to his knees and Martin didn’t miss the bulge in the front of his jeans before Nick covered his own crotch and squeezed. “Would stupid be me having a fucking constant, massive hard-on around you? Would stupid be me sleeping on the fucking floor but wishing I was sharing your bed? And Fucking. Fucking. In. Your. Bed. I’m not making a resolution, but I do have a wish and you just heard it.”
He wasn’t aware of having made a choice. Of deciding to move. What Martin knew next was that he was finally tasting Nick Waugh’s filthy fucking mouth. He tasted of whiskey and honey. Martin had one hand wrapped around the back of Nick’s neck, holding him still so he could properly plunder his mouth and ravage him with his tongue.
So much for not doing anything stupid.
Abandoning the chair, the blanket, and the flask on the top of the bluff, they raced down the path. Martin didn’t care if Bigfoot himself trespassed on the property to party, drink the rest of the whiskey, and make off with the chair and blanket.
