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“What are you doing?” he asked, peering over his cup at Scotland, who was peeling his shirt from his body. It was chilly in the morning air, with dew still clinging to the grass that shone as the first bit of sunlight hit it. It was a good thing he’d cleaned off his blanket and pulled it over his shorts and T-shirt, otherwise, he would have been freezing.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d tried to sleep at such an early hour, staring into the darkness on Scotland’s bed with his knees scrunched up at the level of his waist. It hadn’t been dawn when he’d first peeked outside, giving up on the elusive dreams he craved and hated. Scotland had slept on the couch like a gentleman, his soft snores more relaxing than Clint cared to admit.
The only bad thing was that his topless streak was officially over. The air had simply been too chilly.
Scotland looked over his shoulder, his back rippling as he grabbed the closest log from the heaping pile. He’d convinced Clint to stay close to the house after he’d brewed a fresh pot of coffee, introducing him to the much larger fire pit at his own place.
The metal ring decorated with silhouettes of pine trees was a few feet across and heaped with ash and burned-out logs. There was also a pile of thick tree trunks that was haphazardly stacked a few paces away. A much larger log was sitting close by, an ax dug deep into the wood.
“Making breakfast,” said Scotland, grasping the ax handle and tugging it free. His biceps strained, his shoulders going taut. He didn’t seem to feel the chill of the air, his movements steady and liquid.
Clint had never realized quite how built Scotland was. He didn’t look like much with a shirt on, his tattoos peeking out from every which way. Even with his sleeves rolled up, his forearms seemed thick, but nothing to get excited about. I grossly underestimated him.
With everything on display, it was hard not to get a little lost. His tattoos were beautiful—alive, even—as Scotland moved, stacking a log atop the thick base and taking the first swing. The ax struck the wood with a harsh thunk, the metal sinking a few inches in but not splitting it.
Does that hurt his hands? Clint could wield a whip the same as some experts, but he couldn’t imagine the impact a swing like that would have on his hands. The thud and vibration would make his fingers tingle and ache.
“How did you sleep?” asked Scotland, freeing the ax with a jerk before he took another swing. On the down stroke, every muscle went tight, his pecs bulging with strength as he seemed to put every bit of effort into it.
Who chops their own wood? Clint glanced at the forest, the fog still clinging to the edges of it. Scotland had probably chopped it down himself, like some sort of beaver on steroids or something. But did he have to do it shirtless? Every ripple was distracting, and when the wood split into three pieces on the next strike, flying wide in every direction, Clint’s cock twitched.
He was not getting hard again. He pointedly looked away at the next grunt, biting his lip as another piece of wood flew wide in his periphery. The amount of force that would take made him shudder just thinking about it. And those hands… Those hands.
His balls were so blue at this point that they were practically bruised. Jerking off in the shower that morning hadn’t even felt like an option. But perhaps it was time to reconsider. He was never going to make it the whole day like this.
“Clint?”
Clint shook his head, dragging his gaze back. There was sweat beaded on Scotland’s chest, his nipples tight and dark against his paler skin. The rose tattoo on his pec seemed to glisten, looking so real that it could have its own scent and life force.
“Clint.”
“What?” He blinked, forcing his gaze back to his coffee. Coffee was safe, even if Scotland had made it perfectly for him. “I hear you, Sir. You want to make breakfast like some sort of caveman. I’m kinda pumped about it. You’re a really good cook.”
That didn’t cover it. Scotland’s skills in the kitchen so far were wasted in a tattoo parlor.
Scotland chuckled, wiping the back of his arm across his forehead. “I asked you how you slept.”
Clint’s face burned as he pursed his lips. So much for not being affected. “I didn’t, Sir.”
Between the strange room and the shifting shadows of evening and night, he hadn’t slept a wink. He hadn’t really slept since he’d been away from Unkinked. At least there he was usually so exhausted that he nearly collapsed onto his couch at the end of the night.
It was hard not to be worried about Unkinked while he was sitting here on vacation doing virtually nothing. He’d barely heard a word from Maddy, and knowing him, he was probably burning more candles or rearranging the office. He shuddered.
“Was it the pillows or the room?” asked Scotland, kneeling next to the wood block before grabbing one of the smallest pieces. With utmost precision, he lifted a smaller version of the ax, shaving tiny slices from the edge of the wood. They peeled away like a corn husk, one thin layer at a time.
“The bed,” said Clint, pulling the blanket tighter. It was early, but the crickets were out in full force, the air almost vibrating with them. They never seemed to go silent here, no matter what time it was. “I don’t sleep well in a big bed alone. I haven’t since Ross passed.”
To his credit, Scotland didn’t look surprised…or even guilty. He just gathered the little shavings of wood, stacking them log cabin style in the fire pit. “Would you prefer the couch next time instead?”
Clint shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I can sleep pretty much anywhere as long as it’s not a bed. Most chairs are good, and the floor will suffice in a pinch.” The recovery room at the club had been his go-to on a few restless nights, the soothing peppermint whispering against his senses.
“We can work on that, too, then,” said Scotland, grabbing a few of the larger logs and stacking them atop the shavings. “For now, pull your cock out and get yourself hard.”
He didn’t even look up. The bastard just kept on stacking neatly until the logs were a few layers deep.
Clint wasn’t sure how he felt about being worked on. “It’s too cold.” He motioned to the blanket as if to prove a point. The thermometer couldn’t have been much above freezing, and he could see his breath during each deep exhale.
Scotland paused, his hand still hovering over the edge of the fire pit. “I didn’t catch that. Care to repeat it?”
