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“It’s not a trick,” said Scotland, his breath whispering over Clint’s ear. There was something hard pressing against Clint’s ass that did not feel like a belt buckle or a jackknife. “Try again, and tighten your core on the down swing. You can’t just let it fall. You have to put some effort into it.”
“Effort?” Both of his wrists were killing him, and he was pretty sure he’d fucked up a muscle in his shoulder. “Stand back. I don’t want you to get splintered.” Clint shrugged Scotland off, grinning as he forced him away with one finger to his chest. “I’m going to hit this wood so hard that it can’t help but split in half. I’ve got a great up-and-down game, but I’m a bit out of practice.”
“Just don’t—”
“If you say chop your leg off, we are going to have problems.” Clint sucked in a breath, squinting at the log that was leaning just a bit to the left. Tucking his tongue into his cheek, he hauled the ax over his head, bringing it down with every bit of force he could muster.
With a crack, the ax sank into the log, stuttering to a halt just past the blade as it caught on something within the wood. The handle quivered in Clint’s hands, his body off balance as he went from sixty to zero in an instant.
“Fuck.” Clint stumbled to the side, sinking against Scotland as his shoulder throbbed. Even his toes ached from the swing, but the wood was still in one piece. “That’s just not fair.” He glared at the block, gritting his teeth. He hadn’t even sheared off a splinter. “Not trick wood, my ass.”
Scotland chuckled, a sound that was both soothing and infuriating. His wandering hands were slightly less exasperating, especially when he tucked one in Clint’s back pocket, cupping his ass through his jeans.
He’d officially run out of track pants to wear, so he’d jammed his ass into proper jeans that morning. It had nothing to do with trying to impress Scotland, even if it had worked.
“Let me try, baby.” Scotland kissed his neck, palming Clint’s pec and scraping a nail over his nipple. “I told you it’s hard.” He rocked his hips.
The wood wasn’t the only thing that was hard. From the feel of it, Scotland had a bit more than Clint’s own semi. With the sun beating down on them, and the fresh breeze, it was almost as indecent as when Clint had been naked in Scotland’s kitchen.
“Let’s make it a bet,” said Clint, grinning as he passed the ax over. There was no way he was losing. There had to be rebar embedded into the log or something. “You split it in one go, and I’ll grant you one wish—genie-style.”
“And if I can’t?” asked Scotland, not looking phased as he adjusted his grip on the handle before edging his feet apart.
“Then you grant me one wish—BDSM style.” Clint winked. He had a lot of wishes stored up from over the years. That’s what happened when he got to watch but not touch for so many scenes.
“Should I be worried?” Scotland raised one brow, flexing his hands on the grip. The ax looked small in his hands, especially when he tensed. The log looked like it didn’t stand much of a chance, either.
There’s no way he’s winning. Clint rolled his shoulders, trying to relieve the strain. His hands were still numb and tingly, the palms a darker pink than usual.
“So many options.” He tapped his chin before strolling to the nearest tree. It was some kind of maple, with low sweeping branches that were just out of reach. “I haven’t practiced my Shibari skills in a while, but this here looks like the perfect set up.”
Scotland’s eyes went dark as he dragged his gaze over the trunk and branches.
“Or we could do a little role play,” said Clint, leaning against the bark. “Oh, please help me, Mr. Lumberjack, only you don’t come to help.” A shudder worked its way up his spine.
“I could go for a little CNC anytime,” said Scotland.
Yeah, because consensual non-consent is the best. But that felt like a little bit too much of a win for Scotland. I’ve gotta think darker. “Or I get to tattoo my name on your side, right where it will hurt the most.”
Clint swallowed thickly at his own idea. That shit was permanent, but fuck if that didn’t make him hard. “I’m not talking the fake tattoos you did on me…or henna. Something permanent and big, right over your ribs where it will sting like hell.”
Scotland let out a breath, looking a tad unsure for the first time. “I knew you were a sadist, but shit.”
Maybe that is taking it a bit too far. “Okay, fair enough.” Clint scratched the back of his head. He probably shouldn’t be branding someone unless he was prepared for a full-time relationship with them. “A public scene of my choice—very public.”
Scotland quirked his lips, hefting the ax over his head. “Deal.” He brought it down, his arms bulging as he met the edge of the wood. Instead of stalling, it kept going, slicing through the pale surface as if it were mere tissue paper. From the force of the blow, the wood splintered, flying in different directions with one nearly striking Clint in the foot.
Clint glared at the piece of wood, the size of it much too small to be half. Scotland grinned as he gathered the pieces, holding up three nearly identical bits. “Look—a bonus.” He waved the third piece in his hand. “Does that mean I get two wishes, genie?”
Grumbling under his breath, Clint grabbed the piece that had flown the closest to his leg. This isn’t possible. He’d watched enough videos of lumberjack men to know that it was, but it still pissed him off.
He nodded, begrudgingly handing it over to Scotland when he loomed close enough. Instead of grabbing it, Scotland bypassed his outstretched hand, pinning Clint to the tree. The rough bark scraped against his back, probably cutting into his shirt and his skin.
Scotland leaned in, tracing his lips over Clint’s ear. His breath was shallow, his cock burning through the front of his pants as it met Clint’s. “Thanks for all the ideas, Genie. I’ll make sure to surprise you.”
Chapter Eighteen
Clint
