The construction started at seven every morning. Hammering. Drilling. Men hollering over saws and machinery like they owned the block. I hated every bit of it until I saw Eric.

I didn’t know his name then. I just knew he had shoulders wide enough to block out the sun and jeans that hugged him like they had no intention of letting go. He wore his tool belt low, his hard hat tipped back, and every time he wiped sweat off his face with the bottom of his shirt, I forgot whatever email I was pretending to answer.

By Wednesday, I knew his break schedule.

By Thursday, I knew he liked to stand near the edge of the roof and drink from a blue water bottle.

By Friday, I stopped closing my curtains after my shower.

That was the first time he looked back.

I stepped into my bedroom with a towel low on my hips, water still sliding down my chest, pretending I had no idea I was standing in front of an open window. Across the alley, Eric froze with one hand on his belt and the other holding that bottle.

He looked.

I let him.

The towel slipped just enough to make his mouth part.

I smiled.

After that, I got bold. Country-boy reckless. Every morning, I found a reason to pass that window half-dressed. Sometimes in a towel. Sometimes in briefs. Once, when the sun was high and my nerves were low, nothing at all.

Eric never waved.

He just watched.

That made it worse.

Better.

By the next Tuesday, I couldn’t take it anymore. I timed his lunch break, slick as sin, and met him outside when he came through the side gate.

Up close, he was too much. Bigger than he looked from across the alley. Sweat at his throat. Dust on his arms. Stubble on his jaw. He smelled like work, sun, and trouble.

“You live across the way?” he asked.

I leaned against the brick wall and gave him the kind of smile that had gotten me into mess before. “You already know I do.”

His eyes dragged over me slow. “I know which window is yours.”

My stomach dipped.

“You been watching me?” I asked.

Eric stepped closer. “You been showing me.”

The street went quiet in my head.

“You on lunch?” I asked.

“Thirty minutes.”

“That enough time?”

His grin came mean and pretty. “For what I’ve been thinking about? Hell no.”

I looked up at my building. “Then don’t waste it.”

We barely made it inside.

The elevator doors had hardly closed before his hand was on my waist, rough and sure, his mouth close to my ear.

“You always this brave?” he asked.

“No,” I said, watching us in the metal reflection. “Only when I want something.”

His fingers tightened. “And what do you want, Jacob?”

I hadn’t told him my name.

That should’ve scared me.

It didn’t.

I turned my head. “Come upstairs and find out.”

The second my apartment door shut, Eric had me against it. His mouth hit mine hard, like he’d spent all week saving up hunger and decided I was the only place to put it. I grabbed his shirt, pulled him closer, and felt every inch of him press into me.

He was hot from the roof, skin damp, chest hard, hands rough from work. I wanted him everywhere. On me. In my space. In my sheets. Against my window.

“Bedroom,” I breathed.

He kissed my neck. “Window first.”

That made me stop.

Eric pulled back just enough to look at me. “You opened it for me all week.”

My pulse kicked.

“So open it now.”

Read more

I knew I was in trouble before I even got home.

It wasn’t the smell of pine still clinging to my shirt, or the faint ache in my thighs every time I shifted behind the wheel. It wasn’t even the way Red had gone quiet after we left the cabin, both hands locked on the steering wheel, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the road like looking at me might make him say something he couldn’t take back.

It was my finger.

Bare.

I kept rubbing my thumb over the empty spot where my wedding ring should’ve been, feeling that pale groove of skin like a confession. I’d worn that ring for twelve years. Through fights. Through bad sex. Through worse silence. Through Julie’s late nights and my own lies. It had been there so long I stopped noticing it.

Until it was gone.

“Quit touching it,” Red muttered.

I looked over at him. “I ain’t touching nothing.”

“You been rubbing that finger since we pulled out the driveway.”

I dropped my hand into my lap. “Maybe because my ring’s gone.”

Red let out a humorless laugh. “Yeah. That’s what got you bothered.”

I stared at the side of his face, at that thick beard, that hard mouth, that damn country-boy stubbornness that made me want to punch him and climb him in the same breath. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you ain’t worried about the ring. You’re worried about Julie seeing it missing.”

“That’s what a missing wedding ring usually implies, Red.”

He glanced at me then, quick and sharp. “You didn’t seem too worried about that ring when your hand was wrapped around my neck last night.”

My body betrayed me. Just like that, fire shot through my stomach.

Last night.

The cabin.

The neighbor.

The sounds we made when we thought the woods were thick enough to swallow them.

I turned toward the window, watching the trees peel by in long green blurs. “Don’t start.”

“I ain’t starting nothing.”

“You are.”

“No, Cole. I’m driving your ass home after spending a whole damn weekend watching you act like you didn’t want everything that happened.”

I laughed under my breath, bitter and tired. “Is that what this is? You mad because I didn’t write you a love note after?”

Red’s hands tightened on the wheel. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Act like a smart-ass when you’re scared.”

That shut me up.

For a good ten miles, neither of us said a word. The truck smelled like sweat, leather, and the cheap gas station coffee Red had bought and barely touched. My bag sat between my boots, half-zipped, dirty clothes stuffed inside like evidence. I kept thinking about that cabin bedroom. The nightstand. My hand gripping the edge of it. Red behind me, breathing hard against my neck. The neighbor watching from the doorway like he’d stumbled into church and found sin preaching the sermon.

I had taken my ring off.

I remembered now.

Not because Red asked me to. Not because I needed to. I’d done it without thinking, twisting it loose and setting it down beside the lamp. Maybe I didn’t want the metal biting into my finger while I held onto the sheets. Maybe I didn’t want Julie in that room with us, not even in symbol.

Maybe I wanted to feel unmarried for one damn night.

Red pulled into my driveway just after dusk.

Julie’s car was there.

Of course it was.

The porch light glowed soft and yellow. The curtains in the living room were pulled open just enough for somebody to watch the street without looking obvious. My stomach dropped.

Red killed the engine.

“You want me to come in?” he asked.

I turned to him. “Why the hell would you come in?”

His eyes stayed on the house. “Because you look like you’re about to walk into a slaughterhouse.”

“I’m fine.”

“You ain’t.”

“I said I’m fine.”

Red leaned back in his seat, jaw working. “There you go again.”

“What?”

“Puffing up like some banty rooster every time somebody tries to give a damn about you.”

I reached for my bag. “I don’t need you giving a damn about me.”

He grabbed my wrist.

Not hard. Not rough. Just enough to stop me.

The second his skin touched mine, the whole truck seemed to shrink around us. I looked down at his hand, then up at him. His face had changed. The anger was still there, but something softer sat underneath it. Something dangerous. Something that would ruin me if I let it.

“You sure about that?” he asked.

I pulled my wrist free. “Go home, Red.”

He stared at me for a second, then nodded like I’d said exactly what he expected. “Yeah. Alright.”

I opened the door and stepped out.

“Cole.”

I stopped.

Red looked at me through the open passenger door. “Find the ring. Or don’t. But don’t lie to yourself about why you took it off.”

I slammed the door harder than I needed to.

The truck stayed there until I reached the porch. Only then did Red pull away, tires crunching over gravel, taillights glowing red as he disappeared down the road.

I stood there with my bag in one hand and my shame in the other.

Then the front door opened.

Julie leaned against the frame in one of my old T-shirts, hair pulled up, face bare, wineglass in hand. She looked me over once. Slow. From my boots to my messy hair to the empty spot on my finger.

“Well,” she said, taking a sip. “You look like the woods had their way with you.”

I forced a smile. “Long weekend.”

“I bet.”

I stepped inside, and the house felt too clean. Too still. Like it had been waiting on me.

Julie closed the door behind me. “Red get you home safe?”

“Yeah.”

“That was nice of him.”

“He was heading this way.”

“No he wasn’t.”

I turned. “What?”

She smiled into her wineglass. “Nothing.”

I set my bag down by the stairs. “I’m gonna shower.”

“Before or after you tell me where your ring is?”

There it was.

No warm-up. No mercy.

I looked at my hand like I had just noticed. Bad acting. Terrible acting. Julie’s eyebrow lifted.

“Must’ve left it at the cabin,” I said.

“Must’ve.”

“I’ll call Hank tomorrow.”

“You do that.”

Her voice was too calm.

That was the thing about Julie. When she was angry, she didn’t holler. She got sweet. Real sweet. Sugar over a razor blade. I had seen her chew out a bank teller with a smile so pretty the poor woman thanked her afterward.

I started toward the stairs.

“Cole.”

I stopped.

“Did you have fun?”

My back tightened. “What kind of question is that?”

“A simple one.”

I turned around. Julie was still by the door, glass in hand, watching me like she was waiting for me to finally become interesting.

“It was fine,” I said.

“That’s a shame.”

“What is?”

She shrugged. “Coming home looking like that after only having a fine time.”

I should’ve asked her what she meant. I should’ve said something smart, something mean, something husband-like. Instead, I went upstairs and locked myself in the bathroom.

The shower burned hot against my skin. I scrubbed hard, trying to wash off pine, sweat, Red, the neighbor, the whole damn weekend. But the body remembers what the mind tries to bury. Every place Red had touched me lit up under the water. My neck. My hips. My thighs. My mouth.

I braced both hands against the tile and dropped my head.

“Don’t lie to yourself about why you took it off.”

Red’s voice had no business following me into the shower.

By the time I got out, Julie was already in bed.

Or pretending to be.

I slid under the covers, careful not to touch her. The silence between us was familiar. We had built a whole marriage out of it. Brick by brick. Lie by lie.

I closed my eyes.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand.

I ignored it.

It buzzed again.

Julie shifted beside me. “You gonna get that?”

“It’s probably spam.”

“At this hour?”

I reached for the phone, heart already climbing into my throat.

Unknown number.

The message had no words at first.

Just a photo.

My wedding ring.

Sitting on the cabin nightstand.

The lamp beside it. The wood wall behind it. The ugly plaid curtain in the corner.

Then a second message came through.

You left something.

Read more

Red said it like it was nothing.

“Neighbor might stop by this weekend.”

I froze with the cooler in my hands and a six-pack tucked under my arm. “What neighbor?”

Red didn’t look at me. That should’ve been my first warning. He kept tying down the tarp in the bed of the truck, his forearms flexing, his jaw tight, his wedding band catching the morning sun like a damn accusation.

“Fella lives half a mile down from Hank’s place. Wade.”

“Wade?” I repeated, already hating him.

Red glanced over his shoulder. “Don’t start.”

“I ain’t starting nothing.”

Which was a lie. I was absolutely starting something. In my head, I had already dragged Wade into court, convicted him of being too damn close to our cabin, and sentenced him to minding his own business.

Red smirked like he could hear every jealous thought rattling around in my skull. “He helped fix the generator last time.”

“Last time?”

His smirk widened. “You were upstairs sleeping it off.”

Sleeping it off. That’s what we were calling it now. Funny, because I distinctly remembered being wide awake, face-down in a mattress, biting a pillow while Red taught me several things the church had failed to prepare me for.

I shoved the cooler into the bed of the truck harder than necessary. “So he just pops by?”

“Sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” I said, mocking him.

Red walked around the truck, slow and easy, like he had all the time in the world. He stopped in front of me, close enough that I could smell him. Soap. Sweat. Gasoline. Trouble.

“You jealous?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

He looked down at my mouth, then back up at my eyes. “You’re a piss-poor liar, Cole.”

I hated how my stomach flipped when he said my name like that. Low. Rough. Like it belonged to him.

I leaned closer, lowering my voice even though nobody was around but the birds and the old dog from next door barking at nothing. “I’m not jealous. I just don’t like surprises.”

Red’s hand slid around my waist, gripping me firm enough to make my breath catch.

“Then let me tell you plain,” he said. “Wade knows.”

My blood went cold.

“What the hell do you mean he knows?”

Red’s thumb pressed into the small of my back. “He knows enough.”

Read more

By the time the van lost service, I should’ve known I’d made a mistake.

Not a bad mistake.

The good kind.

The kind that starts with poor judgment and ends with somebody walking funny.

The ad had been simple enough.

Weekend Reset for Men. No screens. No stress. No outside world. Reconnect with yourself. Reconnect with others.

It sounded like the kind of thing my therapist would suggest right before asking if I’d “considered journaling.”

I had not.

What I had considered was the photo attached to the retreat page. Six grown men standing shirtless near a lake, all beards, bellies, muscles, tattoos, and smiles that said they’d either found inner peace or somebody had just blown their back out in the woods.

So I signed up.

For my health, obviously.

The van pulled up to a gravel road cutting through a wall of pine trees. Heat shimmered off the hood. Dust kicked up behind us. The driver, a thick-necked man named Beau, glanced at us in the rearview mirror.

“Last chance,” he said. “Once we get to camp, phones go in the lockbox.”

A few men groaned.

I patted my pocket like I was saying goodbye to a loved one.

Across from me, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a shaved head and a salt-and-pepper beard smirked.

“You nervous?” he asked.

“About losing my phone?”

“About what you might do without it.”

I looked him up and down. Big arms. Big thighs. Big trouble.

“I’ll survive.”

His grin widened. “We’ll see.”

His name was Marcus. He’d introduced himself back at the pickup point by shaking my hand and holding on just a second too long. Not long enough to be obvious to everybody else. Just long enough for me to feel it in my stomach.

Beside him sat Denny, a redheaded ex-Marine with a chest like a door and a laugh loud enough to scare birds out of trees. Next to Denny was Luis, pretty as sin, with thick black curls and a mouth that looked expensive. In the front row were Jonah and Pike, two gym buddies who claimed they were just “trying something different.”

I’d heard that one before.

Men loved saying “trying something different” right before doing something they’d been thinking about for years.

When the cabin finally came into view, everybody got quiet.

It sat at the edge of the lake, tucked between tall trees and golden light, all dark wood and wide windows. A crooked sign hung from the porch.

CABIN 69

Denny let out a whistle. “Subtle.”

Beau parked and killed the engine. “Grab your bags. Leave your bullshit.”

We climbed out into the thick afternoon air. It smelled like pine, lake water, and bad decisions. The porch boards creaked under our feet as we lined up by the front door.

That was when a man stepped out.

He was older than the rest of us, maybe late forties, with a close-cropped beard, sun-browned skin, and the easy confidence of a man who had seen plenty and regretted almost none of it. His T-shirt stretched across his chest. His jeans sat low on his hips.

“Welcome to Cabin 69,” he said. “I’m Grant.”

Of course his name was Grant.

He held up a wooden box.

“Phones.”

One by one, we dropped them in.

When it was my turn, Grant looked me over. Not in a creepy way. Worse. In a way that made it clear he knew exactly what he was doing.

“Name?”

“Cal.”

“First retreat?”

“Is it obvious?”

His eyes dipped to my mouth. “A little.”

I dropped my phone into the box.

Grant shut the lid and locked it.

“There are three rules this weekend,” he said. “Rule one, consent is everything. You ask. You listen. You respect the answer. No exceptions.”

Good.

Fine.

Hot, even.

“Rule two, no phones, no work talk, no outside drama.”

Easy enough.

“Rule three,” he said, pausing just long enough for the air to shift, “after midnight, Cabin 69 becomes clothing optional.”

Luis laughed under his breath.

Jonah elbowed Pike. Pike stared at the ground like the dirt had suddenly become fascinating.

Denny folded his arms. “Optional?”

Grant smiled. “For the shy ones.”

That should’ve scared me off.

Instead, my cock twitched.

Damn traitor.

We spent the afternoon doing all the respectable retreat stuff. Chopping vegetables for dinner. Hauling firewood. Sitting in a circle pretending to talk about burnout and stress while everybody’s eyes kept drifting to everybody else’s forearms.

By sunset, the cabin felt smaller.

Not because it was cramped. It wasn’t. It was huge, with two bunk rooms, a stone fireplace, a long dining table, and a back deck overlooking the lake.

It felt smaller because desire has a way of taking up space.

It sat between us at dinner.

It leaned over our shoulders while we passed bowls of pasta and grilled sausage. It followed Marcus’s hand when he reached across the table for salt and his knuckles brushed mine.

“Sorry,” he said.

“Sure you are.”

He smiled and took a slow bite of sausage like he had all the time in the world.

Across the table, Luis was teasing Denny about taking three servings.

“You always this hungry?” Luis asked.

Denny leaned back, spreading his knees under the table. “Depends what’s being offered.”

Pike choked on his water.

Jonah slapped his back, laughing too hard for someone who wasn’t affected.

Grant watched us from the head of the table like a man watching dry brush near an open flame.

After dinner, we gathered around the fire pit. The sky turned deep purple. The lake went black and glossy. Someone opened a cooler of beer. The first one loosened shoulders. The second loosened tongues. By the third, everybody stopped pretending this was about mindfulness.

Grant tossed a log onto the fire.

“Team bonding starts at eleven-thirty,” he said.

Marcus glanced at me. “What’s team bonding?”

Grant’s smile curled. “You’ll find out.”

Read more

I’m sensin’ a theme with the next few story drops. Apparently, I’ve got cabins on the brain.

Woods. Closed doors. Men with too much tension between them. Men who swear they’re only getting away for the weekend, then end up knee-deep in secrets, jealousy, and the kind of trouble that does not stay quiet after dark.

And yes…

Brokeback Cabin is back.

My most popular story of all time is returning with not one, but two new chapters.

Here’s what’s coming:

Cabin 69

A group of men sign up for a weekend away from screens, stress, and the outside world.

Sounds peaceful.

It is not.

Cabin 69 has its own rules, and by midnight, everybody finds out what “team bonding” really means.

Brokeback Cabin III

Red and Cole head back to the woods, but this time the neighbor has been listening a little too closely.

Brokeback Cabin IV

The cabin trip is over, but somebody brought the wrong kind of attachment home.

Jealousy. Unfinished business. Secrets from the weekend. And one man who swears he’s done, until that late-night text comes through.

So yes, the cabins are booked.

The men are messy.

And Brokeback Cabin is back to remind everybody why it became the one y’all could not stop reading.

Stay tuned.

I should’ve been happy to leave that hospital.

No more beeping machines. No more bland food. No more paper gowns that left my ass one wrong breeze away from a lawsuit. No more nurses waking me up every forty-five minutes to ask if I was sleeping.

But when Jaby walked in with my discharge papers tucked under one arm and that wicked little smirk on his face, I knew I wasn’t walking out cured.

Hell, if anything, he’d made me worse.

“You look disappointed,” he said, shutting the door behind him.

“I’m going home,” I replied, sitting on the edge of the bed. “That’s usually considered good news.”

“Usually.”

He stepped closer, all broad shoulders and quiet confidence, smelling like soap, clean scrubs, and trouble. The kind of trouble that didn’t knock. The kind that let itself in and made itself comfortable.

I tried not to stare at his mouth.

Failed.

Jaby noticed, of course. The man noticed everything. My pulse. My breathing. The way my thighs tensed when he got too close.

He held out the papers. “Doctor says you’re cleared.”

I took them from him, our fingers brushing just long enough to make my stomach flip.

“Guess that means you’re done with me,” I said.

His eyes lifted to mine.

Lord, I should’ve kept my mouth shut.

Jaby leaned down, one hand braced beside me on the mattress, his voice dropping low enough to crawl under my skin.

“Now, Toby,” he murmured, “you know better than that.”

My breath caught.

He didn’t kiss me. Didn’t touch me past that almost-accidental brush of our fingers. Somehow that made it worse. He was close enough for me to feel the heat coming off him, close enough that all I had to do was tilt forward and ruin both our mornings.

But he pulled back first.

Professional as ever.

Cruel as hell.

“Get dressed,” he said.

I narrowed my eyes. “Bossy.”

“You like it.”

I hated that he was right.

By the time I changed into my regular clothes, I expected him to be gone. Instead, he stood by the window, arms folded, staring out at the parking lot like he owned the whole damn building and half the people in it.

When I grabbed my bag, he turned and handed me a sealed envelope.

“What’s this?”

“Discharge instructions.”

I stared at him.

His smirk tugged at one corner of his mouth. “Read them when you get home.”

“Is that medical advice?”

“That’s an order.”

My mouth went dry.

I tucked the envelope into my bag like it was nothing. Like my heart wasn’t beating stupid hard. Like I wasn’t already imagining his handwriting, his address, his hands, his voice telling me exactly what to do once the hospital was behind us.

Jaby walked me to the elevator.

Neither of us said much, but the silence between us had teeth.

When the doors opened, I stepped inside and turned to face him.

He stood there, calm and unreadable, like last night hadn’t happened. Like he hadn’t wrecked me in that room and left me staring at the ceiling afterward, wondering how one man could make a hospital bed feel like holy ground and bad decisions.

“Take care of yourself, Toby.”

I swallowed. “You too, Nurse Jaby.”

His eyes darkened at the title.

The elevator doors slid shut before either of us could say something reckless.

Coward.

That was what I called myself all the way home.

Coward, coward, coward.

I dropped my bag on the kitchen counter, kicked off my shoes, and told myself to be normal. Shower. Eat something. Maybe sleep for twelve hours like a respectable recently discharged person.

Instead, I dug that envelope out like it owed me money.

Inside was one folded sheet of paper.

No medical instructions.

No medication schedule.

Just an address.

A time.

And three words written beneath it.

Don’t be late.

Read more

(Kidding. Everyone in here is willing, and very into it.)

Get 30% off for 1 year

Stuffed by My Stepbrothers at the Family Wedding is, as advertised, about getting wrecked at a family event by folks you are …

Read more

I’ve got a few new stories cooking for paid subscribers, but I need your help with something.

I want to write more sequels.

So go digging through the archive, revisit your favorites, and hit reply with the story you think deserves a new part.

• Maybe it’s one that ended too soon.

• Maybe it’s one where the characters clearly had more trouble to get into.

• Maybe it’s just one you still think about for reasons we do not need to explain in polite company.

Read more

I was supposed to be asleep in the tent.

But I wasn’t.

“Didn’t think you could handle whiskey,” Clay said, nodding toward the bottle in my hand.

“I can handle a lot,” I shot back, letting my eyes drag down his chest.

His smirk said he caught it.

Greg chuckled, low and deep. “Boy’s been actin’ grown all weekend.”

“That so?” Clay leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You know what happens to boys who act grown around men like us?”

Greg’s eyes flicked toward me. “They get reminded they’re still boys.”

I swallowed, but I didn’t look away. “Maybe I need that reminder.”

The air shifted. The crackling fire was the only sound between us. Clay stood first, towering over me. He reached down, slow, and cupped my chin, forcing me to look up at him.

“You got a smart mouth.”

“Sometimes.”

His thumb dragged across my lower lip. “Then you won’t mind if we shut it for you.”

Greg stood too. Bigger than Clay. Broader. His boots crunched the gravel as he came up behind me. I felt the weight of his presence, his heat, his breath, his want.

Clay grabbed the back of my neck. “On your knees.”

Read more

My head throbbed from the tequila, but it wasn’t just the hangover that had my pulse racing. It was the thick weight pressed up against me from behind. Him. My stepbrother.

Luca.

Read more

I wasn’t there for the music.

His name was Serin. At least, that’s what the retinal scan pulled when I marked him on entry. Six-foot-three, all obsidian leather and smooth, blood-warm skin that shimmered under ultraviolet light. His eyes were lilac irises, blinking between human and hunger.

He was leaning against the bar, two fingers around a glass of synthetic O-neg. Untouched. Watching me.

I pushed through the crowd, my palm brushing over exposed skin and mesh-covered thighs, but none of it mattered—not when I felt his eyes on me. They were scanning me like code. Decrypting my wants before I knew them myself.

"You're not from around here," he said, voice smooth as bio-silk and twice as expensive.

"Does it matter?" I took the stool next to him, letting our thighs touch just enough to tease.

He looked me over with that half-smirk vampires always wore, like he could see the kink in your blood before you'd even undressed. “I can smell that your last hookup was an android.”

Read more

That’s when I saw him.

He stood near the barn, backlit by the late afternoon sun, a silhouette that made my throat dry. He had one hand gripping a hay hook, the other wiping sweat from his brow. Tall, broad, and sun-kissed in all the right places, his shirt hung loose over tanned abs that flexed with every movement. He looked like sin dipped in dirt and sweat.

“Truck trouble?” he called out, slinging the hook over his shoulder like it weighed nothing.

“Yeah,” I replied, trying not to stare—but failing. “Radiator’s fried, I think.”

He sauntered over, boots crunching on gravel, a slow smile curling across his face. “Well, looks like you’re stuck with me for a bit. I’m Weston,” he said, offering a hand.

I took it. Strong grip, calloused. Made me wonder what else he could grip like that.

“Ty,” I said, trying not to let my gaze linger on the trail of hair peeking out beneath his unbuttoned shirt. “Thanks for the help.”

“C’mon,” he said, jerking his head toward the house. “We’ll get you cooled off and fed. Maybe later I can take a look under your hood.”

His smirk let me know he wasn’t just talking about my truck.

Inside, the farmhouse was quiet. He handed me a glass of cold lemonade, and we sat on opposite ends of a beat-up sofa that creaked under our weight. The air was thick, humid from the storm rolling in and something else neither of us wanted to name just yet.

“You from ‘round here?” he asked, voice low.

“Nope. Just passing through,” I said. “Making deliveries.”

“Pity,” he murmured, eyes locked on mine.

I swallowed. “Yeah?”

Weston stood, setting down his glass. “You ever mess around on a farm before?”

My heart pounded. “Not exactly.”

“Well,” he said, walking over to stand in front of me. “There’s a first time for everything.”

His hands reached down and tugged my shirt up, exposing my chest. He leaned in, his breath hot against my neck as he whispered, “Tell me if you want to stop.”

I didn’t.

I pulled him down by the collar and kissed him... hard. He tasted like lemonade and sweat and something earthy I couldn’t name. He straddled my lap, grinding into me, both of us getting harder with every breath.

His fingers fumbled with my jeans as I unbuckled his belt. When we finally freed ourselves, he slid down between my thighs, eyes locked on mine as his lips wrapped around me. Slow. Delicious. Intense.

But he wasn’t done.

He stood, kicked off his boots, and dropped his jeans. That farmer’s son wasn’t just packing corn and cattle. He was hung like the whole damn harvest.

He turned, bent over the arm of the couch, and looked back. “You gonna plant your seed or what?”

Read more

I’m sharing a collection of micro-erotica—bite-sized stories under 1,000 words. Think of them as fleeting moments, tantalizing glimpses into worlds I’ve started to create but haven’t yet finished.

Your role? Simple. Heart your favorites.

The ones that ignite the most passion, curiosity, or downright obsession will evolve into full-length stories or even sprawling series. Your feedback shapes what comes next… so don’t hold back.

I only went over to Stifler’s place to borrow a video game—Street Slam IV or whatever the hell he’d been bragging about all week. I figured I’d swing by, grab the controller, maybe chill for a bit. I didn’t expect my entire sense of reality to get… split open and rearranged.

The door swung open, and there he was.

Mr. Stifler.

No shirt, just a towel barely clinging to his hips, beads of water trailing down his chest like a goddamn thirst trap. Dude looked like a fitness influencer turned pornstar, except cockier and with that kind of smirk that said he knew the effect he had.

“Oh hey, Cody,” he said, voice dripping with casual sin. “You here for that joystick?”

I blinked. “Uh—the controller?”

“Same difference,” he winked, stepping aside. I followed him in, trying not to stare at the towel or the tight curve of his ass underneath it. Spoiler: I failed.

The house smelled like cologne and chlorine. Expensive cologne, too—the kind you imagine a guy sprays on before he fucks someone’s spouse.

“Stifler’s not home,” he said, tossing a tennis ball in the air like this was just a regular Tuesday. “But you’re welcome to hang out. Unless you’ve got other plans?”

I shrugged. “Nah. I’ve got time.”

“You thirsty?”

“Sure.”

He handed me a beer with a lime wedge on the rim. Not exactly what I expected, but I sipped it anyway. He watched me drink like he was undressing me with his eyes. Hell, maybe he already had.

“You ever fool around with older guys?” he asked, so casually I almost didn’t hear it.

Read more

Dean.

My best friend Tariq's stepdad. Built like a linebacker, eyes like he’d seen too much, and lips that stayed tight unless he was smirking at me from behind the wheel of his truck. I never told him to stop.

Tonight, I was done pretending. I was done waiting.

The locker room was empty. Steam clung to the ceiling, sweat and soap hanging thick in the air. I stayed behind, my cleats echoing against the tile as I walked toward the back row of lockers. I yanked off my jersey, the number 87 clinging to my skin like a second layer.

I wasn’t in a rush. I had a plan.

I knew Tariq's stepdad was picking him up after practice. I’d seen him before. The man always wore a tight polo, sleeves strangling his thick biceps, with a jawline that looked like it could cut cinder blocks. His name was Dean. Always came late. Always gave me those lingering, unreadable looks. Like he was sizing me up. Or down.

Tonight, I was gonna find out.

Tariq stepped out of the shower, towel low on his waist, still dripping. "You good? Thought you left."

I smirked. "Waiting on you. Heard your old man’s outside."

Tariq rolled his eyes. "He’s not my real dad. Just mom’s latest project."

I stepped closer, voice dropping. "You think he ever notices how I look at him?"

Tariq froze, one eyebrow rising. "You mean that weird shit you do when he pulls up? Yeah. I notice. So does he."

I didn't flinch. "Good. Makes this easier."

The locker room door creaked open. I didn’t turn. I already knew who it was. Dean walked in, boots heavy on tile, ball cap pulled low. "Tariq. You ready or what?"

Tariq turned toward him, towel still barely clinging. "In a minute. Jose forgot his ride."

Dean's eyes shifted to me. "That right?"

I stepped forward, shirtless, glistening under the flickering overheads. "Yeah. Might need a lift. But I got something else I need first."

Dean arched an eyebrow, not even pretending to look away. "That so?"

I reached down and adjusted myself through my compression shorts. "You tell me. You’re the one staring like you wanna fuck me."

Read more

I’m sharing a collection of micro-erotica—bite-sized stories under 1,000 words. Think of them as fleeting moments, tantalizing glimpses into worlds I’ve started to create but haven’t yet finished.

Your role? Simple. Heart your favorites.

The ones that ignite the most passion, curiosity, or downright obsession will evolve into full-length stories or even sprawling series. Your feedback shapes what comes next… so don’t hold back.

The air reeked of sweat, gun oil, and testosterone. I hadn’t planned on coming to the base’s dive bar tonight, but something told me I needed to get out of my head, and maybe into someone else’s bed. Or locker room. I wasn’t picky.

He walked in like he owned the place. Combat boots heavy against the concrete, camo pants hugging those thick thighs, and that black tank barely containing his sculpted chest. Crew cut. Square jaw. Scar running from his ear to his jawline like a goddamn battle medal. A walking, talking hard-on. My eyes tracked him from across the room, glass halfway to my lips.

He looked straight at me. Didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. Just nodded once. A command.

I followed.

Out back. Past the dumpsters and the flickering security light. He shoved me against the wall before I could even speak. “You looking to serve tonight, pretty boy?” His voice was low, gritty, and soaked in sin.

“Yes, sir,” I breathed.

“Strip.”

I obeyed so fast it made me dizzy. Cold concrete kissed my back, my ass, my thighs as I pulled off everything and stood there, bare and aching. He didn’t undress. He just unzipped, thick cock already semi, veins bulging, heavy balls swinging low.

Read more

More into the written word? Tap in, babe.👇🏽

https://www.gaytaboostories.com/p/code-red-ravaged-in-room-407

Read more

You asked for more, and I don’t blame you. This is an expansion of the micro-erotica Ravaged by the Night Nurse. Enjoy! 🍆💦💦💦.

Hospitals were supposed to be sterile, cold, lifeless places. I had spent enough nights in this stiff, uncomfortable bed to know that firsthand. But ever since Jaby started working the night shift, the air in this place had changed—thicker, heavier.

It was no longer just the scent of antiseptic and freshly laundered sheets. Now, it was him. His cologne, his sweat, the barely restrained hunger in his eyes whenever he lingered at my bedside a little too long.

Jaby wasn’t just another nurse doing his rounds. He was something else—something dangerously intoxicating.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a presence that made the walls feel smaller whenever he stepped into the room. His deep brown eyes always held that knowing glint, like he could see through me, past the pain, past the hospital gown, past the wires and machines hooked up to my body. And that smirk, fuck, that smirk—it promised trouble in all the best ways.

Tonight, when he walked in, the energy between us shifted. It wasn’t just the usual teasing exchange of glances. It wasn’t just the way he let his hand linger a second too long when adjusting my IV.

No, tonight, something was different.

When I spoke, his gaze dropped to my lips, and his tongue darted out to wet his own. And when he exhaled, it was heavier, like he was holding back something fierce, something… primal.

The door clicked shut behind him, locking us in together, sealing us in this unspoken tension.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked, his voice deep, commanding, edged with something raw and possessive.

I shook my head. “Not with you looking at me like that.”

His eyes darkened. “Maybe I’m done just looking.”

Without warning, he closed the distance, his strong hand gripping my jaw roughly, forcing my head up to meet his intense gaze. "You've been teasing me for days, Toby. Tonight, you're going to find out what happens when you play with fire."

My breath caught, excitement pooling in my stomach. "Then show me," I whispered.

His mouth crushed against mine, hot and fierce, claiming me without restraint. His teeth nipped my lips, his tongue invading my mouth with a hunger that left me breathless.

His hands tore away my flimsy gown, exposing my naked body to his merciless exploration. He stripped off his scrubs in seconds, revealing a body sculpted from raw strength and pure desire.

Jaby pinned me beneath him, gripping my wrists and holding them firmly above my head. “You've been begging for this, haven't you?” he growled, grinding his hips against mine. I felt his cock pressing urgently against my thigh.

“Yes,” I moaned desperately, squirming beneath him.

"That's right, baby," he murmured darkly, releasing my wrists to roughly grip my thighs, spreading them wide. His eyes burned into mine as he reached for the lube, coating himself liberally, making sure I saw every slick movement. "You're going to feel every fucking inch of me, and you're going to take it all."

I cried out as he entered me, his thrust powerful and unapologetic, stretching me wide. Pain and pleasure exploded through me. His hips snapped forward, pounding relentlessly, each thrust harder than the last, driving me into the mattress.

“You're mine now, Toby,” he snarled possessively, biting my shoulder hard enough to leave marks. “Every fucking scream, every shudder, belongs to me.”

The raw dominance in his voice set me aflame, and I surrendered fully, nails clawing at his muscular back, encouraging him to fuck me harder, deeper. The bed groaned loudly beneath us, and I didn't care if the entire hospital heard my shameless moans.

Jaby’s thrusts grew frantic, his hand finding my throat again, squeezing lightly but insistently, commanding my complete submission. The pleasure spiraled uncontrollably, and I exploded beneath him, screaming his name, overwhelmed by the relentless force of his desire.

Moments later, Jaby came with a deep, guttural groan, burying himself deeply inside me. His body shuddered violently, sweat dripping from his skin onto mine as he collapsed against me.

Breathless and thoroughly spent, he pressed tender, possessive kisses along my jaw, murmuring softly, “You're incredible, Toby. Fucking perfect.”

We lay tangled together, the sterile air now thick with sweat, lust, and satisfaction. After a few minutes, Jaby raised his head, smirking wickedly. “Next time,” he whispered into my ear, his voice dark and dripping with promise, “I'm not going to be gentle."

A shiver of anticipation shot down my spine, and I grinned at him, already aching for more.

Hospitals were supposed to be sterile, cold, lifeless places.

But tonight? Tonight, I'd never felt more alive.

The following night, the door opened again, and my heart raced. Jaby stood in the doorway, a smirk playing on his lips. But he wasn't alone. Behind him, towering equally tall and powerfully built, stood an EMT I recognized from brief, heated glances exchanged during shifts. His name was Marcus—ruggedly handsome, his muscles straining beneath his uniform.

Jaby moved closer, his voice dripping seduction. “Thought we’d add a little excitement tonight.” He gestured to Marcus, whose eyes roamed hungrily over my body.

Marcus stepped forward, his voice deep and teasing. "Heard about you, Toby. Couldn't resist finding out for myself."

Read more

Dean was over again—fourth time this month. I pretended not to notice at first, but I always did. I noticed the way his eyes crawled over me when I came down the stairs shirtless. The way Travis, my stepdad, went quiet when I bent over in front of him.

They never touched me when I was growing up. They waited. Waited until I turned twenty, waited until I came back from college—bigger, broader, hungrier.

I thought I was imagining it that first night. But the second time Dean came over, and Travis said "Why don’t you wear some damn clothes around here?" while never once looking away from my bare chest, I knew.

They were watching. Plotting.

That night, I gave them a show.

After my shower, I walked into the kitchen with just a towel hugging my hips, steam still clinging to my skin. Dean looked up from his beer. His eyes flicked down my body and stayed there.

“You always this proud of your body?” he asked, voice low, half amusement, half threat.

“I don’t hear you telling me to cover up,” I shot back.

He smirked. Travis didn’t say a word, just stood behind me, close enough I could feel the heat coming off his body. His hand landed heavy on my shoulder.

“Boy’s got a mouth on him,” Travis muttered. “Maybe he wants it filled.”

Dean laughed, but it wasn’t funny. It was dark. Dangerous.

I didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

That was the moment everything changed.

We were on the couch an hour later. Game was on, but no one was watching. I sat between them, body buzzing. Travis’s palm rested on my thigh. He didn’t move it. Just let it sit there, warm and heavy, fingers brushing higher every few minutes. Dean had his arm draped across the back of the couch behind me, fingertips grazing my neck.

“You ever been with a man before, Levi?” Dean asked, casual, like he was asking about the weather.

I nodded slowly. “Once. Not like this though.”

Travis leaned in. “Like what?”

I turned my head toward him. “Like being used.”

Travis and Dean looked at each other. Something passed between them. Approval, maybe. Agreement.

Then Travis gripped my jaw and kissed me—rough, hard, like he was angry I’d made him wait this long. His stubble scraped my face raw, and his tongue shoved past my lips like it owned me. I moaned into his mouth, already leaking in my shorts.

Read more

You asked for more, and I don’t blame you. A Streetcar Named Temptation was one of the hottest micro-erotica drops, and this continuation turns up the heat even more. Dive in.

The streetcar smelled faintly of metal, worn leather, and sunbaked pavement as I stepped onto the F-line. I wasn’t a tourist—I’ve lived in San Francisco for years—but today, I decided to play one. Camera around my neck, backpack slung low, and an excuse to lose myself in parts of the city I’d never bothered to explore.

But the game shifted the second I saw him.

The operator sat at the helm, one gloved hand gripping the polished brass lever with the kind of easy confidence that made my breath hitch.

He looked like he belonged on the cover of some gritty noir novel—dark, sharp eyes focused on the tracks ahead, a strong jaw dusted with the faintest trace of stubble, and full lips set in a line that said he didn’t smile often, but when he did…

His skin was a warm bronze, catching the late afternoon sun filtering through the window. His hair, short, black curls faded perfectly on the sides, peeked out from under his cap. A faint scar curved across one brow, giving his face an edge, but it didn’t dull his beauty; it sharpened it.

The way his uniform fit him wasn’t helping either. The navy blue button-up stretched slightly across his chest, and the sleeves were rolled up just enough to expose his forearms—lean, strong, and traced with faint veins that hinted at both strength and control.

I told myself to keep walking, just sit and stop staring like some love-struck idiot. But when his eyes flicked up to meet mine in the rearview mirror, a slow smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.

I dropped into a seat near the front, half chub.

I couldn’t stop sneaking glances at him for the next twenty minutes. Every time the streetcar hit a bump, his body shifted with an effortless control that had me gripping the metal pole next to me a little tighter. His gloved hands worked the controls with smooth precision, and every now and then, I’d catch his gaze in the mirror again.

It was like he was daring me to keep watching.

The streetcar rattled its way down Market Street, and I was more aware of him than anything outside the windows. He was all confidence and swagger, with a face carved by some higher power that had very specific plans in mind.

When my stop approached, my stomach tightened. I stood, clutching the strap of my backpack, trying to suppress the nerves fluttering in my chest.

I paused near the front, his presence pulling me in like gravity.

“Uh… thanks, oper—operator,” I said, my voice coming out a little breathless.

He turned slightly, his dark eyes locking onto mine directly this time. Up close, I could see faint flecks of gold catching in them, the late afternoon sunlight streaming through the window, making them almost glow.

“Anytime, handsome,” he said, his voice low and gravelly.

My knees felt like they might buckle.

Before I could stumble out onto the street, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a slip of paper, and scribbled something down. His gloved fingers slid it across the ledge, slow and deliberate.

“Name’s Hawk,” he said, his lips curving into a smirk that felt like a promise. “Don’t leave me waiting too long.”

I took the paper, my fingertips grazing the leather of his glove. His warmth lingered as I stepped off the streetcar and onto solid ground, my head spinning.

Once I was clear of the platform, I unfolded the slip. A phone number, underlined twice, stared back at me.

I exhaled shakily, tucking the paper carefully into my pocket.

I was hunted. And if Hawk was looking to catch me, I wasn’t about to make him chase too hard.

Later That Evening…

I stared at my phone for longer than I’d like to admit before I finally texted.

Me: Hey, it’s Gage. From the F-line today.

I hit send before I could overthink it. The three dots appeared almost immediately, then disappeared. I groaned, flopping back onto my couch.

Ten minutes passed. Then thirty. Then, an hour.

And then—ping.

Hawk: U’re hot AF.

I blinked at the screen, heat rushing straight to my dick… rock hard.

Hawk: Free tonight?

My heart stuttered in my chest as I typed back.

Me: Yeah.

Almost instantly:

Hawk: That’s what’s up. U into 3somes?

I swallowed hard, my thumbs hovering over the keyboard as I processed. The directness shouldn’t have surprised me—not with the way he looked at me on that streetcar.

Me: Depends. Who’s the third?

He didn’t reply right away, but when he did, I could practically hear his voice in my head.

Hawk: You’ll like him. He’s hot. A direct copy of me. 😉

My breath hitched. Twins! Fuck ya.

Hawk: Come through.

The address popped up a second later.

I sat there for a moment, staring at the screen, my pulse thrumming in my ears. I grabbed my Hawket, stuffed my phone in my pocket, and headed out the door.

The hallway smelled like old wood polish and secrets. I stood in front of Hawk’s apartment door, heart drumming a ridiculous rhythm against my ribs. My knuckles hovered, then dropped. Fuck it—I knocked.

It opened before I could second-guess myself.

Hawk stood there, barefoot in low-slung sweats and a tank that looked like it was made to be ripped off. His curls were damp, like he’d just stepped out of the shower, and the scent of something warm—Irish Spring and clean skin—drifted out the doorway and hit me right in the chest.

“Gage,” he said, lips tugging into a slow, crooked smile. “Get in here.”

I stepped inside. The place was small but neat—exposed brick, a beat-up leather couch, and a faint hum of jazz playing low from a speaker. The lights were dim, almost golden. Intimate.

He shut the door behind me, and the click of the lock echoed loud enough to feel like a turning point.

“You nervous?” he asked, eyeing me with that same lazy confidence from the streetcar. The kind that said he already knew the answer but liked watching me squirm anyway.

“Little bit,” I admitted.

He stepped closer. “Good.”

His hand brushed against my cheek, thumb grazing the corner of my mouth like he was checking to see if I was real. I didn’t move.

“Stone’s not here yet,” he murmured.

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

“Means I got you to myself for a few.”

He leaned in, so close I could feel the heat of his body. “You want a drink?”

“Sure.”

He moved past me, the brush of his arm across my chest making me shiver in the best way. I watched him pad into the tiny kitchen area, open a bottle, and pour. No labels, just dark liquor and the promise of a night that might fuck me up—in all the right ways.

When he handed me the glass, our fingers touched, and I swear it was electric. I took a sip, wincing a little. Smooth burn. Strong.

“Let me guess,” he said, sitting on the edge of the couch, legs spread wide, drink in hand. “You’ve never done anything like this before.”

I stood there, unsure what to do with my hands. “You mean, like… twins?”

He chuckled low. “I mean being the center of attention.”

I swallowed, throat tight. “No. I haven’t.”

“Thought so.” He took a slow sip, licking the drop from his bottom lip like it was for me. “But you thought about it.”

Read more

Subscribe now

Coming your way:

♊ Split Open by the Twins – One man. Two brothers. No rules.
🚨 Code Red: Ravaged in Room 407 – Hospitals are for healing... or getting wrecked.
🍆 Owned by My Best Friend’s Stepdad – Used by Him. Shared with His Stepson.

Stay tuned. Stay hard. Happy Pride.