It was Monday afternoon, the kind of early summer day where the sky stretched wide and endless and the air was thick with the scent of pine and honeysuckle. Jack rolled into town in his old pickup, the bed full of custom cedar chairs he’d carved that weekend. Sweat clung to his skin beneath his sleeveless flannel—unbuttoned and wide open—and every inch of him looked sun-warmed and dangerous.
He pulled up behind Main & Market, the town’s general store and community hub. Locals milled in and out, and as soon as Jack stepped through the back entrance, a few heads turned. He had that effect. It wasn’t just the muscles, or the beard, or the smell of woodsmoke and sweat. It was the way he carried himself—slow, deliberate, as if he had all the time in the world and no one else mattered until he said they did.
“Jack Johnson,” came a voice like silk and bourbon. “God, you are trouble every time you walk through that door.”
Jack turned with a grin. Shelly Monroe, the store’s manager, was standing at the counter with one hand on her hip and a knowing look in her eyes. Mid-40s, thick in all the right places, with curves that didn’t quit and an attitude to match. Her dark red lipstick matched her nails, and her pencil skirt hugged her ass like a second skin.
“I’m just here to drop off the chairs you ordered,” Jack said, voice low and teasing.
She looked him up and down, unabashed. “You’re a walking distraction. How’s a woman supposed to do her job with that body coming in once a week?”
Jack leaned on the counter, forearms flexed, that smirk playing across his lips. “Maybe you need a break from the job.”
Shelly raised a brow, leaning in so her chest brushed lightly against his. “And what would you do with me on that break, Jack?”
“I’d bend you over that counter,” he whispered, “lift that skirt, and make you forget how to spell your name.”
Shelly’s breath caught. Her eyes darkened.
“Jesus, Jack. You’re filthy.”
He leaned in closer, lips grazing her ear. “You love it.”
She didn’t deny it. But just then, the bell above the front door jingled, and a voice called out: “Hey, uh, I’m supposed to check in with the manager?”
Shelly groaned. “Saved by the bell.”
Jack chuckled and stepped back as Shelly smoothed her skirt and rounded the counter. “Coming!” she called, voice suddenly chipper.
That’s when Jack saw him.
Tall. Slender. Early twenties, maybe. A hint of softness still on his face, but with strong arms and sun-kissed skin. Wavy brown hair, deep hazel eyes. Nervous energy surrounded him—fresh, eager, unsure of himself. He wore a faded T-shirt that clung to a lean torso, and his shorts did nothing to hide the generous bulge pressing forward just enough to catch Jack’s eye.
“Name’s Evan,” the kid said. “I’m the new guy from the university. Here for the summer—working the farmer’s market and some shifts inside.”
Shelly gave him the rundown, but Jack wasn’t listening. Not really. His gaze stayed fixed on Evan. Curious. Predatory. Interested.
Evan noticed. His eyes flicked to Jack and then away. Then back. And then again.
Jack let the silence stretch. He liked watching someone squirm just a little.
“Evan, this is Jack Johnson,” Shelly said. “He makes furniture, chops wood, smells like sin, and flirts with anything that breathes.”
Evan gave a shy smile. “Hi.”
Jack extended a hand—big, rough, warm. “You settling in okay?”
Evan took it. Held it a second longer than necessary. “Yeah. Just getting started.”
Jack didn’t let go immediately. “Good. You ever work with your hands?”
Evan flushed. “Uh… not like you do.”
Jack’s smirk deepened. “You ever want to learn, I could show you. I’ve got a few big tools you might like to get your hands on.”
Shelly rolled her eyes. “He’s shameless.”
Evan just swallowed and nodded, lips parted slightly. “Might take you up on that.”
Three days later, Evan did.
It was Thursday evening when Jack heard a knock at the cabin door. He’d just finished sanding a thick oak bench shirtless, covered in a fine layer of sawdust, his jeans riding low on his hips. He opened the door to find Evan standing there, holding a six-pack, and looking slightly winded.
“Hey,” Evan said. “Hope I’m not… interrupting anything.”
Jack leaned against the doorframe, bare chest on full display, body heat radiating like a furnace. “Not unless you count the bench I was working on. You here for lessons?”
Evan nodded. “I figured you weren’t kidding.”
Jack stepped aside. “Come in, then.”
Inside, Jack handed him a beer and led him to the workshop out back. The sun was low now, casting long shadows and warm light across the sawdust-covered floor.
“You ever use a drawknife?” Jack asked.
Evan shook his head.
Jack moved behind him, placing the tool in Evan’s hands, wrapping his own big hands around Evan’s to guide him.
“Like this,” he murmured in his ear, their bodies pressed close. “Pull it toward you. Slow. Controlled.”
Evan nodded, lips parted, chest rising and falling faster than normal.
“You smell amazing,” Evan whispered without thinking.
Jack chuckled. “Sweat and cedar. You’ll get used to it.”
Evan turned, heart pounding. “What if I already like it?”
Jack’s hands slid to Evan’s waist, tugging him close. “Then maybe you’re ready for a different kind of lesson.”
And with that, he kissed him.
Evan melted into it—soft at first, then hungrier. Jack’s hands roamed his back, gripping, pulling, dominating. He picked Evan up effortlessly and carried him inside, lips never breaking contact.
Clothes came off fast. Evan’s body was lithe and firm, eager, trembling slightly with anticipation. Jack laid him down on the big couch, looming over him, eyes dark with hunger.
“You sure?” Jack asked, voice gravel.
Evan nodded. “I’ve never… but I want to. With you.”
Jack kissed his neck, chest, hips. Took his time. Worshipped every inch.
Then he slicked his cock with spit and lube, lined up, and began to ease inside—inch by inch, whispering praise and filthy promises in Evan’s ear.
Evan gasped, fingers clutching Jack’s back. “Oh my god… fuck…”
Jack held him, kissed him, fucked him slowly at first, then harder as Evan adjusted, begging for more. By the time Jack filled him, Evan was a writhing mess, moaning Jack’s name, eyes glazed with pleasure.
They didn’t stop.
Not that night. Not the next morning.
Evan stayed the weekend. Jack taught him how to swing an axe. How to make coffee over the fire. How to take a cock like a man. And how to beg for it, too.
By the time Evan returned to town on Monday, he walked with a slight limp, his cheeks pink and his lips bitten raw from kisses that didn’t end.
And Jack?
Jack just smirked as he watched him go, shirtless, arms crossed, already thinking about the next time.
The forest was quiet again.
But Jack knew it wouldn’t be for long.
Jack’s Page
