My Black Friend's Cabin

Emily’s Prius crunched up the gravel drive as the late afternoon sun filtered through the pines, turning everything gold and dirty. The cabin sat alone at the end of the rutted road—rough-hewn logs, a wide porch, windows that looked like they had watched a hundred storms. She killed the engine and sat for a second with her hands on the wheel, feeling the leftover heat of the drive and the newer, sharper heat between her legs. Twenty-two, freshly divorced, and already sick of being careful. Marcus had texted that the place was hers for the weekend. He hadn’t mentioned he’d still be here.

She stepped out. Cool mountain air slid under her thin white tank top and made her nipples tighten instantly. Cutoff shorts rode high on her thighs; she hadn’t bothered with a bra. The divorce papers were signed, the ex was someone else’s problem, and she wanted to feel filthy for once instead of polite.

Then she saw him.

Marcus was on the porch roof, one boot braced on the gutter, shirtless, the late light glazing the heavy slabs of his chest and the hard ridges of his stomach. Sweat ran in slow tracks down the deep brown of his skin, catching in the dense trail of hair that disappeared into the low waistband of his jeans. His arms flexed as he drove a nail home—thick biceps, veins standing out, shoulders broad enough to block the sun. College had been years of stolen looks across lecture halls and late-night study sessions where the air got thick and neither of them moved. He’d been the one guy she never let herself touch. Now he was right here, glistening, and alone with her for miles.

He straightened, wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist, and looked down. A slow, lazy grin spread across his face.

“Damn, Em. You made it.”

His voice was low, rough from the work, and it went straight to her cunt.

“You didn’t say you’d still be here,” she called up, shading her eyes, letting him see the way the tank clung to her tits.

“Place needed fixing. Figured I’d get it done before you rolled in.” He swung down the ladder with easy power, boots thudding on the porch boards. Up close he was taller than she remembered—six-four at least—and the heat coming off him smelled like clean sweat, sawdust, and something darker. His jeans hung low enough that she could see the cut of muscle above his hips and the thick outline pressed against the denim. Not soft. Not even a little.

Emily’s mouth went dry. “Looks like hard work.”

“Gets a man hot.” His eyes dropped openly—mouth, throat, the hard points of her nipples under white cotton, the short fringe of her shorts. “You look like you came ready to get dirty.”