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.”

She stepped closer until the heat of his body brushed her bare arms. “Maybe I did.”

Marcus laughed under his breath, a deep sound that vibrated in her chest. He reached past her for the cooler on the porch rail, his arm nearly grazing her breast. Ice water dripped down the bottle; he twisted the cap and drank deep, throat working, a rivulet of water sliding over his collarbone and down between his pecs. Emily watched it disappear and felt her pussy clench, already slick.

“Thirsty?” he offered, holding the bottle out.

She took it, put her mouth where his had been, and drank. Cold water, the faint taste of him. When she lowered it, a drop ran down her chin. Marcus tracked it with his eyes like he wanted to lick it off.

“Cabin’s pretty much ready,” he said. “I was gonna head out, give you the place. Unless…”

“Unless what?”

He shrugged one massive shoulder. The motion made his chest flex. “Unless you want company for a bit. Been a long time since we just… talked.”

Talked. Right. The air between them felt charged, heavy, the kind of quiet that happens right before clothes come off. Emily set the bottle down and leaned against the porch post, arching just enough that her tank rode up and showed a strip of pale stomach.

“I remember how we used to talk,” she said. “Late nights in the library. You’d stretch those long legs under the table and I’d forget every fucking word I was supposed to be studying.”

Marcus stepped in. Not touching yet, but close enough that she could see the sweat beading on his upper lip and the dark points of his nipples. “I remember you crossing those legs so tight I thought you’d snap. Wondered what you were hiding under those little skirts.”

“Same thing I’m hiding now.” She let her gaze drop deliberately to the heavy bulge in his jeans. “You ever think about it? After I got married?”

“Every goddamn time I jerked off.” No shame in it. Just heat. “Pictured that pretty white pussy stretched around my cock. Wondered if you’d scream or just moan like you used to when you were trying not to get caught.”

Emily’s breath hitched. Her clit pulsed hard enough to make her shift her weight. “Jesus, Marcus.”