"Now,” Martin said, the word hanging in the cold air, a bridge between what had happened and everything that could be. Nick’s body was still thrumming with the aftershocks of his release, a deep, liquid warmth making his limbs heavy. But his mind was sharp, clear, and filled with a boldness he hadn’t felt in years. The sight of Martin licking his fingers clean had ignited something new—not just passive acceptance, but a hungry, driving need to take in return.
He didn’t wait for Martin to finish his thought. Still breathing hard, Nick reached out. His hands, which had felt so clumsy on his own buckle just minutes ago, were steady now. He grabbed the front of Martin’s fleece jacket, his fingers curling into the soft fabric. “My turn,” Nick said, his voice rough, but his eyes holding Martin’s with a new, unshakable certainty.
A flicker of surprise, then pure, molten delight flashed in Martin’s eyes. He didn’t resist as Nick pushed him back, just enough to create space between them. The firelight played over the older man’s face, highlighting the pleased curve of his mouth. “By all means,” Martin murmured, his voice a low, encouraging rumble. He spread his hands, palms up, in a gesture of total surrender. “I’m all yours.”
The permission was all Nick needed. His focus narrowed to the physical reality before him: the sturdy zipper of Martin’s jacket. He tugged it down, the sound loud in the quiet clearing. He pushed the fleece off Martin’s shoulders, revealing a worn, thin thermal shirt stretched over a chest that was still broad and solid. Nick could feel the heat radiating from him. He let his hands glide down Martin’s arms, feeling the defined muscle beneath the fabric, the light dusting of hair on his forearms. This is real. He’s real.
He hooked his fingers under the hem of the thermal shirt. “Arms up,” Nick commanded, echoing Martin’s earlier confidence. Martin complied, a soft chuckle escaping him as Nick pulled the shirt up and over his head, mussing his silver-streaked hair. The cool air hit Martin’s torso, and Nick heard the sharp intake of breath. He wasn’t the only one affected by the exposure.
For a moment, Nick just looked. Martin’s chest was a map of a life lived outdoors—sun-weathered skin, a scattering of silver hair, a few old, pale scars. He was lean, but powerfully built, the kind of strength that came from use, not from a gym. Nick’s throat tightened. He’s beautiful. The thought was simple, pure, and it propelled him forward.
He leaned in, closing the scant distance between them. He didn’t start with his hands. He started with his mouth. He pressed his lips to the center of Martin’s chest, right over his sternum. The skin was warm, slightly salty from the day’s hike. He felt the strong, steady beat of Martin’s heart against his mouth. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. A rhythm of life, of desire, just for him.
Martin’s breath hitched. A low, approving hum vibrated in his chest, right under Nick’s lips. Encouraged, Nick began to explore. He kissed a slow, meandering path downward, tracing the defined lines of Martin’s abdomen. His tongue flicked out to taste the skin, to trace the trail of fine hair that led from his navel down into the waistband of his hiking pants. He used his lips, his teeth—gentle nips that made Martin’s stomach muscles jump and clench. Nick’s hands roamed, learning the landscape. He palmed the hard planes of Martin’s pecs, his thumbs brushing over the small, tight nipples. He felt them pebble instantly under his touch.
“Christ, Nick,” Martin breathed out, his voice strained. One of his hands came up to tangle in Nick’s hair, not guiding, just holding on, anchoring himself as Nick’s mouth worked lower.
Nick’s fingers found the button of Martin’s pants. His own arousal, which had settled into a warm glow, was roaring back to life, a hard, urgent pressure against his own zipper. He made quick work of the fastenings, his movements sure now. He pushed the rough fabric down over Martin’s hips, taking his boxer-briefs with them in one motion.
Martin sprang free, thick and fully erect, the head flushed a deep, ruddy color in the firelight. Nick’s mouth watered. He wrapped his hand around the base, marveling at the heat, the silken-smooth skin pulled taut over the iron-hard shaft. He gave a slow, experimental stroke, and Martin’s hips bucked forward involuntarily, a low groan tearing from his throat.
“Look at you,” Nick whispered, his own voice thick with awe and lust. He leaned down, his breath ghosting over the sensitive tip. He didn’t take him in his mouth yet. Instead, he pressed his face into the coarse thatch of hair at the base, inhaling deeply. The scent was musky, primal, uniquely Martin—a mix of clean sweat, pine, and pure, unadulterated male. It went straight to Nick’s head, dizzying, intoxicating.
He kissed the length of him, from root to tip, a slow, worshipful journey with his lips. He laved the underside with his tongue, tracing the prominent vein. He circled the swollen head, tasting the single, salty bead of pre-cum that had gathered there. Martin’s grip in his hair tightened, his whole body tensing like a bowstring.
“Please,” Martin gasped, the word ragged, stripped of all its usual confidence. “Nick, please.”
The plea was all the invitation Nick needed. He opened his mouth and took Martin in, sinking down as far as he could. The feeling was sublime. The heavy weight on his tongue, the stretch of his lips, the faint, musky taste. He hollowed his cheeks and began to move, establishing a slow, deep rhythm. One of his hands cradled Martin’s balls, rolling the tight sac gently in his palm. The other reached up, his fingers splaying over Martin’s pounding heart.
Martin was unraveling above him. His breaths were sharp, staccato pants. Whispered curses and Nick’s name fell from his lips in a broken litany. His hips began to move in tiny, helpless thrusts, meeting the rhythm of Nick’s mouth. Nick could feel the tension coiling in the older man’s body, the trembling in his thighs, the way his abdominal muscles jumped and quivered under Nick’s roaming hand.
Nick lost himself in the act. In the sounds, the smells, the incredible, intimate feel of giving this pleasure. He varied his pace, sucking hard on the upstroke, swirling his tongue around the sensitive head, then plunging deep again. He loved the way Martin’s control was shattering, piece by piece, under the ministrations of his mouth and hands. It was a power he’d never known he wanted, and now that he had it, it was utterly intoxicating.
He felt the telltale twitch, the sudden, iron-hard rigidity. Martin’s warning was a guttural cry. “Nick… I’m gonna… Fuck!”
Nick didn’t pull away. He pushed forward, taking Martin even deeper, his throat working. He wanted it all. He wanted to feel every pulse, every shudder, to swallow the physical proof of the pleasure he was giving. The first hot, salty burst hit the back of his throat, and he moaned around Martin’s length, the vibration wringing another ragged cry from the man above him. Martin came in deep, pulsing waves, his body bowing, his hand clutching Nick’s head as he spilled himself completely.
Nick swallowed, taking his time, gently milking Martin through the last tremors until he was spent and softening in his mouth. Only then did he slowly pull off, pressing a final, tender kiss to the slick head. He looked up, his lips swollen, his chin wet.
Martin was a vision. His eyes were glazed, his chest heaving. He looked utterly wrecked, completely claimed. He stared down at Nick, his expression one of stunned, profound wonder. He slowly slid down to his knees in the dirt, bringing them face to face. His hands came up to cradle Nick’s face, his thumbs wiping gently at the moisture on his chin.
“You…” Martin began, his voice wrecked. He shook his head, a slow, amazed smile spreading across his face. He leaned in, his forehead resting against Nick’s. “You incredible man.” He kissed him then, deep and slow and searching, tasting himself on Nick’s tongue. The kiss was a seal, a promise, a new beginning forged in shared fire.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing heavily, the world outside their circle of firelight seemed to have faded away. Martin’s eyes, dark and intense, held Nick’s. “The tent’s right there,” he said, his voice still rough. “It’s warmer. And we have all night.
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