I keep my hands at ten and two, even though the last stretch of highway has dissolved into nothing but pockmarked gravel. My SUV grinds up the incline, transmission whining in time with my pulse, each pothole a tight punch to the steering column. The forest closes in as if the pines are leaning, ganging up in long lines to stare me down. In the coppered dusk, everything looks on the verge of combustion.
The dashboard clock ticks over to 7:34 and I let out a breath, checking my phone again for a signal. Nothing but the hanged-man symbol, a single lifeless bar. I set it back in the cup holder with a touch more force than necessary and drag the back of my hand across my mouth, rehearsing, for the tenth time, a perfectly casual way to say, “Hey guys, I’ve got to cut out early tomorrow. Something’s come up.”
Not a lie if I make it true.
Fifteen minutes ago, I was two hours early. Now, I am fifteen minutes late. Typical. The others will have already started. I picture the five of them—Damien, Noah, Owen, Gabe, and that new guy, Julian—raising mismatched glasses, making up stories about the last bachelor party one of us threw. A spike of something (resentment? envy?) pulses through my chest and I scold it down with a practiced internal voice. These are my friends, at least nominally. I can pretend for a weekend.
I overshoot the driveway and have to reverse, the tires shrieking in the packed dirt. The cabin, when it emerges, looks like a fallen log halfway through the process of turning into a mausoleum: low-slung roof, massive stone hearth, the kind of windows that bleed candlelight but reveal nothing inside. The air is cold even for late April; the tree line is still deep with snow, and the porch is draped in a soft litter of pine needles, like confetti after a failed celebration.
I kill the engine and wait for a full minute, considering. The forest settles around me, so silent I can hear the brittle whine of my own teeth grinding. I smooth down my beard, run a palm over the close-cropped haircut, double-check the button-down I changed into at a gas station restroom. I could stay in the car all night and no one would know until morning. Instead, I haul my duffel out of the back and march up the steps.
The door bursts open before I can even knock, and Damien’s silhouette fills the frame. He’s broader than I remember, his athletic build resculpted since college into something that would look at home in a survivalist magazine. His hair is artfully tousled; the silver at his temples is even more pronounced in the golden porch light. He grins like he’s just won a prize at a county fair.
“The man of the hour finally arrives!” he booms, clapping me hard enough on the shoulder that my teeth knock together. “Jesus, Caleb, you got lost or what?”
The warmth in his tone is real, but there’s an undercurrent—maybe just my own nerves—of something rehearsed. “Had to double back. Almost missed the turn. GPS cut out miles ago,” I say, squeezing past him into a riot of noise and woodsmoke.
The inside is both exactly and not at all what I expect: walls of honeyed cedar, floor-to-ceiling windows pouring in the last of the dusk. A fire gorges itself in the stone hearth, and there’s a bar—Jesus Christ, a literal bar—crafted out of a single slab of burled maple. Bottles line the back in neat, almost military formation, an arsenal of temptation. Damien steers me toward the living room, where the others are already arrayed in various poses of relaxation.
Noah sits cross-legged on the couch, hoodie zipped to the chin, hands folded over his knees in the manner of someone trying to shrink himself. His face lights up when he sees me, a softening at the edges of his dark eyes. “Hey, Caleb,” he says. “Glad you made it up. You want a drink? Or just need a minute to decompress?”
Owen is perched on an armchair, a hardcover novel splayed out on his thigh like a dead bird. He’s taller than I remember, his brown hair an intentional chaos, his glasses fogging from the temperature difference. He offers a brief, businesslike handshake. “Welcome to paradise,” he says. “They say it gets even quieter after dark. So, uh, brace yourself.”
Gabe—who I met exactly once at a barbecue and had pegged as a Midwestern golden boy—barrels up from the kitchen, arms open and already beery. He’s all wide shoulders and tattooed forearms, his t-shirt two sizes too small in the way that only confidence can justify. “Moore!” he shouts, and before I can brace, he’s pulling me into a hug that smells like hops and pine sap. I feel a cold slosh against my ribs and pull back to see a slick of IPA running down both our shirts.
“Shit, sorry, man!” Gabe says, but he’s laughing, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Guess that’s what I get for pre-gaming. Here, let me grab you a towel.”
I stand there for a moment, clutching my duffel, feeling the splotch grow against my chest. Damien sweeps in and plucks the bag from my hand. “I’ll toss this in your room. Take a seat, get comfortable. We’re just about to start the first round.”
The room pulses with something—energy, intent, a current that feels engineered. I perch on the edge of the couch, accepting a towel from Gabe, trying not to catch Damien’s eye. The bar glares at me from across the room, all polished wood and dark promise.
Noah settles next to me, his voice pitched low for privacy. “If you’re not up for drinking games, don’t sweat it. Some of us are taking it easy.”
I nod, grateful, but don’t commit. I wipe at my shirt, hands trembling just enough to notice. “Thanks,” I say, and mean it. “Long week.”
Damien returns, spreading his arms like a showman. “Okay, gents. The weekend begins now. I hope you all brought your appetites, because I have a schedule.” He brandishes a color-coded printout, waving it above his head.
“Wait, we have an agenda?” Owen deadpans.
Damien winks. “This is a bachelor party, not a hostage situation. But I know how you guys get if left to your own devices—half of you would be asleep by ten.” He ticks items off on his fingers: “Dinner, drinks, a few classic party games. Maybe some friendly wagers, if anyone’s feeling competitive. No strippers, no drugs, nothing you can’t tell your future wife about in a wedding speech.”
He says the last part while holding my gaze, his smile as fixed and gleaming as a weapon.
I clear my throat. “Just alcohol, right? That was the deal.”
Damien lays a hand over his heart. “Scout’s honor, Caleb. I want this to be memorable for all the right reasons. Everything’s under control.”
The room seems to exhale in relief, but I catch the flicker of something else in Damien’s eyes. He glances at the other groomsmen—Noah, then Owen, then Gabe, then Julian—who each give a subtle, almost imperceptible nod. I look away, pretending not to see.
Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m reading too much into a weekend meant to be the last hurrah before domestic tranquility.
But as I watch Damien pour a round of drinks, precise and practiced, I can’t shake the sense that I am both guest of honor and sacrificial lamb.
It’s going to be a long, interesting night.
By the time the sun dies behind the ridge, the living room has turned into a theater of shadow and light. The fire throws up columns of heat that warp the air; every so often, a gust finds the chimney and sends a flurry of sparks racing upward like panicked fireflies. The pines outside are pitch-black, the world reduced to the circle of faces and flicker of glassware. There is a centrifugal force here, as if the entire group is being drawn into the hearth, or into each other.
Damien presides at the bar, decanting whiskey into crystal tumblers with the precision of a pharmacist. “First rule of the weekend,” he announces, “no measuring. Just pour and keep up.” The bottle is some cult label I’ve never heard of, gold label gleaming. I watch as the liquor sloshes against the cut glass, viscous and slow, as if it’s trying to resist gravity.
He hands me the first glass, his thumb brushing my wrist with deliberate slowness. The cold is instantly replaced by a bloom of heat.
“To the groom,” he says. “And to the death of boring Saturday nights.”
The others raise their glasses, and I do the same, but only graze my lips with the rim. The aroma hits harder than any sip would—a rush of spice, sweet, chemical burn. I hold the glass at knee level, tapping it nervously with my fingernail.
Gabe is already two drinks ahead. He sets up shop in the armchair closest to the fire, legs splayed in a wide V, gesturing grandly with his glass as he recounts a story about a bachelor party in Vegas. “We were up all night, man, and I swear, by the end, none of us remembered who the actual groom was. They had to check IDs at the chapel.” He laughs, big and raucous, and the others join in—except Owen, who looks mildly panicked at the idea of losing his identity in a city where every building is a casino.
Owen adjusts his glasses and leans forward, elbows on knees. “So, um, tell us about Emma,” he says, all sincere interest. “How did you guys meet again? Was it really in a library?”
“Not just any library,” Noah chimes in, voice soft but carrying. “The university one, right? He was in the philosophy section and she was—”
“Poetry,” I say, and the memory floats up, bittersweet and unsteady. “She was hunting for some translation of Neruda. I got her the wrong one and she spent twenty minutes explaining the difference.”
Noah smiles, his face gentle in the firelight. “That’s classic Emma. Makes sense you’d fall for a woman who corrects you.”
“Not that he’d ever admit it,” Damien says, laughing. “Caleb here is a master of being wrong with confidence.”
I let the group laughter roll over me, feeling the edges of my irritation soften. I take a tentative sip from my glass and am surprised by the subtlety—smoke, oak, and an aftertaste that reminds me of burnt orange peel. I loosen my grip on the armrest. The tension in my shoulders drains a fraction.
The night deepens, and so does the conversation. Gabe takes every lull as an opportunity for more outlandish stories—beer pong tournaments with real cash stakes, strip poker with Vegas dealers, near-arrests in a foreign city (“But technically, I wasn’t naked. I had socks on”). He never mentions women directly, always skirting the specifics, the punchlines left purposely incomplete.
When I press for details, it’s always Damien who redirects. “Those were different crowds, different rules,” he says. “This weekend is all about you, man. Clean fun. Well, mostly clean.”
His gaze lingers an instant too long, but I’m already on my second drink and the burn is smoothing the sharpness in everything. The fire, the conversation, even the sound of the wind clawing at the windows—it all blurs into a single, insular world where nothing outside can reach us.
Noah is the only one who doesn’t seem to be drinking with intent. He nurses a single whiskey and refills everyone else’s glasses with an efficiency that suggests avoidance rather than hospitality. At one point, he leans over and murmurs, “You okay? If it gets to be too much, just say so. Seriously.”
I nod, surprised by the tightness in my throat. “I’m fine. Thanks, though.”
He gives my arm a brief, reassuring squeeze, then withdraws, folding himself even smaller into the corner of the couch.
Owen, loosened by the whiskey, starts listing marriage statistics. “Did you know,” he says, “that people who have elaborate weddings are more likely to get divorced? It’s true. There’s a study.” He laughs awkwardly. “Sorry. That’s not—uh—relevant. I just read a lot.”
“Speak for yourself, buddy,” Gabe says, grinning. “I give it five years, tops.”
He means it as a joke, but for a moment the air crystallizes. Then Damien laughs, smooth and musical, and everyone else follows, the tension dissolving into a warm slurry of sound.
I’m not sure when it happens, but at some point, I stop feeling like an observer and start acting like a participant. My back slides against the couch, my knees splay out, my laughter comes easier and louder. I don’t even notice the first time I top off my own glass. The walls of the cabin close in, not in a suffocating way, but like a blanket or a womb.
By midnight, I have lost count of the rounds. Gabe is telling the same story for the third time, and nobody seems to care. Owen is half asleep, his head tipped back and mouth open. Noah is still sipping the same drink, eyes darting between the fire and the group, like a lifeguard waiting for the first signs of trouble.
Damien sits next to me, a little too close, his thigh pressed to mine. He raises his glass and says, “A toast.”
The others rouse themselves, glasses up.
“To new friends, and unforgettable experiences,” Damien intones. “May we make memories that never make it past these four walls.”
The phrase is so perfectly rehearsed that it chills me, but I’m too far gone to do more than clink my glass with the others and take a long, burning swallow.
Damien’s eyes hold mine for a beat, the firelight painting sharp shadows across his face. There’s something in his expression I can’t quite name—satisfaction, hunger, a secret I’m not yet privy to.
I laugh and raise my glass again. “To the death of boring Saturday nights,” I say, and this time, I almost mean it.
Damien drinks, lips curling into a smile that says: You have no idea what’s coming.
I don’t, but for the first time tonight, I think maybe that’s okay.
The night outside is cold enough to crack stone, but nobody seems to care. By now, our collective body heat is a force field; we spill onto the deck in t-shirts, the hem of my borrowed hoodie sticking to my lower back with sweat and spilled whiskey. Above, the sky is so clear it looks peeled—every star a needlepoint on a scrap of velvet.
There’s a hush out here, but it’s not silent. The wind combs through the trees, carrying secrets from slope to slope. Out on the rail, Owen and Gabe are debating the merits of different grilling techniques, their voices a low, companionable rumble. Noah sits cross-legged on the deck; a bottle of bourbon cradled in his lap. Damien leans in the doorway, a shadow bisecting his face, watching us all like a pleased host surveying his collection.
I rest my forearms on the deck rail, breathing in the resinous bite of pine and woodsmoke. The bourbon goes down smoother than I expect, and this time I don’t hesitate. I’m comfortably, pleasantly buzzed; the unease that gnawed at me all evening is gone, replaced by a loose and easy warmth.
“Never thought I’d enjoy this,” I say, voice half a step softer than normal. “I’m not really… a party guy.”
Gabe swings an arm over my shoulders, nearly knocking the glass from my hand. “That’s ‘cause it’s not about the party,” he says, grinning. “Bachelor parties are about brotherhood, dude. Making memories. Not doing keg stands until you forget your own name.”
“Or,” Noah adds, turning the bottle between his palms, “about finding out who your real friends are. Or just—” his smile is gentle, “letting go of what you think you’re supposed to be, for a weekend.”
Damien snorts, but not unkindly. “Leave it to you guys to make this sentimental. I thought we agreed: what happens at the cabin stays at the cabin.”
Gabe laughs so hard he doubles over, and even Owen cracks a smile. The air is thick with something sweeter than smoke—a feeling of being part of a unit, a team, even if only for these brief, alcohol-soaked hours.
The bottle makes its rounds, growing lighter with each pass. The talk turns to the wedding: last-minute details, whether Emma’s parents will get along with mine, if I’ve written my vows yet. (I lie and say yes. I always say yes, then hate myself for it later.)
Owen, tipsy now, rattles off trivia about marital success rates: “Did you know, second marriages are more likely to last than first ones? Statistically, anyway.” He stares into the trees as if the answer is out there somewhere, waiting to be found.
Gabe raises a fist, mock-triumphant. “So, we’ll do this again in a couple years? Hell yeah.”
The laughter shivers through me, and I don’t bother hiding my smile.
Damien moves beside me at the rail, uncapping a fresh bottle. “Final round before we freeze to death?”
The glasses are refilled, the bourbon biting colder this time. We toast, not to anything in particular, just clinking together in the starlight. I feel a thump on my back—Gabe, again, but this time I don’t flinch. My body has synced to theirs, all of us operating on some unspoken group rhythm.
When the chill finally becomes too much, we drift back inside, trailing the scent of sap and snow. The fire has collapsed to a bed of orange coals. Noah busies himself with putting on a record—Fleetwood Mac, a surprisingly good choice. Gabe slumps onto the couch and immediately starts snoring. Owen retreats to his book, but his head tilts lower and lower until he’s out.
Damien lingers by the door, his silhouette looming as he closes us in. He beckons me with a tilt of his chin, and I follow him out onto the small back porch, away from the group.
The wind is sharper here, scouring the skin, but the bourbon has heat enough for both of us. We stand side by side, the snow crunching under our boots, breath pluming in the moonlight.
“Not bad, right?” Damien asks. There’s something softer in his tone now, almost vulnerable. “You could do worse for a last hurrah.”
I watch my own breath dissipate, thinking how I wish I could bottle this moment and pour it out when I need it.
“I didn’t think it would feel like this,” I admit. “Like we’re all on the same team, just for tonight.”
“That’s the point,” he says. “None of that high school clique bullshit. It’s just us, out here, doing whatever we want.”
He turns, and his face is half in shadow, half gleaming with moonlight. “It gets better tomorrow,” he promises. “By Sunday, you’ll have memories you never want to forget. Even if you do.”
There’s a private joke in his smile, but I don’t press. For once, I let myself just be in the moment.
We raise our glasses, and the silence is comfortable. A new feeling—maybe contentment, maybe just the whiskey—settles behind my ribs, slow and warm.
“To brotherhood,” I say, clinking his glass with mine.
Damien’s eyes glint with something unreadable. “To new experiences,” he echoes.
We drink.
And for the first time in a long time, I feel ready for whatever comes next.
The last night is a study in how quickly the world can turn inside out. It begins with nothing: the shush of bourbon decanted, the soft sighs of the armchairs yielding to our weight, the clink of glasses and a backdrop of wind howling through the eaves. But the cabin’s logs hold the heat, so we sit in T-shirts and thin sweats, ringed around the stone hearth like a makeshift council. Outside, darkness is absolute. Inside, everything is reduced to orange and blue firelight licking the walls, shadows sharpening the features of the men I’ve spent this weekend trying to belong to.
Damien is the gravity. He pours drinks for everyone but keeps his own glass untouched, the amber surface unwavering. He leans on the edge of the bar, forearms flexed, tracking each of us with a gaze that flickers from intent to impassive in half-second intervals. The man knows how to command a room without uttering a word.
“Here’s to Caleb, the soon-to-be-mister,” he says, voice smooth and precise, but the toast feels like a cue rather than a compliment.
There’s a round of cheers, then silence. Not awkward, but dense, as if everyone is waiting for the punchline or the body blow. I stare at the fire and try to keep my pulse under control. I’m no stranger to awkward silences, but this one is different—bigger, deliberate. It feels like standing on the edge of a cliff and not knowing if the wind will push you forward or back.
Owen breaks first. He runs a hand through his hair, glancing at Noah like he’s searching for a life raft. “Anyone want to play another round of Truth or Shot?” His voice is brittle. “Or is that too high school for this crowd?”
Gabe barks a laugh, slapping his knee. “I’m game, but only if you’re ready to spill some secrets, Owe.”
Noah shrugs, eyes on the bottom of his glass. “Could be fun. Only rule is: no lies.”
Damien’s smile is all teeth. “I like that. Let’s up the stakes.”
He folds his arms, shoulders swelling with the motion, and for a moment I see the raw calculation happening behind his eyes. “All right. Truth or Shot. But if you dodge a question twice, you owe us a dare. Something… memorable.”
It’s a challenge, and everyone feels it. Even me. Especially me. I’ve kept every answer this weekend safe, practiced, uncontroversial. The threat of a dare, of being forced out of the safe lane, lands like a pebble in my shoe.
We begin. The first few rounds are playful, almost rehearsed. Owen admits to cheating at bar trivia. Gabe confesses he cried during the finale of The Office. Noah says he once peed his pants in a haunted house. Nothing earth-shattering. But then the circle contracts, and the questions get sharper.
“Damien,” Owen says, voice steadier with the bourbon. “What’s the biggest secret you’ve kept from a friend?”
Damien doesn’t blink. “I once slept with a friend’s girlfriend. She told me after they broke up that he was… less than satisfying. I didn’t tell him. Figured he deserved the fantasy more than the truth.”
A ripple of discomfort moves through the group, but Damien’s face remains serene. “Next.”
Gabe turns to me. “Caleb. If you could fuck one person in this room, who would it be?”
The question is a razor, delivered with a half-drunken smirk, but Gabe’s eyes are locked on mine, hungry for the reaction. I feel every muscle in my body tighten. I can hear the fire, the fizz of resin burning, the way my own breathing slows as the pause stretches.
I could joke. I could dodge. But there’s a rule now.
I look at the five of them, take a sip, and say, “Honestly? I don’t know. Maybe… Julian.”
Damien’s eyebrow twitches, but otherwise the room holds its breath.
“Good answer,” he says, and I hear the charge beneath it.
Truth or shot. Around it goes. The game loosens the last screws from the world; secrets and stories spill out like guts on the linoleum. Eventually, the questions stop being questions, and the dares become a currency.
It’s Owen who draws the double. He hesitates, then says, “Okay. Dare.”
Damien’s grin is carnivorous. “Strip down to nothing and do a lap around the kitchen.”
Owen flushes, but he’s too deep to back out. He peels off his hoodie and T-shirt in a single, practiced move; the undershirt clings to him before he tosses it aside. He stands, wobbles a little, and unbuttons his jeans. He doesn’t look at anyone as he shimmies out of his boxers, but I see the way Noah’s eyes widen, the way Gabe leans forward. Owen’s body is all pale angles and nervous hair; he does a shuffling run past the bar and back, tripping once and catching himself on the counter, cock swinging.
He slides back into the armchair, red to his roots, and refuses to look up.
“Nice work,” Gabe says, clapping.
But the air is different now. The game isn’t about embarrassment, it’s about escalation.
Julian is next. He draws a dare, and Damien says: “Your turn. Lose the clothes.”
Julian stands, elegant and composed, as if he’s modeling for a life drawing class. He unbuttons his shirt with almost surgical precision, revealing a chest like carved marble, the muscles defined but not overdone. He shrugs the fabric off his shoulders and drops it onto the back of the couch, then undoes his belt and lets the pants fall to his ankles. He’s wearing nothing underneath.
Noah whistles, low. “Well, fuck.”
Julian bows, then sits back down, hands resting on his knees, utterly unashamed.
The circle tightens. Gabe sheds his clothes without being prompted, just to keep pace. His body is heavy with muscle, tattoos running the length of both arms and down one flank, the ink dark against his pale skin. He does a spin, flashing the room, then returns to his seat, grinning.
Noah watches the undressing like a slow-motion car crash. He is next in line. He looks at me—no, through me—and says, “Fine.” He undresses methodically, folding his clothes into a neat stack on the coffee table. His body is softer than the others, with a spray of dark hair down his chest and thighs, a band of tan line at his hips. He sits naked, spine straight, hands on his knees like he’s meditating.
Now I am the only one clothed.
The room is suffocating with heat, though the fire is nearly out. My skin itches. I grip the armrests so tight my knuckles ache. I want to look away, but every glance lands on another body, another bare expanse of skin or curl of hair or flash of teeth in a reckless, whiskey-fueled smile.
Damien’s voice is velvet: “You’re up, groom.”
I’m still wearing everything but my socks.
I consider bolting, but there is no out. I could drink, I could joke, I could protest, but in the end all those paths lead back to this chair, to this moment, to the feeling of five naked men watching me from the penumbra of firelight.
I stand. My hands are shaking, but I manage to unbutton my shirt and shrug it off. I hear a collective intake of breath, as if the others are genuinely surprised, I went for it. I take off my T-shirt, revealing my chest, thick with muscle but padded by a layer of winter softness. I turn my back and slip out of my jeans, the zipper loud in the stillness. I hesitate with the boxers, but Julian’s expression—calm, expectant—makes it clear there’s no turning back.
I lower them, stepping out, and sit back down. My skin prickles with cold and adrenaline. For a moment nobody says anything.
Then Gabe breaks the tension with a whoop, and the laughter floods in, messy and relieving.
But now, clothed or not, there’s nowhere to hide. The circle is bare, exposed, ridiculous. All the secrets are out.
Damien walks to the hearth and picks up the poker, stirring the embers back to life. Sparks climb the chimney, filling the room with an orange haze. He turns to us and says, “I think this is how all bachelor parties should end. With nothing left to lose.”
He takes the chair across from me, wide-legged, nothing hidden. “You good, Caleb?”
I nod. My voice fails me, so I just raise my glass in a weak salute.
For a while, the conversation is normal, but the bodies are not. Nobody moves to redress. I try to focus on the faces, not the exposed skin, but it’s impossible. Every shift in the chair, every crossing of legs, every brush of hand to thigh, is a distraction. Is it an invitation? A test? I’m swimming in uncertainty, but the only way out is through.
Noah is the first to break formation. He stands and crosses to the bar, pouring another round. As he walks, his cock bobs freely, and I can’t help but look. So do the others. He turns, catches us, and smirks.
“See something you like?” he says, mock-innocent.
There is a flutter of laughter, but it is different now—charged, electric.
Noah brings the drinks, hands them out. His hand brushes mine. It is hot and dry.
Damien raises his glass. “One more. For the future. For honesty. For… whatever comes next.”
The glasses clink.
After, there is a lull. Nobody moves. The heat is oppressive; sweat beads at the nape of my neck. The fire throws wild shapes on the ceiling. Damien sits back, stretching his arms along the back of the chair, and fixes me with that laser-eyed stare.
I realize, in that moment, I am the center of the circle. Not the joke, not the odd man out—the focal point. The reason for this madness.
Julian stands. His body is beautiful, sculpted but real, with a scar across his shoulder that catches the light. He walks over and sits on the arm of my chair, close enough that his thigh presses against my shoulder. I freeze, unsure if I’m supposed to move or react. The room is silent, all five men watching.
Julian leans down, his breath whiskey-warm against my ear. “You okay?” he whispers.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
He turns my chin with a finger, gentle but insistent, and kisses me.
His lips are soft, but the kiss is firm, meant to break something in me. My brain goes white, then blue-hot. I hear the crackle of the fire, the blood rush in my ears, and somewhere in the background, a faint sigh from one of the others.
He pulls back, watching me. I expect to feel panic or shame, but all I register is want. Raw, greedy, irrational.
Julian stands, and for a moment I think it’s over. But then Noah is there, kneeling in front of my chair. His hands are on my knees, spreading them gently. He looks up, his eyes dark and patient, and I realize I am completely exposed, every part of me visible.
He leans in and kisses my thigh, slow, deliberate. The sensation is electric. I look away, but Gabe is standing now, too, circling behind me. His hands land on my shoulders, massive and hot, and he kneads the tension out of them with surprising tenderness.
I sit in the center of the storm, whiskey glass balanced on my knee, as five naked men orbit closer, like I am some planet with unexpected gravity.
It happens slowly, like a dream. Owen comes to my left, draping his arm over the chair and grazing my side with his fingertips. Julian sits on the armrest again, his hand sliding across my chest. Gabe, behind me, leans down and whispers, “You’re the star tonight, man.”
Noah is still kneeling, and his mouth finds its way higher, leaving a trail of sensation that erases everything else. My whole body flushes, nerves firing off in a way I didn’t know possible.
At some point, I surrender. I let go of the glass, let go of the protest. I lean back and let myself be touched, tasted, wanted. It feels less like being seduced and more like being initiated, like there’s an old logic to this that I’m only now remembering.
The heat of bodies, the musk of sweat and woodsmoke, the taste of whiskey shared from mouth to mouth—these are the only realities left. I don’t know where one man ends and another begins.
The last thing I remember is Damien, sitting apart, just watching. His eyes are bright, and there is no cruelty in them—only hunger, and satisfaction, and something I might call pride.
I meet his gaze, and he raises his glass to me. The faintest smile.
Then Owen’s mouth is on mine, and all the rest blurs together in a rush of heat and skin and sensation.
