Page 39 of Trapped for Christmas

“You like it?” he croaked.

“Yeah. I almost came in my pants.”

Mason’s eyes went wide, and he glanced down at Zeb’s crotch. He then shook his head slightly and smiled.

“Well, you can’t beat a compliment like that,” he said, his voice still croaky.

Mason bit into his own cheesesteak. That was an example of Zeb’s brain and mouth not working in tandem, as he could just blurt things out without thinking. Perhaps he could use this to his advantage. If he kept making flirty comments to Mason, he’d realize Zeb was up for it and then kiss him or something. The thought of kissing Mason had his dick plumping, and when he thought about the “something,” he was fully hard. He’d have to be careful with the comments he made now. If Mason looked down, he would see Zeb’s arousal, so he focused on his food, willing his cock to go down. Everything was perfect, even the salad. How could a salad be perfect? It was a salad!

They ate in relative silence, but it didn’t feel awkward. The food was just too good to stop eating it to speak. The sign of great food was when you didn’t reach for your drink very often, if at all. By the time he’d finished, his glass of beer was still almost full. He thanked Mason and didn’t talk about orgasms this time, which was definite progress. Things had softened, so he stood and picked up his plate. Mason gently put his hand on Zeb’s.

“What are you doing?”

“Cleaning up.”

“Sit on the sofa and find something for us to watch. I’ll bring dessert over.”

“What is it?”

“A surprise. Now sit, and I’ll sort this.”

“But you cooked everything.”

Mason eyeballed him. Zeb sighed. He would not win this one, so he shook his head and went over to the sofa. There was a large TV mounted on the wall, over the log fire. Zeb turned it on and realized it was already connected to all of Mason’s streaming services. He wasn’t sure what he fancied, though. Nothing with too much action. He was feeling sleepy after all that food and the traveling. Mason had done all the driving and the cooking, yet he didn’t seem to flag at all. Where did he get all his energy from? Not that Zeb would say it, but Mason was almost twice his age. How was he not tired?

Zeb picked a gay romcom, which he knew was not at all subtle. He didn’t even know if Mason liked that type of movie. Zeb got it ready to play, and could hear Mason cleaning up. He felt guilty, so he got up and walked over to the kitchen and started helping.

“I told you to relax.”

“We can both relax a lot quicker if you let me help.”

“Zeb,” he said in that stern voice that made him want to drop to his knees.

“You’re not the boss here, well . . . not yet anyway.”

Mason looked at him like he wanted to throw Zeb over the kitchen counter and fuck him into next week, which he would be up for. He wasn’t sure why he’d said that. It had to be the two sips of beer he’d had that was responsible for him blurting out suggestive comments all the time. There was flirting, though, but this . . . this was something else.

“I need to make a call,” said Zeb, rushing off and picking up his phone on the way.

He went into the bathroom, which was the only real privacy in the cabin, and once he was sitting down, he dialed Hunter.

“You better be calling to give me all the juicy details,” said Hunter.

“I keep saying stupid things,” he whispered.

“Like what?”

“Things like ‘You’re not the boss here, well . . . not yet anyway.’”

Hunter snorted. “Not your best work.”

“He made me Philly cheesesteak.”

“Wow. What did his cock taste like?”

“Huh? What are you talking about?”

“You didn’t drop to your knees and suck him dry after he did that?”