The air outside was cool and crisp, but inside Jack’s cabin, the fireplace cast a soft amber glow across the wooden beams. The scent of cedar smoke clung to the walls, mingling with something richer — musk, leather, and something undeniably Jack.
Mason sat on the edge of the worn leather couch, a half-empty beer bottle in one hand, his eyes flicking between the flames and Jack. The older man was behind the counter, cleaning a cutting board with slow, methodical strokes. His rolled-up flannel sleeves revealed forearms veined and thick with muscle, and every time he moved, his wide back flexed beneath the soft fabric of his shirt.
“You ever get tired of the quiet?” Mason asked, trying to sound casual.
Jack looked over his shoulder with a small smirk. “Nope. Quiet tells the truth.”
Mason chuckled softly, but the words stuck. What truth is the silence exposing? He wasn’t sure. Maybe the way his eyes lingered a little too long when Jack bent over. Maybe the way he noticed the slight roughness in Jack’s voice — the way it sometimes made his stomach flip.
Jack poured two fingers of whiskey into a glass and handed it to Mason as he crossed the room. Then he sat — not across from him, but next to him. Their knees almost touched.
Mason took a sip, avoiding Jack’s gaze. “Y’know… back home, I always thought I had everything figured out.”
Jack leaned back, arms spread wide across the top of the couch. “You figured wrong?”
“Maybe,” Mason said, glancing sideways. “Maybe I didn’t know what I wanted.”
The fire popped. Jack’s voice dropped low. “And now?”
Mason exhaled slowly. His pulse was picking up. “Now I’m wondering what it’s like to stop pretending.”
Jack didn’t answer at first. He just turned his head, looking at Mason — slow, deliberate, unreadable.
“You don’t need to pretend here,” Jack said, his voice like gravel wrapped in velvet.
The air thickened. Mason felt the pull of gravity between them — quiet, magnetic, impossible to ignore. His eyes dipped to Jack’s mouth, then quickly back up.
Jack noticed.
He leaned in, his voice brushing Mason’s ear. “You’re not the first man to get curious in this cabin.”
Mason’s breath hitched. He didn’t move away.
Jack continued, his tone coaxing but firm. “You want to know what it feels like to let go? Let me show you.”
Mason’s jaw clenched, his heartbeat thundering. He turned toward Jack just slightly — enough to invite.
Jack closed the space.
The kiss wasn’t rushed. It was confident. Jack’s hand came up to cradle the back of Mason’s neck, fingers strong and warm. Mason melted into it before he even knew he was moving, lips parting as something unspoken passed between them.
It was new.
It was terrifying.
It was exactly what Mason had been aching for.
When they pulled apart, Mason’s eyes were glassy with adrenaline and heat.
“Jesus,” he whispered.
Jack’s thumb traced the corner of Mason’s mouth. “This doesn’t have to mean anything you’re not ready for. But you’re here. That’s a start.”
Mason swallowed hard, then nodded slowly. “I want to know more.”
Jack stood, offering his hand. “Then come with me.”
Mason took it.
Jack led him to the bedroom, the firelight casting their shadows along the hallway. It wasn’t about rushing — it was about claiming space. Exploring what had always been hidden just beneath the surface.
And for Mason, it was the first night of shedding a skin he never knew he was allowed to outgrow.
A few days pass and Jack was outside behind the cabin, shirtless, his broad back glistening with sweat under the late morning sun as he split a thick round of oak. The rhythmic crack of the axe echoed through the trees. His body moved like a machine—muscles tense, breath steady, focused.
Then he heard the sound of a car crunching up the gravel driveway.
He paused, wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, and glanced around the corner.
A silver sedan. Sleek, pristine.
Out stepped Evelyn Marks.
Ms. Marks.
His high school English teacher.
It had been over two decades, but she hadn’t changed nearly as much as he’d expected. Her hair was longer now, silver streaks glinting in the sun, but pulled back into a sharp, elegant chignon. She wore a crisp white blouse tucked into a form-fitting black skirt, her curves poured into it like cream. Her breasts, generous and full, strained slightly against the buttons, the shape unmistakable even beneath her formal attire.
Jack felt something stir.
Evelyn stepped out of the car with poise — heels clicking on the gravel, eyes hidden behind cat-eye sunglasses. She looked over the top of them as she spotted him.
“Well,” she said, one hand on her hip. “Jack Johnson. You haven’t changed a bit.”
Jack smirked, leaning on the axe. “Ms. Marks.”
“Evelyn,” she corrected, walking toward him. “I’m retired now. No more rules. No more detentions. Though you always were my favorite to discipline.”
He gave a low chuckle. “That right?”
She stopped in front of him, standing barely chest-height to his towering frame. Her eyes dropped — very briefly — over his bare torso. Then back up. Her cheeks were slightly flushed.
“I was in town visiting family,” she said, voice tight but rich. “Heard you were back here… living like a mountain man.”
Jack nodded. “I like the quiet.”
“I imagine the women don’t,” she said slyly.
Jack didn’t reply. He just looked at her — slowly — letting the silence do what it always did best: unnerve and stir.
Evelyn cleared her throat. “Well. I didn’t come all this way to stand in your yard gawking.”
Jack tilted his head. “No?”
“I came to see your craftsmanship,” she said firmly. “Your furniture, Jack.”
He nodded once. “Then come inside.”
Evelyn stepped into the cabin like she was walking into a memory. Her eyes wandered across the space — thick beams, rustic finishes, the scent of cedarwood and leather.
But what caught her attention was the centerpiece: a large, handcrafted dining table. Solid walnut. Polished smooth. Deep, dark, sensual.
She trailed her fingers over the wood. “This is… exquisite.”
Jack leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching her admire the piece. “Made it with my hands.”
“I remember your hands,” she said, the words out before she could stop them.
Jack raised an eyebrow.
Evelyn turned, flustered, smoothing her skirt. “You were always… intense. Even at seventeen. The other boys were wild. But you? You had control.”
Jack stepped closer, voice low. “Still do.”
Evelyn’s breath caught. She opened her mouth to speak but no sound came out.
Jack was in front of her now — not touching her, just standing close enough that she could smell his skin, feel his body heat.
She swallowed. “This is inappropriate.”
He smiled. “You’re not my teacher anymore.”
Her mouth opened again, but instead of a protest, she whispered: “God, you were always dangerous.”
Jack’s hand lifted — rough, warm — and he brushed a silver hair from her cheek. “And you were always beautiful.”
Evelyn shivered.
Then his fingers slid under her chin, lifting her face toward his. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”
But she didn’t.
Instead, she surged forward, her lips capturing his in a kiss that was twenty years in the making — urgent, hungry, electric.
Jack responded with restrained power, his mouth dominating hers, his arms wrapping around her waist and pulling her tight against his hard, bare chest. She melted — exactly like she always feared she would.
Her hands explored his body with eager fingers — over his shoulders, his arms, his chest — moaning softly into his mouth. He picked her up easily, like she weighed nothing, and carried her to the table she’d admired.
Laid her back on the cool walnut surface.
Her blouse popped open, button by button, revealing a lacy black bra that held her full breasts in place, nipples already hard beneath the fabric. Jack growled low in his throat.
“Always wanted to know what was under those teacher skirts,” he muttered, sliding his hands up her thighs.
Evelyn arched, lips parted. “Then don’t make me wait.”
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