Cabin Fever

by Roe Horvat

  When Bart Bourgeon first called, I asked for twelve thousand a day, hoping it would be too much for him and he’d find someone else. Instead, he offered me fifteen if I started immediately.

  The murder attempts were kept secret. The tabloids could only wonder why Michael Bourgeon had suddenly disappeared from public life. New York’s wildest enfant terrible hadn’t been seen venturing outside for two months, his Manhattan apartment empty and quiet. Rumors were flying about rehab, which sounded like a logical explanation to most people who knew Michael. In reality, the twenty-four-year-old heir had been hiding in one of his family’s fort-like residences in Connecticut, protected by an entourage of security details, while the FBI was hunting the perpetrator—or perpetrators. Despite all that, he was shot in his arm last night, a clean sniper shot through the bedroom window. The contract killer had gotten into the garden and shot from a fucking tree branch. Luckily, the weather had been shitty. It had rained, and the wind had been strong. The shooter had missed the mark, but they’d made it in and out of the protected area without harm. Unless they were Black Widow, they must’ve bribed someone on the inside.

  I spent a while shuffling through the paperwork and browsing for pictures. Michael was a talented artist with a varied style. His large, bold abstract canvases seemed to have gained him the respect of the critics, despite his young age and terrible reputation.

  Inevitably, late at night, I ended up staring at photos of Michael Bourgeon. He was strikingly good-looking with a playful, provocative smile and sharp green eyes. Cocky and wild. Exactly the type of boy I liked to take home when I had the chance. I could spend an evening teaching him a thing or two, before sending him on his way again, with my handprints all over his sore ass.

  Yeah, I shouldn’t be the one protecting him.

  Yet some of the pictures showed a different quality to his expression. In family photos with his uncle or as a teen next to his late mother, he seemed kind, almost bashful. Maybe it had been the vulnerability in those green eyes that finally swayed me.

  I’d told myself it was great money for probably only a six-week gig at most, since the Bureau was providing a decoy at the same time to lure the killer out.

  I’d taken the job.

  It might turn out to be one of the stupidest things I’d ever done.

  Now Michael was looking around the log cabin with a condescending smirk on his pretty face.

  “This is quite picturesque. Are we going fishing tomorrow? Bear hunting?”

  I didn’t bother replying. Instead, I opened the door to the bedroom where he was going to sleep. When I gestured for him to enter, he passed by me and dumped his bag onto the floor next to the bed.

  “Now what?” He stood, hands on his hips.

  “I’ll show you around tomorrow. What you need to know right now is that there’s a small panic room accessible through the closet.” I opened it and shoved the discreet sliding panel to the side, revealing the security metal door behind it. The panic room was a narrow sliver of space along the cabin’s wall, perfectly isolated with ventilation, a water tap, a plastic shaker, and one bag of protein shake on the single shelf. A fleece blanket was folded on the floor. It even had an outlet with a charger and, of course, a small toilet at the end of the room.

  “If I tell you to go in there, you will do that immediately, no questions asked. If you hear a gunshot, a shout, a fucking explosion, you will go in there, close the closet from the inside, slide the panel back in place, and lock the security door. You will have the phone I gave you on you at all times. If you ever end up in the panic room, you are to dial the emergency contact and give them the code you find on the other side of the security door.”

  “Deal. When you are shooting Léon, I’ll be in Narnia. This is getting better and better.”

  He was transparent in his nervousness. His cocky façade became brittle when he was tired. I felt sorry for him, I did, but I wasn’t his therapist. If I was confident and calm, he’d trust me and eventually calm down himself.

  “Michael, I’m serious. Do you remember all the instructions, or do I need to repeat them?”

  “Sure. I get it. Closet. Panic room. Phone, emergency contact, and code on the door.”

  “You will never leave the cabin without my permission, understand?”

  Michael gave me a droll look. “Will there be lunch-time walks, or do I get a pee pad?”

  I lifted my eyebrow. “Bathroom is right over there.”

  He smirked, the corner of his full mouth lifting in a sensual curve, and he was looking at me, the provocative glint in his eyes scraping at my patience. Jesus, this kid’s coping mechanisms were all over the place. I was tired from a whole day of driving, and I still needed to bring in the supplies from the trunk. I turned away and left him there, without another word.

  After unloading the groceries, and checking on the backup generator, I locked the cabin for the night. The security system was connected to my phone, so I went through the usual checkpoints on the app, and switched to night regime.

  When I was done, I heard Michael in the bathroom. With my body stiff and sore, I stretched in the living room and did some push-ups to get my blood pumping. It cleared my brain a little. I stood up and halted. Michael stood braced against the bathroom door, a towel around his slim hips and a lascivious smile on his lips.

  His chest was smooth, his belly flat, only lean muscles and milky skin, a contrast to his tattooed arms. His small pink nipples were pierced with pointy silver barbells. His half-naked form made my throat go dry. Damn.

  “Don’t stop on my account. I’m enjoying the view,” he said.

  He was going to drive me crazy. Luckily, I’d been around for long enough to be able to keep myself in check. I’d lived through being a gay man in the Marines and the Bureau. I could handle one cocky kid.

  “Go to bed, Michael.” I kept my expression neutral.

  Sighing, he sauntered off to his room, and banged the door shut behind him.

  I made tea and opened a book.

  3

  Vincent doesn’t like me doing yoga

  Michael

  Vincent had been right, the boredom was dangerous. I had way too much time to think and way too little activity to exhaust myself. I slept barely four hours the first night. Second wasn’t any better. My brain was a mess. I dreamed about Vincent making me go through the forest naked, holding a gun to my head. I woke up terrified, and so fucking confused, I had to get up. Vincent blended in with the killer in my dream, and I had to clear my head, or I’d have had another nightmare right away.

  I opened the door to the cabin and looked out, the chilly night air assaulting my half-naked body. Trees, trees, trees fucking everywhere. Mist floated on the lake, visible in the light of the half moon. Surreal. Sinister. Fuck. This is not helping.

  A door clicked behind me, and the light in the living room glared suddenly.

  “Michael! What are you doing?”

  I swiveled around.

  Vincent stood in the door to his room, dressed only in his pajama pants. His muscled torso was covered with salt-and-pepper hair, narrowing into the world’s most perfect happy trail, the V of his abdomen worthy of a Greek statue.

  Exactly what I need to distract me from nightmares.

  “Michael, close the front door.”

  Still in a haze, I did what he said.

  “What are you doing up?”

  “I have… issues with sleep,” I mumbled, my eyes pinned to his abdomen. I imagined those hips moving, muscles rippling, fucking me deep while I lay spread underneath him. Now there’s a dream I’d like to have.

  “I understand. Now listen.”

  “Yeah…” He had a birthmark by his left hip. The outline of his junk was subtle under his loose pajama pants, but I could always imagine…

  “My eyes are up here, Michael!”

  I looked up, startled by the sudden harsh tone of his voice.

  “You are not to leave the cabin without me. Do not open t
he front door during the night. If you do, the security system alerts me.”

  I sighed. “Got it.”

  “Do you need a sleeping pill?”

  “No.” Same nightmares, but not being able to wake up from them. Been there, done that. No, thank you.

  “Stay inside, Michael. We can go out in the morning,” Vincent said in a soothing tone.

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  “Good night.” He still stood there, waiting.

  What was I supposed to do? “Night,” I mumbled and went back to bed.

  I lay awake, trying not to think about the miles of dark woods around us. It’s not the forest that should scare you, silly. Determined to distract myself the best way I knew, I stripped off my sleep shorts underneath the covers and grabbed my hard dick. Think about Vincent. The happy trail, those pecs, the growl in his voice… I barely managed to catch the spunk in the fabric of the shorts. I wiped myself off and threw them on the floor.

  Miraculously, I slept until seven.

  Vincent had told me he’d be doing morning runs every day, and I joined him the third day. I needed to burn off some of the excess energy. He didn’t seem very happy about it.

  We ran a circle around the lake, Vincent with his gun holster across his chest, sweaty and sexy like one of my filthy fantasies. When we came back to the cabin, I wanted to lick the sweat off him. Instead, we had a deeply awkward exchange about who was going to shower first—for some reason, it had to be me. I couldn’t help rolling my eyes at his micromanaging. He took his turn in the bathroom second, and I cooked lunch out of pure desperation.

  In the afternoon, he even let me sit outside with my sketchbook while he chopped some wood for the fireplace in case the weather turned nasty. I tried to do some nature sketches, but I kept returning to him. He was by far the most interesting subject around, so what was I supposed to do? Draw birds and shit?

  It had been only three days, and I already had Vincent’s body and face memorized to the last detail. I only yearned to see him fully naked. I began sketching him last night, getting stuck on his hands. Those strong fingers were art by themselves. Every one of my attempts to draw them felt insufficient.

  On the fourth day, I let Vincent go running alone, since I was still sore from yesterday. He returned after thirty minutes. I watched him through the living room window. Vincent took off his sweaty T-shirt and walked the few steps to the edge of the wooden pier. Instinctively, I pushed my hand down my sweats and squeezed my growing erection. Vincent stretched his arms above his head, the muscles on his back gliding, then jumped into the water. Fuck, he made me horny.

  The image of my sweaty, half-naked bodyguard the only thing on my mind, I pulled my dick out, and, closing my eyes, stroked myself hard for a while. Water burbled. I snapped open my eyes. Vincent emerged from the lake, picked up the towel he’d left on the pier, and dried his hair. Oh god. Vincent was wet, his glorious body glittering in the morning sun, the outline of his cock perfectly visible in his shorts. I groaned. Precum oozed out of my slit as I jerked myself, and I pushed my sweats lower with my other hand, so I could squeeze my balls.

  “Fuck yeah,” I mumbled, spiraling quickly out of control.

  Vincent used the towel to dry his back and chest, and I couldn’t tear my gaze away from the large bulge between his legs. My orgasm came like a hurricane. I moaned, loud, and my eyes fell shut from the overload of sensation. I spilled into my fist, my legs shaking and asshole clenching on nothing.

  When I peeled my eyes open, Vincent was staring directly at me through the window, the towel bunched up in his hands. His face was fierce, jaw clenched.

  He just saw me come.

  The knowledge gave me a thrill. I lifted my eyebrow at him, and he looked away, pretending to dry his legs.

  Maybe I can find a way to handle the anxiety and boredom.

  I went to shower.

  “Are you sure this is the best place to do it?” Vincent asked coldly from his armchair in the living room.

  I exhaled and inhaled once more before answering. “My bedroom is too small. I have no floor space there.”

  “The pier is flat and wide.”

  “It’s dark, cold, and windy. I’m not doing yoga outdoors in that weather. And I am not allowed outside by myself.”

  He grunted in response.

  “You don’t have to look.” I bent at the waist, presenting Vincent with a perfect view of my ass.

  “I’m going out. Stay here.” In twenty seconds, the door banged shut.

  I smirked. I was less and less bored by the minute.

  That evening, I fell asleep easily, imagining Vincent jerking off in the room next to mine. When I woke up in the middle of the night, instead of freaking out like I often did, I pulled out my sketchbook and drew him from memory until I got sleepy again.

  On the fifth day, I went running with him again. I tried taunting Vincent by jogging in front of him in my tightest shorts, looking back to see if he was checking my ass, but he was like a fucking ice queen today. Not even yoga in the afternoon and my regular nightly promenade only with a towel around my waist had him lifting his eyes from his iPad.

  I only got more frustrated by thinking about him obsessively, watching his every move. Fun as it was to rile him up, the shaky energy in me simmered, in my fingertips, my stomach. The subtle headache was a big clue too. If I didn’t break the spiral, I’d have another anxiety attack—maybe not today, but soon. Those spells were ugly in their predictability—like a storm I knew was coming.

  The only thing that helped was something drastic—a system reboot. After a particularly wrong high, I gave up on pot to soothe my anxiety. And I didn’t think Vincent would beat me up and fuck me, even if I asked nicely. Yep, a thorough pounding would snap me out of it, but since I was stuck with the iceman in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, I had to be creative.

  I went to my room early and took out the holdall with goodies from my bag. I laid them on the bed and stroked myself to hardness. It didn’t even take ten seconds to get my fantasies flowing.

  My nipples were tingling, and I plucked on the barbells. Eyes closed, I did it again. Tendrils of sweet pleasure shot down my chest to my balls. I sighed. It was going to be an intense orgasm. I could feel it in my body already, and I needed it—long and thorough. Vincent had me on edge for days, and the quick jerk-offs only ramped me up further. Combined with the constant fear, I felt brittle. I hated that.

  I pulled on the barbells once more, and knelt by the bed, my hard cock bouncing. With my middle finger, I scooped a drop of precum and licked it, the taste exploding in my mouth. I used all the small tricks to get me in the right mood—I tugged on my sack painfully hard, pushed a dry fingertip into my hole and pulled it out again, hissing at the sting, and then I rolled the barbells between my fingers, making it hurt. Slapping my ass, hard, I waited for the burn to spread over my skin, warming me up. The mix of pain and pleasure always got me going like a mindless beast. After a few minutes, I was rocking my hips, fucking empty air, my hole clenching in anticipation. I grabbed the dildo from the bed. With my eyes closed, I fisted it, lifted the fat toy to my lips, and sucked the tip into my mouth. I teased my pucker with my other hand, tickling and massaging, and pushed the dildo deeper into my mouth.

  Vincent. Wet from his swim in the lake. Droplets running down his chest, his hard shaft forcing into my throat. His hand fisting my hair.

  Please, Daddy. Fuck my face.

  I hummed around Vincent’s dick, taking it deep. I licked the underside and then relaxed my throat for more. And Vincent groaned in pleasure.

  “That’s it, my little whore. Take my cock. Fucking take it, boy.”

  I choked on the silicone toy and pulled it out. I was so ready, flying high like a kite, drugged from my own fantasies, from images of Vincent’s rough body, the scent of his sweat that I sometimes caught in the thick air between us. The feeling of his cockhead lodged in my throat.

  I didn’t waste time fingering myself aside f
rom slicking my ass with a little lube. I lathered the dildo, spread my legs wide apart, my knees chafing on the carpet, and I reached back. Shaking with need, I pressed the tip against my hole. It popped inside, the sensation glorious. Fucking hell, I needed this. I jostled the toy, stretching myself wider, and pushed in and out a few times, sinking it deeper on each stroke. It was like a fucking spa treatment. My whole body sighed with relief as the hard dick stretched my ring and rubbed over my gland. Paradise.

  Grabbing the edge of the mattress with my other hand, I rolled my hips, finding the right rhythm. The world exploded in color, and my eyes fell shut.

  Fuck me, Daddy. Use me. Fuck me hard.

  Vincent shoved his dick into my ass all the way and stayed there. I gasped with the pain. He fucked me with long, deep strokes, and I moaned with each thrust. My cock drooled precum as my gland shot fireworks into my system. I whimpered and mewled, meeting his thrusts, begging for more.

  Fuck yes. I need you. God, you’re so good for me. Fill me up. Yeah! Deeper. That’s it. A great fucking cock. Huge beautiful cock. Fucking wreck my hole!

  When I resurfaced, I was biting the sheets as I knelt by the bed, the skin on my knees burning, my thighs trembling. My left hand held the base of the dildo shoved deep into my ass, and my right was soiled with cum.

  Had I yelled some of the things I’d thought? My throat was dry, so I must’ve been loud. Maybe Vincent had heard me? I kinda hoped he had. I licked the spunk from my hand. A powerful aftershock made my hole clench. I groaned.

  A loud bang sounded from the kitchen—something fell to the floor. Then a rustle, a few hasty footsteps, a click of a door.

  Vincent had heard me.

  Good.

  The most amazing thing happened. After I fucked myself thinking of him, I slept. I slept better than I had in weeks, and I woke up with only one thing on my mind—I wanted that cock. I wanted that real, hot flesh inside me, Vincent’s rough hands digging into my skin. I wanted it bad.