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Artair’s hands were immediately on him—caressing the rise and fall of Luca’s heft. Giving unrestrained praise to his body. To the figure he simply couldn’t get enough of.
Taking hold of the lather-smooth bar, Artair explored all the soft and sensitive parts of Luca’s physique. Lingering. Lasting. Not wanting to miss a single spot.
His hand still covered in suds, Luca took Artair’s straining cock. The man shuddered like they’d been apart for months, not minutes.
Artair surged under his slippery touch. Needing him. Wanting him. Unable to withhold the contact.
Luca moved behind Artair, kissing the taller man’s neck and sliding his own stiffness across the enormous ass. He swirled his thumb tip around Artair’s glands, each rotation making him whimper. His other thumb massaged Artair’s nipples, making him jolt in Luca’s arms with an almost savage ecstasy.
The combination was intoxicating, bringing the bigger man completely under his control. Making him beg for more. Making him beg for the sensation to never stop.
And as he did so, Artair’s hands never strayed from Luca’s own skin, reaching back gratefully to the familiar curves of his hips and ass.
Normally, Artair liked to draw things out, but Luca’s touch was so expert, so focused on his task, that soon Artair was gasping and moaning and spraying a screaming torrent of virility ten feet across the mountaintop.
No sooner was Luca done, then Artair was on his knees, rolling back Luca’s foreskin.
As Artair took his first hungry laps, Luca parted the hair from his lover’s face, revealing those beautiful eyes—the color of rarest jade.
The bear’s smile melted Luca to his very core.
So thrilled.
So content.
“You are so fucking beautiful, Luca,” whispered Artair, before swallowing him greedily, not letting up until every last drop was freed.
On their eighth day together, Luca was sitting naked on the floor, pulling yellowed paperbacks from the old bookshelf.
“Bridget Jones’s Diary?” he asked, over the sound of thunder.
“Yeah, that’s also mine,” said Artair, leaning back in the chair—wearing a singlet but otherwise naked. “What? Don’t get judgy. It’s a funny book!”
“You’re funny.”
“And that’s why you like me, right?”
“That and a few other reasons,” said Luca, gesturing vaguely toward Artair’s lower half. “Okay, what about this one. The Art of War?”
“That was here when I first arrived. I tried to read it a few times, but I couldn’t get the hang of the main characters.”
“There aren’t any characters, Artair. It’s a book of strategy.”
“Strategy, smategy. Can someone just slip on a banana peel? Is that too much to ask?”
“Oh... my... God,” said Luca, spotting another title and doing the maths in his head. “This copy of The Da Vinci Code is yours, isn’t it? It has to be.”
“So? What’s wrong with it?”
“It knows what it did,” said Luca, haughtily.
“Hey, not all of us read Freud in our spare time.”
“That was just for the article. Promise.”
At that, Artair slunk from the chair, getting on fours with a knowing look. He crawled toward Luca—the singlet showcasing his furry shoulders, bulging up and down like a carnivore with each movement.
It was probably meant to be funny, but Luca couldn’t help thinking how incredibly hot he looked. The way his belly was framed, round and stocky. The way his naked ass and thighs were swaying. The way his dense ginger fur glinted yellow in the warm light.
