Cabin Fevered — Bonus Chapter
Paint Me Yours
by Jace Wilder
An exclusive bonus chapter from Cabin Fevered — too hot for Amazon.
Six months later.
The grey-blue walls lasted exactly four months before Liam decided they were wrong.
“They’re not wrong,” Ben said from the couch, watching Liam stand in the center of their living room with paint swatches fanned out like a poker hand. “We spent three weekends on those walls.”
“They’re fine. Fine is the problem. Fine is the color equivalent of your old personality.”
“My old personality was beige.”
“Exactly. And these walls are beige-adjacent. They’re beige in a blue costume. They’re beige going through a phase.” Liam held up a swatch. “This. Midnight Sage. This is a wall color for people who have sex on a regular basis.”
“We have sex on a regular basis.”
“Then our walls should reflect that.”
Ben looked at the swatch. It was dark. Bold. The kind of color that made a statement, that said someone with opinions lives here. Six months ago, he would have vetoed it immediately — too much, too visible, too far from neutral. Now he looked at it and saw Liam’s aesthetic imprinted on their shared space, and the rightness of that outweighed any hesitation.
“Okay,” he said. “Midnight Sage. But I’m not doing the ceiling.”
“The ceiling stays white. I’m not an animal.”
They started on a Saturday morning. Drop cloths on the floor, furniture pulled to the center, painter’s tape on the trim. Ben wore old gym shorts and a t-shirt he didn’t care about. Liam wore boxer briefs and one of Ben’s shirts — oversized, slipping off one shoulder, the hem hitting his mid-thigh — because Liam treated Ben’s wardrobe as a communal resource and Ben had stopped pretending he minded.
The painting went well for approximately ninety minutes.
“You’ve got paint on your face,” Ben said.
Liam reached up and smeared it further. “Where?”
“Your cheek. Here —” Ben crossed the room, roller still in hand, and swiped his thumb across Liam’s cheekbone. The paint didn’t come off. It just spread, a streak of dark sage across Liam’s freckles, and Liam looked up at him from the step ladder — one step below Ben’s height, eye level for once, dark eyes bright beneath the mess — and Ben’s thumb didn’t move.
“Ben,” Liam said. “We’re painting.”
“We can take a break.”
“Breaks are important. My therapist says I need to practice spontaneity.”
Ben kissed him. Liam’s mouth still open around the denial, Ben’s paint-wet hand cupping his jaw, and Liam made a sound against his lips that was half protest and half surrender and entirely the beginning of the end of their productive Saturday.
None of that mattered because Ben had Liam against the one finished wall — the Midnight Sage wall, still tacky, and Liam’s back was going to have paint on it and neither of them cared.
Ben pulled the shirt over Liam’s head and threw it on the drop cloth. “Problem solved.”
“Paint me, then.”
The sentence landed between them and caught fire.
Ben dipped his fingers in the paint tray. Not the roller — his fingers. He crossed the room and pressed his palm flat against Liam’s chest.
Liam’s breath punched out of him. The paint was cool — room temperature, wet and thick — and Ben’s hand was warm beneath it. Ben dragged his hand down slowly — sternum to stomach, leaving a wide, dark streak — and Liam watched it happen, watched the sage-green trail marking his body, and his cock twitched visibly in his briefs.
“More,” Liam said.
Ben dipped again. Both hands this time. He pressed them to Liam’s sides and dragged downward, fingers splayed, painting him in broad strokes. Over his hips. Along the V-lines that disappeared into his waistband.
“Take them off,” Liam breathed.
Ben hooked his thumbs in the waistband and pulled. Liam’s cock sprang free — hard, dark with blood, the head wet — and Ben dropped to his knees on the paint-splattered drop cloth and took him in his mouth without preamble.
“Oh fuck —” Liam’s hand flew to Ben’s hair, gripping, his back arching off the wall.
Ben’s paint-covered hands gripped Liam’s hips. Leaving prints. Deliberate, dark handprints on Liam’s hip bones, his thighs — marking him, claiming him, while his mouth worked Liam’s cock with devastating confidence.
“I want you on the drop cloth,” Ben said. “On your back. I want to paint every inch of you and then fuck you until the only color you can see is green.”
“Drop cloth. Now.”
Liam lay back on the canvas drop cloth, naked, paint-streaked. Ben stripped. Knelt over Liam, straddling his thighs, and dipped his hands in the paint one more time.
He started at Liam’s neck. Dragged his fingers down — slow, deliberate. Circled each nipple with a paint-wet thumb, pressing, rubbing, and Liam’s back arched and his cock twitched against his stomach and the sound he made was a moan so raw that Ben felt it in his own body like a vibration.
He prepped him with paint-wet hands. One finger, then two, Liam’s moans escalating, his painted body writhing on the canvas beneath them.
“Now,” Liam gasped. “I need you now. Please — Ben —”
Ben slicked himself. Positioned. Pressed in.
Liam’s painted hands came up to Ben’s chest — dark sage handprints on Ben’s pecs, his shoulders, his neck. Marking him back. Both of them marked, both of them claimed, the paint on their bodies a visible record of every place they’d touched.
Ben fucked him on the drop cloth. Deep, steady strokes that made Liam’s body slide against the canvas, smearing paint, creating abstract patterns of sage and skin and sweat.
“Harder,” Liam demanded. His legs were around Ben’s waist, his painted heels digging into the small of Ben’s back. “Don’t hold back. I want to feel you tomorrow.”
Ben let go. He drove into Liam with his full strength, and Liam was shouting — not moaning, shouting, full volume, the promise they’d made in the cabin kept in perpetuity.
Ben wrapped his paint-streaked hand around Liam’s cock. Stroked fast, in time with his thrusts, and Liam came with a cry that echoed off the half-painted walls — his body arching, his cock pulsing, come and paint mixing on his stomach.
Ben came inside Liam with a groan that started in his chest and filled the room, his hands gripping Liam’s painted hips, adding fresh handprints over the old ones, layer on layer of evidence.
They lay on the drop cloth for a long time. Catching their breath.
“This paint is water-based, right?”
“If it’s not water-based and you just put oil paint on my genitals, we’re breaking up.”
“It’s water-based. I checked.”
Liam laughed. The sound bounced off the walls — one sage, three still grey-blue — and filled the apartment with warmth.
“I love you,” Ben said.
“I love you too. Even though you ruined the wall.”
“Your back. Against the wet wall.” Liam pointed. “There’s a Ben Carter ass-print in the middle of our accent wall.”
“We’ll do a second coat,” Ben said.
“We’ll do a second coat,” Liam agreed.
They did not do a second coat that day. They showered together, which took forty-five minutes because the paint was in places paint should not be and the removal process devolved twice into further activities that the shower was not structurally designed for.
The second coat happened on Sunday. And the wall, when it was finished — smooth, even, the perfect shade of Midnight Sage — was the most beautiful wall in the apartment.
Because underneath the paint, invisible to anyone who’d ever walk into the room, were the handprints. Ben’s on Liam’s body. Liam’s on Ben’s. The first layer, the hidden one, the foundation beneath the surface that nobody could see but that they both knew was there.
Like them. Like everything they’d built — starting in a cabin in a storm and ending here, in a living room with dark walls and afternoon light and the particular, irreplaceable peace of two people who’d found each other the hard way and chosen each other the only way that mattered.
In the daylight. Through the front door. Full volume.
With paint in their hair and handprints on their skin and a Saturday they’d never finish and a life they’d never stop building.
Together.
Want the full story? Cabin Fevered is available now.
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