Chapter 4: The Bedroom Invasion

The bedroom was James’s last sanctuary: high ceilings; heavy velvet drapes drawn tight against the night; the faint scent of beeswax polish and old linen thick in the air, undercut by the distant peat smoke drifting up from downstairs. The massive four-poster bed loomed like an altar, carved oak posts throwing long shadows in the amber glow of the single bedside lamp. The sheets were already rumpled from restless waiting. Family tartan throw at the foot creased and faintly damp from earlier leaks.

James paced barefoot on the thick rug, wool soft and warm under his soles, shirt open to the navel, kilt loose around his hips. His thighs were still sticky from the afternoon bothy fuck. Hamish’s seed slowly drying in thin, flaky trails down his inner legs. The musky scent rising with every step, making his cock twitch half-hard at the memory.

The door opened without a knock.

Hamish entered first: shirtless; boots kicked off in the corridor; trews low on his hips. The heavy scent of earth, fresh sweat, cut grass, and greenhouse loam rolling in like a storm. He crossed the room in two heavy strides, callused hands grabbing James by the waist, and kissed him hard.

Tongues met immediately, wet and hungry, beards rasping like sandpaper, the taste of tobacco, whisky, and salt sweat flooding James’s mouth. Hamish’s big hands slid under the open shirt, rough palms scraping pale skin, thumbs circling nipples until they peaked hard and sensitive. James moaned into the kiss, arms wrapping around the gardener’s thick neck, body pressing close, the coarse chest hair dragging over his bare torso like wire.

Hamish backed him to the bed, never breaking the kiss, lips sliding, tongues tangling in slow, filthy spirals. They tumbled onto the mattress—sheets cool against heated skin—Hamish on top, hairy belly pressing down, the weight pinning James deliciously.

The kiss deepened, saliva mixing, breaths shared in hot, ragged gasps, Hamish’s beard scraping James’s chin raw.

Hamish flipped the kilt high, spat thickly into his palm with a wet sound, slicked his thick, veiny cock, and pushed in face-to-face. Slow. Deep. The stretch burning sweet and familiar. James’s legs wrapped around the older man’s waist, heels digging into the small of his back, nails scratching down sweat-slick skin.

They fucked missionary, eyes locked, mouths never far apart, kissing through every thrust, tongues sliding wetly as Hamish ground deep. The wet slap of balls against arse mixing with the creak of the bedframe.

James came first. Untouched, body arching off the sheets. A choked cry muffled against Hamish’s lips as he spilled hot and thick between their bellies, the scent of his own release sharp and intimate.