Broken Sky

XXX & Bone # 3

Intro from Rowan

This XXX & Bone is gratuitous, yes, but read it with the reverence it deserves. All my writing is personal, but this piece… this one brings back more than any other so far.

I have written a lot of me and Kurt. There is a whole repertoire of moments I could share, beautiful, filthy, and everything between. When, and if, I feel brave enough, I will.

For now, I ask you to read, to share, and to tell me how you feel.

Love and heat,
Rowan

This one is for everyone. Please enjoy.

In the heart of the Blue Mountains, a storm broke over us and washed everything else away. Navy leave, a trail hidden by friends, and Kurt, my second boyfriend, my beautiful arrogant PTI, took control under a broken sky. Rain, earth, muscle, and heat. He edged me like a clockmaker, claimed me like the storm itself, and left me marked in ways only the bush will ever know.

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I was on Navy leave, the kind of stretch where every muscle in your body still hums from routine, but your mind is desperate for something unplanned. Kurt suggested the Blue Mountains, a weekend out of the city, fresh air, legs sore from something other than drills. He was my second official boyfriend, a PTI, older, stronger, arrogant as hell, and annoyingly aware of how much that turned me on.

He had a way of making me squee without even trying. Not squeal… squee. That quiet, involuntary rush you get when someone you want presses all the right buttons in the right order. Kurt was that. He helped turn me from bone to brawn, both in and out of bed, but I digress.

The trail had been recommended by two close female friends, the kind who seem to know which tracks have the best views and which have the best places to disappear. It was early summer, the air heavy with eucalyptus and heat, magpies warbling somewhere up in the canopy. The path wound through gums and sandstone ledges, the kind of green-gold light that makes you want to slow down just to drink it in.

Kurt didn’t slow down. He was out in front, that perfect arse moving under thin hiking shorts, his calves flexing with each step. He’d glance back now and then, grin, and keep going, just enough to keep me chasing him.

Five kilometres in, the weather turned. The air changed first, it was cooler, sharper, then the sky cracked open.

It didn’t drizzle. It poured.

Within seconds, we were drenched. Clothes plastered to skin, boots filling with water, hair dripping into eyes. We tried for cover, but it was pointless. Every leaf, every branch, every bit of sky above was just another place for the rain to spill through.

We stood there, laughing at the futility of it. My shirt clung to me, his shorts darkened to black, the shape of him showing clear. His hand found mine without words, tugging me off the track and down toward a half-sheltered rock ledge. It wasn’t much, just a jagged slab keeping the worst of the downpour off our heads, but it was enough to pull us close, our bodies pressed together, heat battling the chill.

The smell of wet earth and gum leaves filled the air. His breath was hot against my cheek. And even before his hand slid down my back, I knew exactly where this was going.

The rock ledge didn’t stop the rain. It just slowed it enough to feel like the sky was teasing us. Droplets ran down his neck, pooling briefly in the hollow above his collarbone before sliding over the swell of his chest. I couldn’t help it, I leaned in and caught one with my tongue. He smirked.

“Couldn’t wait?” he asked, voice low.

“Not with you standing there like that.”

His hand went to my jaw, thumb tracing the edge of my stubble. For a moment, he just looked at me, like he was deciding whether I was going to be ruined quickly or drawn out until I begged. I knew which one he’d choose.

He stepped closer, pressing me back against the cold sandstone. His body was warm and solid despite the soaking. I felt the length of him through our wet clothes, the press deliberate. The smell of him mixed with the rain, salt, skin, and something faintly sweet from the gum trees.

Then, without a word, he dropped to his knees.

The sight made my stomach tighten. His hands were already on my hips, thumbs hooking into my waistband. He pulled me forward just enough to free me from the cling of my shorts, my cock springing up into the cool air before he closed his fist around it.

Kurt didn’t rush. He stroked me slow at first, letting the water slick his palm, eyes locked on mine. I reached down to pull him up, wanting his mouth, but he shook his head.

“Not yet,” he said.

The control in his tone was the same as on the training floor… Absolute, unyielding. I let my hands fall to my sides.

He leaned in and took me into his mouth, the heat of him a shock after the chill of the rain. He worked me with that deliberate rhythm of his, jaw and tongue moving in perfect counterpoint, every pull sending a shiver through my spine. His hands gripped my thighs, holding me exactly where he wanted me.

Just as I started to give in, hips pushing forward, he pulled off and stood.

I went to protest, but his hand was already on my chest, pushing me down onto the wet ground. The cold hit me first, then the feel of leaves and grit under my palms. He stripped me the rest of the way, tossing my shorts aside.

Kurt crouched behind me, his hands parting me with a confidence that made my breath catch. Then his mouth was there, hot, insistent, and the rain above became nothing more than a soundtrack to the slick, obscene sounds he was making. Every press of his tongue was deliberate, a slow claiming.

I gasped, gripping at the earth. “Kurt—”

“Stay down,” he said, voice firm.

And I did. The rain ran over both of us, mixing with spit and heat, until the ground beneath felt like it was moulding to our bodies. I could feel him smiling against me.

“You’re ready,” he murmured, but I knew he wasn’t about to give me anything yet. Not with the way he worked.

He didn’t move far. One moment his mouth was still at me, the next his weight shifted, and he swung a leg over. I was on my back before I even realised, staring up at him framed by grey sky and green canopy. Rain ran down his temples, over his jaw, dripping from his chin onto my chest.

Then his arse was over my face.

Not a suggestion. A placement.

The scent of him was intoxicating, sweat and rain and that deep, masculine musk that only came alive when he’d been working me over. He pressed down until I was smothered, his weight sealing me into worship. I didn’t fight it. I opened for him, tongue working in tight circles, hands gripping his hips.

Kurt groaned low, and I felt it through his body.

Between each shudder of pleasure, his hand found my cock. Not a rhythm, not yet, just slow, steady tugs that kept me there, hanging on the edge. The rain kept everything slick, his grip sliding without resistance. I could feel myself ready to tip, the heat curling low in my stomach.

And then, just as I was there, he stopped.

He knew exactly what he was doing. Each time I reached for release, he pulled back, lifting off my face just enough to let me breathe, then dropping again, grinding down with a deliberate rock of his hips. His hand would work me faster for a few strokes, then slow, then stop. The man was a master clocksmith, winding and unwinding me with precision.

The thunder rolled somewhere deep in the valley, and the sound seemed to sync with my pulse. Rain pattered on his back, my face, the leaves around us. I could hear my own groans swallowed by the storm.

“Not yet,” he murmured, as if reading my thoughts. His voice was rougher now, edged with his own need.

I lost track of how many times he pulled me back from the brink. My thighs were trembling, my teeth clenched, every nerve in my body tight with wanting. When he finally gave me the nod, that tiny tilt of his head that meant now, I let go so hard I felt my whole body jolt.

It hit my chest in warm bursts, mixing instantly with the cold rain. I was still panting when I felt his hand scoop it up, slicking it over himself with slow, deliberate strokes.

“Don’t move,” he said.

I didn’t.

The rain was coming harder now, fat drops striking my skin like cool fingers. I lay there, spent but still twitching, watching him coat himself with my release. His hand moved slow, working it into every ridge and vein of his cock like oiling a weapon.

Then he was on me.

No preamble, no tease this time. He rolled me over, one hand pressing between my shoulder blades, the other guiding himself to where I was already open from his mouth. He pushed in with a single, deep stroke that made me gasp, part pain, part relief, all hunger.

He set a brutal pace.

The storm was nothing compared to him. Each thrust drove me forward into the wet ground, leaves and sticks digging into my skin. The rhythm was relentless, hips slamming against mine, the slap of wet flesh almost lost beneath the drum of rain on the canopy. He wasn’t talking anymore, just grunting low, a man chasing something he knew he was about to catch.

I tried to push back, to match him, but he pressed my shoulders down, keeping me exactly where he wanted me. I gave in, fully this time, letting him use me, letting the world shrink to the space between his body and mine.

The heat built again, impossible so soon after the first. Every thrust wound me tighter, my breath coming short, my heart in my throat. And then he was there, deep, holding, spilling inside me with a guttural sound that made my whole body tense in answer.

We stayed locked like that, rain streaming down our backs, his cock pulsing inside me until it stilled. When he finally pulled out, the emptiness was almost as sharp as the fullness had been.

He collapsed beside me. Neither of us spoke. We just lay there in the scratchy leaves and sticks, the ground slick beneath us, the air cool against our overheated skin. My body ached, bruised hips, scraped elbows, a line of marks across my chest where he’d held me down.

And yet, I felt utterly tranquil.

The rain softened, the thunder rolling away into the distance. The bush smelled richer now, every plant and root breathing deep. Above us, the tall trees swayed gently, leaves trembling as if they’d seen what we’d done.

We didn’t bother dressing right away. We stayed as we were, nude and spent, two men in the middle of a sodden trail who’d just made the kind of love that leaves you lighter.

When we finally stood, I caught his eye. He gave me that small, satisfied smile that said you’ll remember this every time it rains.

He was right.

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Final Note from Rowan

Kurt and I never parted. We never broke, never drifted, never found the edges of each other’s patience or desire. A few months later, he was taken from me, a car accident, a drunken man behind the wheel of another car. There was no warning, no slow goodbye, just absence where his laugh used to be.

But, Kurt… he lingers. In the way I still train my body. In the way I give myself over in the rain. In the way I sometimes find my breath caught for no reason at all, only to realise I’ve remembered the weight of him on top of me.

And every time the sky breaks open, every time the air sharpens and the clouds roll low, I feel him. The weight, the rhythm, the way he claimed me under a broken sky. Storms do not just remind me of Kurt. They bring him back.

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