I hadn’t set foot in Bali for ten years—not since that summer internship when I’d been a cocky business student and he’d been the local surf god who made my life hell. Marco. The name still made my jaw tighten. Now I was back, owning a small yoga retreat on the edge of Seminyak, trying to find peace. Peace was the last thing I found when I discovered the plot of land next door had been bought and turned into a surf school. His surf school.
The first time I saw him again, he was shirtless, waxing a longboard, his dark curls bleached at the tips by the sun, his body a map of lean muscle and old tattoos. He looked up, and those hazel eyes locked onto mine with the same arrogant spark. “Leo? No fucking way.”
“Marco.” I kept my voice flat. “You’re my new neighbor.”
He grinned, that infuriating, knowing grin. “Looks like it. Still as stiff as ever, I see.”
The tension between us was instant, a live wire. Over the next week, we argued over everything—the shared path to the beach, the noise of his students, the way his clients sometimes wandered onto my property for shade. It was petty, but it felt like a continuation of our old war. He’d outed me to a group of friends back then, laughed when I flushed with shame. Now here we were, both in our thirties, and the hatred still simmered.
Then the monsoon warning came. A big storm was rolling in, and the guests evacuated. My villa, built on stilts, was safer than his beachfront shack. He showed up at my door, drenched, his board under his arm. “Roof’s leaking. Can I crash here until this passes?”
I wanted to say no. But the wind was howling, and the rain was coming sideways. I let him in.
The electricity went out an hour later. We sat in the candlelit living room, drinking arrack. The anger between us was a third presence in the room. He accused me of looking down on him, a local boy made good. I accused him of never growing up. We stood up at the same time, chests heaving.
This Content Is Only For Subscribers
“You always thought you were better than me,” he growled.
“You always made sure I never felt safe,” I shot back.
Then he was on me. It wasn’t a punch; it was a grab. His hands fisted in my shirt, and he shoved me against the teak wall. The impact knocked the breath from me. I expected a fight, but instead, his body pressed flush against mine, and I felt it—the hard, thick line of his erection against my hip. My own cock stirred, traitorously.
“Fuck,” he muttered, his breath hot on my neck. “I hated you so much. Why does this make me so hard?”
I didn’t answer. I grabbed his face and crushed my mouth to his. It was all teeth and tongue, a clash of lips, a battle for dominance. He tasted of salt and liquor. His hands ripped at my shorts, yanking them down. I did the same to his board shorts. Our cocks sprang free, slapping together, both fully erect, leaking.
He spun me around, pushing my chest against the wall. “This what you want?” he hissed, his hand sliding between my cheeks, rough and demanding.
“Yes,” I grunted.
He spat into his palm, then pressed a finger against my hole. It was dry, rough, but I was so turned on I didn’t care. He pushed in, one thick finger, and I cried out. “More.”
He added another, scissoring me open. The pain was sharp, but the pleasure was sharper. I was panting, pushing back onto his hand. “Fuck me, Marco. Stop pretending you don’t want to.”
He withdrew his fingers. I heard him spit again, then the blunt head of his cock pressed against me. He didn’t ask. He just pushed. The burn was intense, a stretch that bordered on agony, but as he sank deeper, inch by inch, it morphed into a breathtaking fullness. He was big, thicker than I was used to. He bottomed out, his hips flush against my ass, and we both groaned.
Then he moved. Hard, deep strokes, each one driving me into the wall. His hands gripped my hips, his fingers digging into my skin. There was no tenderness, just raw, aggressive fucking. The sound of skin slapping skin mixed with the storm outside. He leaned over, biting my shoulder. “You take it so good,” he growled. “Always knew you would.”
I reached back, grabbing his thigh, urging him deeper. My own cock was trapped between my belly and the wall, leaking pre-cum with every thrust. The pleasure built, a coil tightening in my gut. “I’m gonna come,” I warned.
“Come then,” he commanded, slamming into me harder.
I shouted as my orgasm ripped through me, stripes of white painting the wall. The clenching of my ass around him sent him over the edge. He buried himself to the hilt, pulsing, hot cum filling me. He collapsed against my back, both of us breathing raggedly.
We didn’t speak. He pulled out, and I winced. We cleaned up in silence. The storm raged on. We slept in separate rooms.
The next morning, the sun was out. He made coffee. We sat on the veranda, avoiding each other’s eyes. “That shouldn’t have happened,” he said finally.
“But it did,” I replied.
He looked at me, his expression unreadable. “I’m not gay.”
I laughed, a bitter sound. “Your dick disagrees.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “I’ve never… with a man. Not all the way.”
That surprised me. “Why me?”
“Because I’ve been thinking about it since you were that skinny student following me around with those angry eyes.” He leaned forward. “I was an asshole. I’m sorry.”
The apology disarmed me. “What now?”
“Now,” he said, standing up and pulling me to my feet, “I want to do it right.”
He led me to the bedroom. This time, it was slow. He laid me on the bed, kissed every inch of my body, took his time opening me with his tongue and then with slick fingers. When he entered me, it was with a gentle, relentless pressure that made me see stars. We made love for hours, exploring each other, learning what made the other moan. He came inside me again, and this time I held him close.
That was the beginning. Our secret affair burned through the rest of the monsoon season. We fucked on the black sand beach at night, the waves licking our feet as I rode him under the stars. We sneaked into a secluded jungle waterfall, where he pinned me against the rocks and took me from behind, the cold water contrasting with the heat of his body. Once, daringly, we did it in the ruins of an ancient temple at dawn, a sacrilegious, thrilling act that left us breathless and laughing.
The sex was varied and constant. Sometimes it was fast and rough, against a door or in the storage room. Sometimes it was slow and tender, in my bed, with whispered words. I sucked him for the first time under the pier, tasting the sea on his skin. He returned the favor in the outdoor shower, kneeling on the tile until I came down his throat.
Then my ex, Daniel, showed up. A guest at the retreat. Marco saw us talking, saw Daniel’s hand on my arm, and the jealousy in his eyes was volcanic. That night, he confronted me. It led to the most intense sex yet. He claimed me, over and over, marking me with bites and bruises, telling me I was his. I welcomed it, the possession, the raw emotion.
After Daniel left, Marco didn’t move out. He stayed. We merged our businesses—yoga and surf packages. We became a couple, open about it to the locals who mostly shrugged. The hatred had burned away, leaving something stronger, forged in lust and monsoon rains.
