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Authors: Jaime Samms
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mirror. “You couldn’t be more obvious if you went out and got ‘Fuck Me’ tattooed across your forehead. I’m not saying that will never happen. Just saying you have to earn the privilege. You can start in the backyard.”
He eased the car back into the stream of traffic and kept his gaze on the road from that point on. I wondered if he knew the way he’d been looking at me was enough to give me a raging hard-on that wouldn’t go away. It was going to be an uncomfortable afternoon.
I NEEDN ’ T have worried. Between the sun beating down and the number of shrubs that required freeing from their winter burlap prisons, I was plenty uncomfortable with sweat seeping through my shirt and muscles aching from underuse all winter. The erection disappeared around the time I unwrapped the third shrub. It wilted so definitively, I doubted I would get it up again anytime soon.
Malcolm came out a few times to offer water and stand on the porch, arms crossed, watching me. He barely spoke and didn’t offer to help, even while he watched me struggle with stakes hammered so far into the ground it took me throwing my weight against them to get them to move.
He smiled when I finally got a particularly stubborn one uprooted.
“Looks good,” he called. “Another hour and a half or so and dinner will be ready.” He offered a particularly shifty smile. “You can shower inside this time.”
“I don’t have clean clothes.” I plucked at my damp, mud-streaked shirt and pushed my glasses up my nose as they slipped—again—through my sweat.
He shrugged, stuck his hands in his pockets, which showed off an impressive erection, and went back inside.
“Fu-uck.” I leaned on the stake and panted for a few minutes. The man was going to send me completely around the bend. But he’d given me a task and told me I had to earn what I could no longer deny I desperately wanted: that impressive erection buried deep in me. So I went back to work and tried not to think about it. Yeah. Because that was a piece of cake, putting that thought out of my head.
On the plus side, I’d never accomplished so much in a scant hour and a half as I did trying to work hard enough not to spooge in my pants over the fantasy.
I was in the shed, wiping the tools down and putting them away, when I heard a car and peeked out. I could see the drive and watched Charlie get out of a mud-brown Jeep and slump toward the front door. Poor guy looked completely wiped. Malcolm met him halfway, stopped him with a kiss that had Charlie dropping his briefcase and jacket in the gravel and grabbing fists full of Malcolm’s shirt. He closed his eyes and about melted as Malcolm dug hands into his hair and took everything he wanted from that kiss.
“Fucking hell,” I muttered. Watching them was not helping me get over the discomfort in my pants.
Malcolm dragged him toward the door, and Charlie didn’t even protest, leaving his shit behind in the driveway. I did catch the glance Malcolm directed toward the garden shed’s open door and the devilish grin he shot me when he saw me standing there watching.
Charlie still had his eyes closed, reaching for that kiss to be renewed, and he trusted Malcolm to lead him into the house and not trip him up. Malcolm pointed over his lover’s shoulder to his things and gave me a significant look.
There was no doubt I’d just been ordered to clean up after him. I nodded and went back to cleaning the tools and putting them away before going to gather Charlie’s belongings from the drive and taking them around back to the other door. I had an unsettling feeling that, gardener or house boy, I was not welcome to use the front door unless invited. It shouldn’t have been possible to get any harder, and that thought should not have made me so. But it did, and I moaned softly under my breath, sure I was walking like a spastic duck to spare my dick.
The house was quiet. I removed my shoes, hung Charlie’s things in the closet,
He eased the car back into the stream of traffic and kept his gaze on the road from that point on. I wondered if he knew the way he’d been looking at me was enough to give me a raging hard-on that wouldn’t go away. It was going to be an uncomfortable afternoon.
I NEEDN ’ T have worried. Between the sun beating down and the number of shrubs that required freeing from their winter burlap prisons, I was plenty uncomfortable with sweat seeping through my shirt and muscles aching from underuse all winter. The erection disappeared around the time I unwrapped the third shrub. It wilted so definitively, I doubted I would get it up again anytime soon.
Malcolm came out a few times to offer water and stand on the porch, arms crossed, watching me. He barely spoke and didn’t offer to help, even while he watched me struggle with stakes hammered so far into the ground it took me throwing my weight against them to get them to move.
He smiled when I finally got a particularly stubborn one uprooted.
“Looks good,” he called. “Another hour and a half or so and dinner will be ready.” He offered a particularly shifty smile. “You can shower inside this time.”
“I don’t have clean clothes.” I plucked at my damp, mud-streaked shirt and pushed my glasses up my nose as they slipped—again—through my sweat.
He shrugged, stuck his hands in his pockets, which showed off an impressive erection, and went back inside.
“Fu-uck.” I leaned on the stake and panted for a few minutes. The man was going to send me completely around the bend. But he’d given me a task and told me I had to earn what I could no longer deny I desperately wanted: that impressive erection buried deep in me. So I went back to work and tried not to think about it. Yeah. Because that was a piece of cake, putting that thought out of my head.
On the plus side, I’d never accomplished so much in a scant hour and a half as I did trying to work hard enough not to spooge in my pants over the fantasy.
I was in the shed, wiping the tools down and putting them away, when I heard a car and peeked out. I could see the drive and watched Charlie get out of a mud-brown Jeep and slump toward the front door. Poor guy looked completely wiped. Malcolm met him halfway, stopped him with a kiss that had Charlie dropping his briefcase and jacket in the gravel and grabbing fists full of Malcolm’s shirt. He closed his eyes and about melted as Malcolm dug hands into his hair and took everything he wanted from that kiss.
“Fucking hell,” I muttered. Watching them was not helping me get over the discomfort in my pants.
Malcolm dragged him toward the door, and Charlie didn’t even protest, leaving his shit behind in the driveway. I did catch the glance Malcolm directed toward the garden shed’s open door and the devilish grin he shot me when he saw me standing there watching.
Charlie still had his eyes closed, reaching for that kiss to be renewed, and he trusted Malcolm to lead him into the house and not trip him up. Malcolm pointed over his lover’s shoulder to his things and gave me a significant look.
There was no doubt I’d just been ordered to clean up after him. I nodded and went back to cleaning the tools and putting them away before going to gather Charlie’s belongings from the drive and taking them around back to the other door. I had an unsettling feeling that, gardener or house boy, I was not welcome to use the front door unless invited. It shouldn’t have been possible to get any harder, and that thought should not have made me so. But it did, and I moaned softly under my breath, sure I was walking like a spastic duck to spare my dick.
The house was quiet. I removed my shoes, hung Charlie’s things in the closet,
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