Climax

The Gardener

The garden had grown wild in his absence. Ivy reached for the sundial, but the gardener pushed it back with one gloved hand, firm and casual on the weathered stone.

Sunlight touched his skin, rugged and pale, and for a moment I swore the bees paused mid-flight.

I watched from my study window, the book forgotten in my lap.

He moved with deliberate ease, like time slowed around him. When he bent to rip ivy from the wall, his shirt tugged across his back. The sight jolted me.

I’d never studied a man’s back before. The line from shoulder to waist stayed with me, seared into memory. His shorts barely covered the curve of his ass. His thick, hairy legs framed the edge of the soft gray material. When he brushed hair from his brow with his wrist, I turned away too quickly.

I told myself it was just gratitude. I lifted my glass, pretended to care about the taste of the sauvignon, but my eyes slid back to the man among the roses.

He wasn’t sculpted. His strength came from labor, and it showed in the way his shirt clung to him. Damp curls at his temple caught the light. Through the open buttons, I glimpsed his chest, which was broad, dusted with hair, and glistening.

He looked lived-in, worn by weather and muscle, and comfortable in a way I hadn’t felt in years.

He glanced up, a smirk tugging at his lips like he knew something I didn’t, then headed toward the side of the house. He expected cash, the way he always worked. I fetched my wallet and walked out to the gazebo.

He came in, dark hair thick, eyes the blue of the Mediterranean, sweat slipping down his neck and chest. When he smiled, there was always a glint in his eye, like he knew things. Things about you that you didn’t even know yourself.

I watched him as he removed his gloves and pocketed them.

“Jordan, thank you. You do a fine job, and you’re appreciated. My wife thinks you’re wonderful. We’ve missed you. Hopefully you had a wonderful holiday.”

Jordan nodded, still staring, even as I drew out my wallet and some notes.

“That makes me happy. That you both appreciate me so much,” he said, then added, “And yes, thank you. A month away was definitely needed. But coming back and seeing how quickly gardens like yours fall apart without me, well…”

When I handed him the money, he never looked away. Our hands brushed, barely, but it was enough.

It shook me. I raised my hand to my mouth as if to hide it, then forced myself to straighten, his eyes on me the entire time.

“Would you like a coffee?” The words slipped out before I could stop them.

“I’d love one, thank you Mr. Cunningham. Just what I need,” Jordan said, still watching, still making me uneasy.

“Please, call me Robert.”

He removed his boots as I led him through the French doors, careful not to spill my glass, into the kitchen where everything gleamed in its place. The parquet floor caught the sharp sound of my shoes. Behind me, his feet in white socks slapped softer.

I set two cups on the counter and measured the coffee with the same care I gave to wine, while he washed his hands. He dried them and leaned against the wood like it was his right, leaving a faint smudge of soil where only polish should have been.

The silence stretched. I cleared my throat. My hand went to my neck, then my ears. He smiled then, slow and easy, unsettling me more than the quiet.

“Sugar?” I asked.

“Black’s fine,” he said, his voice low, warm, rough at the edges.

I handed him the cup with stiff fingers, careful to avoid contact. His hand was large, firm, and when it brushed mine it felt deliberate. My throat tightened. I grabbed my own cup too fast, sipping before it cooled, scalding my tongue. He drank without hesitation, his eyes steady on me as if the room belonged to him.

I shifted awkwardly, while he shifted against the counter, his socketed feet silent, at ease in a way I never was. The contrast between us was stark. I was polish and composure. He was earth and muscle, certain in his own body.

“Wife away then?” he asked.

I nodded and sipped the fine blend.

I set my cup on the counter. His eyes bored into me as he stepped around it, closing the space.

I drew in a breath and caught his on my face. My pulse thudded in my throat, and I hated that he could surely see it.
He braced his arm on the counter beside me. I stared at the breadth of it, looked away, then back again, ashamed of the fear mixed with the pull.

But also…

My heart raced. I tried to steady it with another sip, though my hand shook enough that the porcelain clicked against the saucer. He was too near. The scent of salt and sweat clung to him, pulling the air tight around us in that modern, wooden kitchen.

I told myself to speak, to slice the silence with some polite nothing, but no words came. His presence filled everything.

He leaned closer, and my shoulder brushed the heat of his arm. I startled, as if I’d touched flame, but didn’t move away. A trace of roses drifted in through the open door, and I thought how they had bent toward him in the garden. Now I felt myself bending too.

Jordan’s eyes held mine without apology. There was no restraint, no manners, and it hit me how unprepared I was to be looked at like that.

I cleared my throat again, absurdly, as though that small sound could undo what had already begun.

His masculine face, stern and rugged, held a twinkle in his eye, like he’d written the book and knew what was coming.

I was about to turn, make an excuse, thank him. But those blue eyes locked onto mine, and his hand reached for my arm. Not firm exactly, but deliberate. With meaning.

“I…” I had no idea what I intended to say.

But then he smiled. His face moved close, almost touching my nose.

“I know you watch me. And now I want you to touch me.”
With coarse, strong hands, he moved my hand down, lower to his manhood.

The back of my hand touched it. So hard, so hot and so…

He turned my hand around, and forced me to feel it, so I did. I cupped it, fear, curiosity and longing building.

He rubbed his thumb over the ridge of my cock through the fabric, steady, testing me. I felt his breath on my face, his lips moving closer, his eyes staring, forcing me to look away.

But I was stuck.

“Tell me to leave,” he said, his breath leaking into my mouth. I should have said it. Every part of me wanted to say it. I opened my lips, ready to push him back, to stop this.

But nothing came out.

My pulse pounded in my throat while my hand trembled against the counter. My cock twitched, traitorous, stiff against the front of my trousers.

I thought of my wife. Of what this meant. Of how wrong it was.

Still, I didn’t speak. His smile told me he’d already read the answer written across my body.

I needed him to leave. His presence, what he was forcing upon me, was outrageous. He was a very good-looking man, but that didn’t give him the right to…

His firm grip around my bulge curtailed all thoughts.

“Or do you want to shove it down my throat? Slide it inside me? Rub it next to mine?”

Sweat prickled across my brow and chest as my cock throbbed, answering for me.

I opened my mouth, but his lips were already there, his breath hot as he stared into my eyes.

Then he pressed his body to mine, his bulge grinding against me.

I swallowed, needing water.

Jordan ground himself against me, and I felt the heat, the wetness soaking into my underwear.

“I…” I began.

But as soon as my mouth opened, his lips caught mine. A sharp electric spark passed between us.

I couldn’t take it anymore. My arms flew around his waist, pulling him against me. I opened my mouth, let his lips crush into mine, and when our tongues met, our cocks ground together in a rhythm I couldn’t stop.

That was all he needed. His hands fumbled at my shirt buttons, my belt, my zipper. His tongue darted into my mouth as his strong hands stripped me down, then tore off his own.

Free readers: you just got kissed. Paid readers: you’re about to hear the headboard beg for mercy. Take the subscribe button to Robert’s bed. Strip it naked. Grind against it until it pays up.