Soaked on His Lawn Hard in His Bed

The job was a busted zone valve on a glass house west of Morrison. I was thirty-one, sunburned across the shoulders, and already filthy when the last sprinkler head sheared and hit me full in the chest. Cold well water. Hot asphalt off the driveway. I stood dripping in my work boots while the foothills went gold and the spray ticked against my ribs.

A man filled the garage door. Not the client. Bigger. Mid-thirties, thick through the neck and chest, strength-coach build, dark happy trail, sweat in the cuts of his abs. Towel on one shoulder. He looked like he had been watching longer than the spray, one hand hooked in gray shorts that hid nothing he was carrying.

- You the landscaper?
- Eli. Your sister hired me. Valve's fixed. The head isn't.
- Grant Hale. She's in Vail. I'm house-sitting and using the garage gym. You're soaked.
- I'll rinse the truck and go.
- Don't. Shower's on the side of the house. Beer after if you want it. I don't feel like drinking alone with a view this good.

I peeled the wet shirt off and followed the line of his back around the cedar, muscles shifting under tan skin, shorts low on a heavy ass. The outdoor shower was already running, warm, open to the ridge. He stepped out of those shorts without checking if I minded. I didn't. His cock hung thick against one thigh, and when he glanced back I was hard behind wet denim, belt half undone, pulse in my throat.

- Boots off. Come here.
- You sure?
- Been sure since you bent over that valve box.

That was the last thing either of us said for a long while. I kicked the boots into the gravel and shoved the jeans down, and he pulled me under the water by the hips before I had both feet free. His mouth hit mine hard, tongue pushing in while the spray beat our shoulders. He was solid everywhere I grabbed, chest like a wall, arms closing and leaving no room to think. My cock slid against the underside of his, both of us thick and getting thicker, wet skin and coarse hair dragging until my knees went stupid.

He turned me and set my hands on the stone. His cock nested heavy between my ass cheeks, not pushing in, just riding the slick while his mouth worked my neck and one big hand wrapped my shaft. Slow. Tight. His thumb smeared the head every time I leaked, and I leaked until I couldn't tell water from want. I reached back, got a handful of his ass, and hauled him closer. He groaned into my shoulder like the sound had been stuck in his chest all afternoon. I dropped to the wet cedar and took him in my mouth before he could set the pace.

He tasted like salt and clean skin, thick enough that my jaw ached, and I wanted the ache. I worked my tongue under the head, then took him deeper, lips stretched, one hand on his balls, the other at the base so I could breathe and still have him. His thighs bracketed my shoulders, heavy, shaking when I sucked harder and looked up through the water. He held my wet hair without forcing, hips giving small thrusts I met. I pulled off, spit shining on his stomach, and he hauled me up to kiss it off my mouth. He killed the water and walked me dripping through the slider into a bedroom that smelled like cedar and him.

The bed was low and wide. He dragged me over him, all that muscle under my hands, his cock trapped against my stomach. I kissed down the hair on his chest, bit a nipple until the sheet fisted in his hand, then took him again until he was iron. He flipped us. His mouth on me was filthy and sure, throat opening, nose in my groin, one thick finger stroking behind my balls and then lower, circling until I spread my knees and pushed back. He opened me with spit and patience, two fingers, then three, curling until my heel dug the mattress and I ground down on his hand, jobs and valves gone.

He slicked himself from the nightstand and lined up, broad head nudging. I hooked my calves behind his thighs and pulled. He sank in slow and thick, the stretch bright, and I held his shoulders until it turned into a heavy fullness that made my cock jump. He stayed buried, chest on my chest, then moved. Long strokes, out until I almost lost him, back in until his hips hit and the bed knocked the wall. I got louder and dragged him harder, nails in his lats. He shifted my legs over his shoulders and the angle wiped the room white. I stroked myself messy and fast. His rhythm broke. He drove in and stayed, pulsing, heat spilling deep while that huge frame shook over me. I came across both our stomachs, clenching around him until he pushed deeper like he meant to stay.

He didn't pull out right away. We stayed stuck together, breathing like we had run the ridge, his weight a warm blanket and his mouth slack against my neck. When he eased out, the loss felt obscene. He wiped us down with the towel and dropped an arm across my chest, thumb tracing the sunburn. Outside, the sprinkler I had fixed ticked once and went quiet. My truck sat in his driveway with the door open. I didn't get up.