I have never been an expert at hiring professionals. I usually took the first cheapest offer I found in the classifieds and prayed that the job would not turn out to be botched. This time was no different. I found a painter whose price was ridiculously low. The job description had a note that amused me: “I work however I feel like.” I thought he meant flexible hours, or maybe that he took cigarette breaks. I tapped “call,” and we agreed on the details.
When the day came, I heard the doorbell ring and went to open it. The door swung open, and for a second I couldn't say anything. Standing in front of me was a guy who looked like he was in an underwear ad, around thirty years old, tall, broad shoulders, and clearly defined muscles visible under his tight T-shirt. He had short stubble, slightly tousled hair, and a tattoo peeking out from under his sleeve.
There was a gleam in his eyes that immediately made it clear he was confident. “Oliver,” he said, extending his hand to me. His voice was low, a little hoarse. A firm handshake, a warm hand.
“You're Matt, right?”
“Yes...” I replied, a little too slowly, as I was still analyzing every detail of his face and figure.
“Well, show me where to paint,” he added without preamble, as if we had known each other for years.
I took a step back, letting him in. The smell of paint mingled with the delicate scent of his perfume, warm and masculine. We walked down the hallway, and out of the corner of my eye I watched how freely he moved, completely at ease, like someone who is in his own world and doesn't care about anyone else's opinion.
I don't know if I was being overly sensitive, or if he really did give me a quick glance that lasted a fraction of a second longer than usual.
We reached the large room I wanted to redecorate. He leaned against the doorframe, looked at the walls, and smiled slightly, as if he could already see the end result in his mind.
“I'm warning you, Matt, I have my rules,” he said, adjusting the strap on his tool bag.
“Rules?” I raised an eyebrow, thinking I was about to hear about deposits or hours.
“Yes. I work however I feel like. I can listen to loud music, I can take breaks, and if it's hot...” He looked me straight in the eye, pausing as if to gauge my reaction. “...I can do it in my underwear.”
I laughed reflexively, but something stirred inside me. I didn't know if he was joking or serious. His tone was completely neutral, but his gaze... his gaze was like a touch that tests how far you can go.
“Okay, I don't mind,” I replied, trying to sound indifferent.
“Good,” he said, moving deeper into the room and placing his bag on the floor. “Because it gets really hot in here sometimes.”
Instead of taking out the roller right away, Oliver slowly walked around the room, touching the walls. I stood next to him, my thoughts completely elsewhere than painting. What if he really takes off his shirt? What if... he goes further?
I felt that this job wasn't just about paint.
Oliver knelt down by the bag and began to take out rollers, brushes, and paint cans. He did it calmly, without rushing, as if he were unpacking his things at home, not at a client's house. At one point, he put down the roller, grabbed the bottom of his T-shirt, and pulled it off in one motion.
There was not a hint of hesitation. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, he revealed his broad, muscular arms, his torso with clearly defined muscles and a tattoo on his rib. His skin glistened slightly, as if he had just come out of the gym.
“It's too hot in here...” he muttered, throwing his shirt on a chair.
I didn't even have time to answer before he reached for his belt. The metal buckle jingled, then he unbuttoned his fly and slid the fabric down. He was left in tight white boxer briefs that hugged his hips, leaving little to the imagination.
I swallowed hard. My eyes drifted down, and then I saw the clear, heavy outline of his cock stretching the fabric.
“Well… now it’ll be easier to work,” he said, as if it were just a matter of comfort, not a deliberate effect.
I didn't know if I was more turned on by his body or the confidence with which he presented it. I tried to look away, but it was like trying to stop myself from looking at a fire.
Oliver turned toward me and raised an eyebrow, as if he already knew what I was focusing on.
“Do you like the view?” he asked suddenly, smiling in a way that didn't require an answer because he already knew it.
I froze for a second, trying to collect my thoughts. My head was in chaos, on the one hand I wanted to pretend indifference, on the other... my gaze kept returning down, as if it had a will of its own.
“Just checking how your work's going,” I replied evasively, although it sounded absurd considering that I had been staring at his crotch just a few seconds ago.
Oliver just lifted the corner of his mouth in a smirk and went back to spreading the drop cloth across the floor. His movements were slow, unhurried, and every step revealed another tense muscle in his thighs and glutes.
He picked up a roller, dipped it in the paint tray, and walked over to the first wall. I stood leaning against the doorframe, pretending to watch him as a professional. In reality, I was watching every twitch of his body, every drop of sweat running down his neck.
And then it dawned on me that it was only the first day.
And I was already looking forward to the next.
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