Chapter One

The stadium smelled like spilt beer and fried food, the kind of greasy carnival scent that clung to your clothes for days. Gerry elbowed me in the ribs, nodding toward the end of our row where two guys in Scotland jerseys were arguing loudly with a vendor over the price of a water bottle. One of them, tall, with tousled blond hair, forearms tanned and corded, shoved a handful of crumpled euros at the man before snatching the bottle and passing it to his friend.

"Christ, they’re fit, just your type back home," Gerry muttered, wiping his hands on his jeans like he was nervous. I rolled my eyes, but couldn’t disagree. The blond one had that effortless magnetism, the kind that made people glance twice even when he wasn’t doing anything special. His friend was darker-haired, quieter, but just as striking in a leaner, sharper way. They weren’t even looking at us, too busy laughing at some joke between them, but Gerry had already straightened his posture like we were being assessed.

The match was midway through the first half, and the noise was loud and animated with chants, whistles, and the occasional roar when someone took a shot. At some point, the blond guy turned and caught me staring. Instead of the awkward glance-away I expected, he grinned and lifted his beer in a lazy toast. "You lot English?" he called over the din.

"Unfortunately," Gerry shouted back before I could answer, which made both Scots laugh.

The next time the stadium erupted, some near miss shot that sent the crowd surging to their feet, I stayed planted in my seat. The blond Scot, whose name I still didn’t know, stood right next to me, his hips angled toward the pitch. His shirt rode up just enough to expose the waistband of his underwear, a strip of fabric riding snug above the worn denim of his jeans. It was stupidly mundane, but my brain latched onto it; the faint indentation where the elastic pressed into his skin, the way the fabric dipped slightly at the small of his back. The label spelling out the single word, Hanes and from where I sat, I could smell him, cheap lager and something earthier, like grass and sweat, and for a second, I forgot to breathe.

The blond glanced over his shoulder, his grin lazy and knowing, looking down at me before dropping back into his seat, leaning close enough that his knee bumped mine. "You’re not much for standing, are you?"

"Depends on the view," I said, immediately wishing I could bite my own tongue off.

"Like what you see?" he asked, his voice low and teasing, edged with that Scottish lilt that made everything sound like a dare. I wanted to die on the spot as Gerry nudged me in the ribs with a knowing smile painted across his face, the kind that said, 'I told you so' without needing words. The blond just kept grinning, waiting for me to dig myself deeper.

I coughed into my fist, buying time. The match roared on around us, a distant backdrop to the way my pulse thudded in my ears. "Depends," I said, aiming for casual and landing somewhere closer to strangled. "Is the view gonna cost me five euros like the bottle of water?"

The blond barked a laugh, loud enough that his friend, dark-haired, sharp-eyed, turned to look at us. "Aye, that’s Ewan’s speciality," the blond said, jerking his thumb at the vendor still scowling down the row. "Robbing tourists blind," as his knee stayed pressed against mine, warm through the fabric of my jeans.

Gerry, the absolute traitor, leaned around me to extend a hand. "Gerry," he said, like this wasn’t the most embarrassing moment of my life. "And this is...Steve."

"Callum," the blond said, shaking Gerry's hand before turning to me. His fingers were rough against mine, warm and slightly damp from the condensation on his beer bottle. "And that miserable bastard's Ewan," as he jerked his chin toward his dark-haired friend, who rolled his eyes but didn't deny it.

Ewan leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and fixed me with a look that felt like being X-rayed. "So," he said, his voice dry as sandpaper, "what was it you were admiring earlier?"

Callum grinned, stretching his arms overhead in a way that deliberately made his shirt ride up again. The strip of skin above his waistband of his Hanes was sun-kissed, a shade darker than the rest of him, and for a stupid, breathless second, I couldn’t look away.

"For you," Callum said, dropping his arms and leaning in close enough that I caught the scent of his sweat again, sharp and human under the stale beer, "there’s no charge. So, answer the question, old man."

Gerry snorted into his drink, my desire was obvious, but I wanted to throttle my friend then and there from embarrassment.

"To be fair," I said, shifting my weight because Callum's knee was still pressed against mine and it was frying my ability to form coherent sentences, "I have no alternative now, thanks to my friend here, but to tell you the truth, do I?"

Callum's eyebrows shot up, his grin widening in anticipation. His friend Ewan leaned back in his seat with the air of someone settling in for a show, while Gerry pretended to be deeply invested in the match, though I could see his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

“Not really,” Callum replied.

I exhaled through my nose. "I have to tell you. Nice midriff."

The words hung there, ridiculous and unavoidable, like a bad tattoo you wake up with after a night on the piss. Callum blinked once, then threw his head back with a laugh so loud it drew glances from the row in front of us. "Oh, that's fucking gold," he wheezed, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. "Ewan, you hear that? Nice midriff."

Ewan's mouth twitched, but all he said was, "Charming. I'm sure," returning his attention to the match.

In that single minute, I felt stupid beyond belief, like I’d tripped headfirst into some rom-com script written by a caffeinated thirteen-year-old. Callum’s laughter was still ringing in my ears, warm and unselfconscious, while Ewan studied me with the detached amusement of a cat watching a particularly clumsy bird.

Callum leaned in, close enough that I caught the faint scent of his shampoo, something cheap and piney, mixed with the sweat drying at his temples. “Nice midriff,” he repeated, slower this time, rolling the words around like he was savouring them. His grin was all teeth, the kind that made my stomach do something stupid and fizzy. “Never heard that one before. You always this smooth, or am I just special?”

I opened my mouth, then closed it. There was no winning here. If I leaned into the joke, I’d look like an idiot; if I tried to backpedal, I’d look like a coward. Callum’s knee was still pressed against mine, a solid, distracting warmth. Ewan had gone back to watching the match, but the curve of his mouth said he was still listening. Gerry, the traitor, had pulled out his phone like he was documenting my humiliation for posterity.

Then, like some merciful god of awkward pauses, the crowd erupted, a goal, our team, the stands shaking under the weight of sudden celebration. Callum whooped, slamming his beer down on the seat between us and hauling me up by the elbow with surprising strength. “C’mon, English, you’re missing it!” he shouted over the noise, his fingers tight around my wrist. For a second, I thought he was pulling me into some bizarre victory hug, but no, he was just dragging me to my feet so I could see the replay on the big screen, his other hand planted firmly on the small of my back.

The contact was casual, effortless, like we’d known each other for years instead of minutes. His palm was warm through my shirt, his thumb absently brushing the fabric where it had ridden up. The screen showed our striker knee-sliding toward the corner flag, teammates piling on top of him, and Callum was grinning at me like I’d personally scored the goal. “See?” he said, close to my ear now, breath tickling my neck. “Worth standing up for, I hope. Also, my dad tucks his vest in too.”

The words “my dad tucks his vest in too” hit me like a rogue football to the ribs. I blinked at Callum, trying to parse whether that was some obscure Scottish insult or just his way of keeping me off-balance. His grin didn’t waver, but his thumb had stilled against my back, pressing just slightly harder into the fabric. Ewan snorted into his drink, shaking his head like he’d heard this bit before. Gerry, the absolute bastard, mouthed “what the fuck” at me over Callum’s shoulder.

Then the crowd roared again, another near miss, and Callum’s grip on my wrist tightened reflexively. Up close, I could see the sunburn peeling at the bridge of his nose, the faint scar slicing through his left eyebrow, and he smelled like salt and cheap soap, the kind you’d find in a roadside pub’s bathroom.

Half-time was called, and the stadium lights flickered to full brightness like someone had flipped a switch on the collective hangover of 20,000 fans. Gerry hooked an arm around my neck before I could even think about staying seated. "Right," he announced, like a general marshalling troops, "we're getting a fucking drink before you embarrass yourself any further."

The lads, Callum and Ewan, stayed planted in their seats, Callum stretching his legs out into the aisle with the lazy sprawl of a cat in a sunbeam. "You're abandoning us?" Callum said, pressing a hand to his chest like I'd stabbed him. "After that nice midriff review? Harsh."

Ewan just shook his head, already pulling out his phone like he'd expected nothing less from the English and…his friend.

The concourse was a sweaty, shouting bottleneck of bodies, all elbowing toward the same overpriced taps. Gerry shoved a twenty at the nearest bartender and came back with two plastic cups of something that smelled like slops and regret. "So," he said, leaning in close so I could hear him. "Didn’t know you're into Scottish lads with dad vibes, then?"

I choked on my beer, which was probably for the best, tasting flat and warm. "He's not..." I started, but Gerry was already cackling, sloshing lager down his front. "Mate, the lad referenced his dad's vest. That's textbook dad energy."

Whether it was deliberate or accidental, I wasn’t sure. Upon our return from the concourse, Gerry plopped himself directly next to Callum, leaving me wedged between him and a stranger like some sort of awkward human buffer. The second half kicked off without preamble, the stadium’s energy dulled slightly by our halftime beers and the lingering summer heat.

Callum was now distant, though I caught him grinning to himself once when Ewan elbowed him after a particularly egregious referee call. Gerry, the traitor, had seamlessly integrated himself into their banter, tossing insults at the opposing team’s defence like he’d known them for years.

I, on the other hand, spent the next forty-five minutes hyperaware of Callum's smell and the way his laughter rolled over me like a physical thing, warm and unselfconscious. The match blurred into background noise, goals, near-misses and the occasional flare-up between players.

The final whistle blew like an air raid siren, sudden and definitive. Gerry was already on his feet, shoving his empty cup under the seat with the urgency of a man avoiding last call. "Come on," he muttered, grabbing my elbow with surprising force.

The crowd surged around us, a river of bodies flowing toward the exits, and before I could even think about turning back, before I could formulate some half-assed excuse to linger, we were swept up in the tide of bodies with a fifteen-kilometre journey home.

Chapter Two

The car smelled like old oranges and spilt diesel, the kind of scent that seeped into the upholstery and never leaves. Gerry drummed his fingers on the steering wheel to some beat only he could hear, the Andalusian countryside shrinking in the rearview mirror as we headed for home. "You're quiet," he said after twenty minutes of my staring out the window like a lovelorn extra in a bad road movie.

I didn't answer, too busy replaying the way Callum's thumb had pressed into the small of my back when he'd hauled me up during the goal. Gerry sighed and reached into his breast pocket, flipping a slightly bent business card onto my lap with the precision of a casino dealer. Bramley & Co Citrus Grove, our logo a jaunty cartoon orange with a face.

"Managed to slip that to Callum when you were busy watching the second half..." Gerry waving his hand, holding an example card, vaguely towards his own waistband. "Slipped it into his briefs, and he never even noticed."

The business card sat on my thigh like an accusation; the edges curled from sweat and Gerry’s terrible sleight of hand. I turned it over, half-expecting to find some smug note scrawled on the back, but it was just our standard Bramley & Co. print: Harvest Help Always Wanted. Competitive Rates. No Experience Necessary.

Gerry whistled tunelessly, swerving around a pothole like he hadn’t just orchestrated the most humiliating meet-cute in agricultural history. “They seemed like hard workers,” he said, as if that explained anything.

“They were drunk,” I pointed out, flicking the card onto the dashboard.

Chapter Three

Gerry and I had been friends since university, back when his hair was still dark, and my ex-wife still pretended not to notice how long I lingered in the men’s underwear section at Marks & Spencer. His marriage imploded when he caught his wife with an Aussie personal trainer named Shane...

"Like the fucking Neighbours character," he'd mutter every time the subject came up.

Mine ended more quietly, with Laura throwing my suitcase down the front steps after I told her why I kept cancelling date nights to "help Gerry move furniture." The irony wasn’t lost on either of us that we’d both married women who loved men, just not the ones they’d vowed to love.

Now, we were Bramley & Co Citrus Grove’s least-qualified owners, a title Gerry insisted on embroidering on our work shirts until I pointed out the spelling errors. Our kids, Gerry’s two teenagers and my college-aged daughter, treated the grove like a subsidised holiday camp, showing up every summer to tan on the patio while we wrestled with irrigation systems and migrant-worker paperwork.

"Fuck England," Gerry had declared one rainy Tuesday in Croydon, slamming his pint down so hard the table shook. "Fuck the drizzle, fuck the divorce lawyers, and especially fuck Shane." Three months later, we were signing the purchase agreements in broken Spanish, the scent of orange blossoms thick enough to drown in.

That had been ten years during which we had learnt so much about oranges and lemons, becoming in some respects, local celebrities for various reasons.

The morning after the local derby, Gerry was already halfway through his second cigarette by the time I stumbled onto the patio, my white Amazon Essentials briefs hiding my subsiding morning wood. He exhaled a long stream of smoke toward the lemon tree that served as our unofficial ashtray, his own red briefs relaxed over his body.

The sky was the kind of blue that made postcards look dull, the grove stretching out behind him in tidy rows of green and gold, the warmth building with each minute that time elapsed.

I grabbed the orange juice, freshly squeezed, another perk of the job and took a swig straight from the bottle. "I know you’re still thinking about yesterday. Not my fault, you've got the subtlety of a horny bulldozer, Steve," Gerry said, stubbing out his cigarette on a sun-bleached coaster that read Benidorm or Bust! in peeling letters.

"Mate, you stared at his waistband like it held the secrets of the universe. I was doing you a favour," he paused, squinting at me over his glasses. "Nice midriff. Where did that come from?" Gerry demanded."

“Gerry, it's true. Beautifully flat and..." the memory flooding back. "I just wanted to stroke his skin, it was that good."

"Well, you'll just have to stare at mine now, won't you?" Gerry responded with a chuckle.

Gerry and I were just friends. Nothing more. While Gerry had fucked every woman from here to Seville, I’d worked my way through most of the local lads, farmhands, bartenders, and that bloke who ran the petrol station with the distractingly good forearms.

We’d long since passed the point of awkwardness, stumbling into each other mid-shag with the same casual embarrassment as catching someone stealing biscuits. Impromptu nudity at the breakfast table was practically a house rule; Gerry once buttered toast while I sat across from him, still damp from the shower, neither of us bothering to mention the fresh love bites on my collarbone and thigh from the night before.

Which was why, when I caught him staring at my hips as I pulled on my work jeans that morning, I didn’t think much of it. "Nice midriff," he joked again, flicking a grape at my bare stomach.

"Fuck off," I muttered, tossing it back before walking away to check the irrigation systems, top of the list of jobs for the day.

My motivation was clear. Andalusia was facing increasingly frequent and prolonged droughts, which required rethinking irrigation water management under the criteria of efficiency, planning, and digitalisation, especially in the Guadalquivir basin, where we were based. Saving wastage was a priority that couldn't be ignored.

Gerry was the marketing expert and looked after the books as well. I was the practical one who didn't mind a bit of shit and dirt, and as such, we had a perfect business relationship.

I was knee-deep in mud, having discarded my jeans and shirt in favour of minimal clothing as I got very wet, repairing a high-pressure valve when, who did I spot walking through the orange grove towards me?

Callum.

Chapter Four

I stopped to stare as he got closer, a smile on his face, broad and unapologetic, like he'd expected me to be exactly here, exactly like this, covered in irrigation muck and semi-naked.

He had the same tousled blond hair, the same sunburn peeling at the bridge of his nose, but now he was wearing Bramley & Co.’s standard-issue work shirt, the sleeves rolled up to show off those same forearms I’d spent half the match staring at. The shirt was... what a surprise, not long enough to tuck in, riding up his midriff in a similar fashion to the football match.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Callum called, stepping over a tangle of hose with the easy grace of someone who’d spent his life navigating worse terrain. “Though I’ll admit, when your mate, Gerry, said ‘citrus grove,’ I pictured something a bit more...romantic. Less mud.”

I wiped my hands on my briefs, which did precisely fuck-all except smear dirt further up my thighs. “Gerry’s got a habit of overselling things,” I said, trying not to stare at the way Callum’s shirt stretched across his shoulders when he crouched down beside me. “Like the job benefits and his love life.”

"Before you ask, Callum, we're business partners, not... partners."

"Yeah, he told me," Callum said, scratching at the peeling sunburn on his nose with a grin. "Gerry told me exactly where you'd be. Down here, covered in mud, shit, probably half naked, trying to repair a valve."

I wiped a streak of dirt from my forehead, which only succeeded in smearing it further. "Where’s Ewan?"

Callum shrugged, crouching beside me in the muck without hesitation. His fingers brushing the faulty valve, assessing the damage with surprising familiarity. "Caught the train to Seville this morning. Flying home. His mum’s not well."

His tone was light, but something tightened around his eyes for half a second before he smoothed it away. "I decided I might stick around for a bit. Hoping to find work. And..."

He reached into his back pocket, pulling out a slightly crumpled Bramley & Co. card, the edges softened from sweat. "Bob’s your uncle, I found this stuffed in my pants."

I stared at the card; Gerry’s terrible handwriting scrawled across the back in smudged biro: Ask for Steve. He likes your midriff.

I was silent for a moment, unsure what to say next. "From your observation, I suspect you know what you're looking at," putting my hand on the valve.

Callum smiled. "Yeah. It’s a Pressure Relief Valve," he said, tapping the brass fitting with a knuckle. "Always installed on a tee off from the main supply line to open and release excessive pressure. Circulating relief valve, some call it. Or pressure-sustaining relief valve, if you wanna sound fancy," his fingers tracing the corroded threads where the valve met the pipe, his touch light but deliberate. "This one’s seen better days."

I stared at him, mud cooling on my thighs. "You know irrigation systems?"

"Yeah," Callum responded, flicking a bit of dried mud off the valve with his thumbnail. "Worked for my old man on oil pipelines back in Aberdeen. The principle’s the same, just swap crude for water."

He grinned up at me, sunlight catching the smooth lines along his jaw. "Less explosive, though. Usually."

I blinked. "Your dad let you work pipelines at...what, sixteen?"

"Fourteen," Callum corrected, shifting his weight so his knee pressed into the mud beside mine. "Started as a gopher, fetching wrenches and dodging foremen’s boots. By seventeen, I could rebuild a pressure regulator blindfolded," as he tapped the valve again, this time with the blunt edge of his thumbnail. "This one’s fucked, by the way. Threads are stripped to hell, gonna need replacing, not repairing."

The sun was high now, baking the mud into a cracked crust around us. Callum’s shirt had ridden up further, revealing a thin scar just above his hipbone, pale against his tan. I forced my gaze back to the valve. "We’ve got spares in the shed," I said, then immediately regretted how eager it sounded.

"Tell you what, Steve, I'll find the isolation valve if you go and get the new PRV."

"Does that mean Gerry gave you a job?" I asked, watching as Callum's fingers tightened around the faulty valve. His forearms flexed, tendons standing out like cables under sun-darkened skin. The mud had dried in streaks across his knees, matching the dirt caked on my own thighs.

Callum snorted, twisting the valve with practised ease. "Aye, if you call 'show up at dawn and don't complain' a proper contract," as he shot me a sideways grin, the one that made his scarred eyebrow hitch higher. "Your mate's got the business sense. Said you're the brawn in the partnership. Offered me bed, board, and whatever...."

Fair enough, I replied, marching off toward the storage shed, leaving Callum to find the isolation valve, not that I knew where it was. The truth was, our irrigation system was a Frankenstein’s monster of patches and jury-rigged fixes, half of which Gerry and I had installed after dubious YouTube tutorials. The isolation valve could’ve been anywhere from the north grove to the bloody septic tank for all I knew.

The shed smelled of petrol and rotting wood. I kicked aside a tarp crusted with last season’s fertiliser and dug through the boxes looking for a large box containing the new pressure relief valve. I found it buried under a coil of frayed rope. The packaging was sun-bleached, the plastic brittle as old bone, but the valve itself was new, still painted, waiting to be installed. "Perfect," I muttered, picking it up with some effort.

The view upon my return was frankly criminal.

Callum had stripped down to his underwear, pristine white Hanes briefs that highlighted his physique with intentional simplicity, clean lines hugging his hips with a substantial outline of his manhood barely concealed beneath the taut fabric.

He was crouched by the pipe junction, one knee planted in the mud, the other bent at an angle that made the muscles in his thigh stand out like cables under sun-darkened skin. His back was to me, shoulders flexing as he wrestled with a rusted coupling, and for a stupid, breathless second, I forgot how to walk as I stared at his arse. “Christ,” I muttered.

Then, like an echo, I heard another "Christ," this time, Gerry was muttered from somewhere behind me, materialising like a spectre of bad timing with a toolbox in hand.

"Subtle as a fucking fireworks display, that one," Gerry declared, as he elbowed me hard enough to jostle the valve I was carrying. "You’re drooling, mate."

"What have you done, Gerry?" I demanded, continuing to look at the view. "You've hired a God who knows, irrigation."

"Here," he said, handing me the toolbox. "Figured you'd need tools for this one," as Gerry whistled low under his breath. "As for hiring him? No, mate. I recruited him. There’s a difference," as he clapped me on the shoulder with the air of a man who’d just won the lottery and was kind enough to let me hold the ticket. "Also, you’re welcome."

Gerry walked off chuckling as I walked to join the god who was struggling with the valve. Callum's back flexed as he braced against the pipe, muscles shifting under skin glazed with sweat and drying mud. He didn't turn when my shadow fell across him, just grunted, "Pass me the fucking wrench," like we'd been working together for years instead of minutes.

The toolbox clanked as I dropped it beside him. Callum's fingers closed around the largest wrench without looking, his knuckles brushing my thigh, warm, perhaps deliberate. "Cheers," he muttered, tightening his grip on the pipe with his free hand.

His shoulders bunched as he twisted, tendons standing out like rigging lines, and for a heart-stopping second, I thought the wrench would slip. Then the coupling gave with a metallic shriek, sending Callum sprawling backwards into the mud with a laugh that was more bark than breath.

"Fuck me," he wheezed, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, which only smeared the dirt further. His briefs were soaked through now, clinging to every contour, and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from staring. "Threads are proper fucked," he added, tossing the ruined coupling aside with a clatter. "Good thing you've got spares."

I remained silent to his comment until Callum interrupted my thoughts, “Like what you see?”

That brought me back to reality as I sputtered something, my words sounding like a child learning how to communicate. “Um…Christ Callum, your briefs are…”

“Fairly transparent from the drenching. Yeah, I know,” he responded with a knowing chuckle. “Quite see through, aren’t they?”

“Sorry,” I said. “Sort of hard not to notice,” I stated, the truth sounding…wrong as I tried a chuckle to hide my… desire.

The isolation valve groaned like an old man waking up, loud, reluctant, and ultimately ineffective. A jet of water shot straight up from the pipe, arcing over us in a glittering curtain before crashing down onto our heads with the force of a pissed-off garden hose.

Callum swore, blinking water from his eyes as the spray plastered his hair flat against his forehead. My briefs turned translucent instantly, clinging to my thighs like a second skin, the fabric stretched tight enough to outline every contour.

"Thought you said you'd turned it off!" I shouted over the roar of escaping water, gripping the new valve so hard my knuckles went white.

Callum, sitting in the mud like some filthy baptismal candidate, twisted the wrench with all his might. His briefs were drenched, the fabric darkened to near black from the mud, and I could see the exact moment his teeth clenched hard enough to crack enamel. "Aye, well," he grunted between breaths, "your fucking pipes have other ideas! and excess water," as the flow turned into a trickle.

Callum tightened the connection with a final, practised twist, the muscles in his forearms jumping under sunburned skin. He stood abruptly, shaking water from his hair like a dog, droplets catching the sunlight as he walked toward the isolation valve with the easy confidence of someone who knew exactly where it was, which was frankly offensive, given how long Gerry and I had spent searching for the damn thing last spring.

He returned moments later, dropping back into the mud beside me with a splash that soaked my already ruined briefs further. "Job done," he announced, grinning at the way I flinched when cold water seeped into places water had no business being.

His knee knocked against mine under the murky surface, warm despite the chill. "But I think we should inspect the whole system," he added, wiping his hands on his thighs with a thoughtful frown. "This isn't the first patchwork fix, is it?"

Chapter Five

The mud dried in stiff patches on our legs as we trudged along the irrigation lines, Callum pointing out every jury-rigged coupling and corroded junction with the glee of a man who’d found his calling.

He moved through the grove like he’d been born to it, his shoulders loose, his stride easy, kicking aside clods of dirt with his bare toes like they’d personally offended him. By the third valve inspection, I’d stopped pretending not to stare at the way his damp briefs clung to his thighs when he crouched, the fabric straining just enough to make my throat go tight.

"Christ," Callum muttered, prying open a junction box crusted with rust. "This one’s held together with wishes and fucking duct tape," as his fingers, broad, nicked with old scars, darted over the fittings with surprising delicacy, tracing the cracks in the plastic like a doctor assessing battle wounds. I handed him the wrench without being asked, our fingers brushing in the exchange, his skin warm despite the water still dripping from our hair.

Gerry delivered lunch in a basket, taking five minutes to receive and update and having felt pleased with the report, he trudged off, back towards the house and probably, his office.

The sandwiches were ham and cheese, slightly squashed from Gerry’s haphazard packing, but the oranges above us were almost ripe enough to perfume the air with every lazy sway of their branches, but not ripe enough to eat. That would be another couple of months, but their smell and aroma suggested it would be a good harvest.

Callum leaned back against the trunk, his work shirt now a cushion against the bark. Sunlight dappled through the leaves, painting his collarbones gold, his damp hair still dark at the temples from our earlier battle with the pipes.

Something was very soothing as we enjoyed our lunch. The image of two guys, sitting under an orange tree in nothing but damp and disgustingly dirty briefs.

"Here," Callum said, tossing a sandwich at my chest before I flopped onto the grass beside Callum with the grace of a dropped sack of potatoes. "Eat...and you’re staring again."

"Sorry," I muttered, tearing my gaze away from the way Callum's damp briefs as he stretched. He chuckled, low and knowing, then plucked at his waistband with deliberate slowness.

"Nice midriff," he echoed, his grin sharp as broken glass. "Hell of a chat-up line, Steve, especially at a football match. "What do you think of my midriff now?"

"Was it that obvious?" I asked.

Callum smiled, "Yes, that obvious, but... don't ignore the question."

I swallowed hard, crumbs sticking to my throat. Callum’s waistband was right there, inches from my elbow, the fabric riding up to expose a strip of sun-pink skin above his hipbone. A scar bisected it, thin, white, the kind you get from something sharp and careless. "Your midriff’s fine," I muttered, aiming for casual and landing somewhere between strangled and hoarse.

"Fine?" Callum repeated, rolling the word around like he was tasting it. He hooked a thumb under his waistband and tugged it lower, just enough to reveal the dip of his pelvic muscle. The bastard knew exactly what he was doing. "Only fine?"

"Are you shaved down there and…where'd you get the scar?" I asked before I could stop myself. The words tumbled out like oranges knocked from a crate, clumsy, obvious, impossible to take back.

Callum's fingers stilled on his waistband, his grin softening into something quieter. "Yeah. Always keep myself shaved down there and…the scar, too many knives in Aberdeen," he said lightly, tracing the pale line with a fingertip. "And not enough sense to stay out of their way. Got stabbed one Saturday night after being called a queer cunt."

"No warning. The next thing I knew was a searing pain here," showing me the scar again. "It was bad, touch and go, as my old man kicked the shit out of the guy while I lay bleeding out."

"Wow... but you pulled through," I said, watching Callum's fingertip linger on the scar. The orange leaves rustled overhead, casting shadows that made his face harder to read. "That's the main thing."

"I did," he agreed, his voice flattening like someone had pressed the air out of it. "But my old man got fifteen years for manslaughter. He beat him senseless for stabbing me..." Callum's thumb digging into the scar now, whitening the skin around it. "But, Dad’s a big guy. Lost it. Kept going after the cunt stopped moving."

"I'm sorry about that. When will he get out?" I asked.

Callum's thumb still dug into the scar, his knuckle bone-white against his tan. "For good behaviour, another six years."

The words came out choked, like they'd been dragged over gravel. He swiped at his face with his free hand, smearing mud and something wetter across his cheek. "Everything changed after that. Been travelling around since, like a homeless person might," his breath hitching once, twice...then he bent forward, elbows on his knees, and the dam broke.

The sound was raw, unguarded, the kind of crying that couldn't be stifled. His shoulders shook, and for a long moment, I just sat there, paralysed, watching a young man who'd spent half a football match teasing me come utterly undone in the dirt. My hand hovered over his back before I remembered the mud caked there and settled for gripping his shoulder instead, finding his skin was warm under my palm, the muscle taut as wire.

"Fuck," Callum gasped into his hands, laughter threading through the tears like he couldn't decide which was more absurd, the crying or the fact that it was happening here, now, in front of a stranger. "Christ, I'm..." as he scrubbed his face again, smearing snot and tears into his stubble. "Didn't mean to..."

I didn't know why I did it, but I just reached out and tugged him onto my lap, mud and all. Callum went stiff for half a second before collapsing against me, his damp head heavy on my thigh, his shoulders still shaking. My fingers carded through his hair automatically, catching on dried sweat and pipe grime. "I'm so sorry, Callum," I murmured, my thumb tracing the shell of his ear. "It must be...so difficult."

"Nineteen," he rasped into my dirty briefs, the fabric growing damp where his forehead pressed. "Two years ago," his breath hitching again, hot through the thin cotton.

The orange leaves whispered above us. Somewhere beyond the grove, Gerry shouted something obscene at a tractor, blissfully unaware of the unfolding moment that held the two of us together.

Callum’s hair was softer than I expected, curling slightly at the nape where the sun hadn’t bleached it brittle as I scratched lightly there, the way I would with a nervous dog, and felt him sag further into me.

We remained quiet for a while, the only sound the distant rustle of leaves and the occasional drip of water from Callum’s hair onto my thigh. His breathing steadied gradually, the tension in his shoulders unspooling under my hesitant touch. Then, just as abruptly as he’d collapsed against me, he straightened, wiping his face with the back of his wrist. "Right," he muttered, his voice rough but steadying, "we should crack on inspecting the remaining valves."

Chapter Six

Before I could respond, he was on his feet, hauling me up with him in one fluid motion, his grip firm around my forearm. Mud flaked off our legs as we stood there, absurdly filthy, the afternoon sun baking the dampness from our clothes. Callum scrubbed a hand over his face again, then shot me a look that was equal parts gratitude and challenge. "Thanks," he said abruptly, his thumb brushing my elbow before he let go. "Thanks for... not being weird about it."

The moment hung between us, too heavy for laughter, too raw for silence, until Callum snorted and flicked a clod of dried mud at my chest. "Though if you tell Gerry about this, I’ll deny it and say you hallucinated from heatstroke," he added, already turning toward the next junction box with forced nonchalance, his damp briefs still clinging obscenely to his thighs.

By sunset, we’d patched six leaks, replaced three valves, and somehow acquired matching streaks of grease across our foreheads like some bizarre tribal marking. Callum worked with the kind of focus that bordered on obsessive, as if fixing our irrigation system could somehow mend other, more invisible cracks. Every time I caught his eye, he’d grin, that same sharp, teasing smile from the football match, but it never quite reached his eyes anymore.

Dinner was sardines on toast, eaten on the patio with our legs dangling over the edge, too filthy for proper chairs. Gerry talked enough for all three of us, recounting every minor drama from the grove’s WhatsApp group with the gravity of a wartime correspondent. Callum chewed methodically, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the sun bled into the orange trees. When Gerry paused to light a cigarette, the silence stretched just long enough to be noticeable.

“Right,” Gerry said abruptly, flicking ash into an empty sardine tin. “Early start tomorrow. Steve, you’re on tractor duty. Callum...” he hesitated, studying Callum’s grease-streaked profile. “...whatever the hell you want, mate. Miracle worker privileges.”

The outdoor shower was little more than a pipe rigged to the side of the storage shed, but after a day spent wrestling irrigation valves, the lukewarm spray felt like salvation. Callum stood under it with his back to me, his shoulders hunched against the water, his skin flushed pink from scrubbing. Mud swirled down the drain in rust-coloured spirals as he worked shampoo into his hair, the suds sliding over the hard lines of his shoulders and back, the same shoulders that had hauled me upright during the football match, the same back that had trembled under my fingers earlier.

I leaned against the lemon tree, my briefs, dirty and tenting a little, pretending to inspect my dirt-caked nails while watching water sluice down the dip of Callum’s spine, disappearing inside the briefs he still wore, not that they offered much modesty. He turned suddenly, catching me mid-stare, and grinned, that same sharp, knowing grin from the football match. “See something you like, again?” he called over the rush of water, thumbing soap from his eyebrow.

“Just admiring your plumbing skills,” I shot back, tossing him a towel. It landed on his head with a damp thwap. Callum laughed, scrubbing the towel over his face before wrapping it around his waist with practised ease, wriggling his wet briefs down his legs, stepping out to hang them on a hook.

My mind jumped to unhealthy desires, knowing he was naked under that towel. The fabric clinging to his hips, and I forced my gaze upward to find him watching me, his expression unreadable.

“Your turn,” he said, stepping aside with a mock bow. The showerhead dripped behind him like a stopwatch counting the silence between us.

The water hit my shoulders like a thousand tiny accusations, each drop echoing Callum’s lingering gaze as my briefs became obscenely transparent, clinging to every contour, and I suddenly regretted every skipped gym session since turning fifty. The orange grove kept me lean enough, shoulders broad from hauling crates, forearms ropy from pruning, but silver streaks dominated my chest hair, and my knees made sounds like a rusted gate hinge when I crouched too long.

I was unaware that the lad had walked away. It was only when Callum’s door clicked shut just as I slicked soap down my stomach that I realised I was the last man standing. And then I remembered, his towel slung low enough around his waist, showing that scar, that fucking scar above his hipbone. I scrubbed harder, imagining the dirt swirling down the drain was my dignity as I entertained morally indefensible thoughts.

Gerry’s voice cut through the water’s roar. "Christ, Steve, you’re preening like a teenager," as he leaned against the lemon tree, cigarette dangling from his lips, utterly unfazed by my state of undress. "Though I’ll admit," he added, blowing smoke toward the setting sun, "for an old bastard, you clean up alright."

"Cheers mate...bastard," as I dried off. "See you in the morning," and with that, I walked into the house feeling slightly frustrated but strangely relaxed, thinking about the God who occupied a room down the hallway.

Chapter Seven

The BBC World Service presenter's voice droned through the crackling radio static, something about trade sanctions in Southeast Asia, but the words dissolved into the thick night air before they could register. It was hot and muggy, typical weather at night in Andalusia. My sheet clung to my damp thighs like a second skin, the cotton turned lukewarm and heavy with sweat.

Outside, the cicadas had reached that fever-pitch chorus that always made me think the trees were screaming, but I heard a floorboard creak in the hallway.

The door creaked open, and I rolled over to see the silhouette in the doorway was unmistakably Callum, backlit by the dim hallway light. He stood there for a heartbeat too long, his nudity evident in the shadows, before stepping inside and shutting the door softly behind him.

"Can I sleep with you?" his voice rough, like he'd been chewing on gravel.

Before I could answer, the mattress dipped under his weight as he slid in beside me, the sheet rustling as he pulled it up over his hips. The heat of him was immediate, radiating through the thin cotton between us. He smelled of the cheap citrus soap from the outdoor shower, sharp and bright under the musk of sun-warmed skin.

"You okay?" I asked, stupidly, because obviously he wasn't.

Callum exhaled sharply through his nose, his breath warm against my cheek as his lips brushed mine, soft at first, tentative, then firmer when I didn’t pull away. His mouth tasted of oranges and salt, the lingering tang of the grove clinging to his skin.

My fingers traced the dip of his waist, the ridge of his hipbone, before sliding around to cradle the curve of his arse. He was all hard muscle under my palms, but the way he melted into my touch made him feel pliant, almost fragile.

"Just need a cuddle," he started, then cut himself off with another kiss, deeper this time, his tongue flicking against mine before retreating like he was testing boundaries. His hand trembled against my stomach, calloused fingertips skimming my navel before burrowing into the silvered thatch of hair below.

I rolled onto my back, tucking him against my chest like something precious. His knee hitched over my thigh, his erection hot against my hip. He made a quiet, broken noise when I palmed the swell of his arse, my thumb tracing the seam where skin met muscle. "Steve," he muttered into my collarbone, half protest, half plea, his fingers tightening in my pubic hair.

The cicadas outside reached a crescendo, then fell silent all at once, as if holding their breath. Callum’s lips found mine again, slower now, less frantic. His hand slid lower, knuckles brushing my cock where it lay trapped between us, but he didn’t take hold, just lingered there, warm and heavy, like he was memorising the shape of me through touch alone.

"Tell me," I murmured against his temple, my other hand smoothing up the knotted ladder of his spine.

Callum exhaled sharply, his breath ghosting across my collarbone. "Tell you what?" as his fingers still hovered above my cock, trembling slightly.

"How this happens," I said, thumb tracing circles on his hip where the scar began. "You don't owe me anything just because..."

"I know," he interrupted, pressing his forehead to my sternum. His stubble scraped my skin raw. "Christ, I know, but the first time you said, nice midriff, I wanted to be cuddled by you. To lie with you, keeping me safe and sound. I'm sorry."

The sheet tangled between us as he shifted, his knee bumping mine, his erection hot against my thigh. His fingers finally curled around me, rough and unpractised, like he’d forgotten how this worked.

I caught his wrist. "We don’t have to...If all you desire is a cuddle, I'm your man."

The silence between us was thick enough to carve. Callum’s breath hitched once, twice, then he buried his face against my shoulder with a sound like a dam cracking. His fingers uncurled from around me, instead clutching at my ribs like I might dissolve if he didn’t hold on tight enough.

"I don’t know what I want," he admitted, his voice muffled against my skin. His knee pressed harder into my thigh, anchoring himself. "Just...stay."

I wrapped my arms around him properly then, one hand cradling the back of his sweat-damp neck. He smelled like sunbaked earth and that cheap soap, his pulse racing under my palm.

"Alright," I murmured into his hair.

We lay tangled like that for a long while, the only sound his breathing slowly steadying against my collarbone. My fingers traced idle paths along his spine, feeling each vertebra like beads on a string. Somewhere around the third yawn, Callum’s grip loosened, his body going heavy against mine, making me chuckle inside, knowing he had fallen asleep.

Chapter Eight

The sheets smelled of him, salt and citrus soap and something indefinably Callum—but the space beside me was cold. I blinked at the ceiling, half-hard and disoriented, until the bedroom door creaked open.

Callum strolled in barefoot, wearing nothing but sunlight and a smirk, balancing a tray with two steaming mugs. His morning erection bobbed as he walked, the tip flushed pink against his thigh. He set the tray on the bedside table with a clatter, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rims.

"You walked through the house like that?" I rasped, my voice thick with sleep.

"Gerry was in the kitchen, muttering something about pruning the north grove," Callum said, standing by the bed, handing me a mug as his fingers brushed mine, lingering just long enough to raise goosebumps on my arms. "Said we can start late if that suits you," the corner of his mouth twitching as he took a deliberate sip, watching me over the rim.

“Didn’t he comment on your nudity. He must have been surprised?” I asked, staring at the young man's beautiful form.

“To be fair, he didn’t really comment; he just coughed a couple of times and continued his muttering,” Callum responded.

“I bet he coughed a couple of times. Callum, let me tell you what I see.”

I didn’t know where to start, but I took a deep breath and… opened my mouth, hesitating for a second.

“I see you before me stripped of every distraction, rendered in your purest form. Without your body hair, you’ve revealed the raw architecture of your amazing body. Your sharp clavicles, the subtle dips of your ribs, and the smooth, uninterrupted expanse of your chest and stomach. Every breath you take turns your entire body into a living, breathing epicentre of beauty. Your unadorned youth, Christ, Callum, your cock, balls and groin stand out in absolute, unadorned purity, the smooth, pale skin of your inner thighs creating a flawless backdrop, emphasising the clean symmetry and raw, natural weight of your… fucking hell, Callum, the natural length and girth of your cock. You’re totally and entirely exposed, and probably the most beautiful young man I’ve ever seen.

The coffee smelled like the expensive beans Gerry hoarded for hangovers, dark and spicy with a hint of chocolate, as Callum just stood. "No one’s ever described me like that before."

Callum stretched like a cat, the morning light gilding the sweat-damp hollows of his collarbones, scratching absently at his stomach, blushing slightly after my description dawned on him "I also had the best night's sleep I've had in ages."

He climbed onto the bed, sitting cross-legged, holding his mug of coffee, as if this were perfectly normal, his erection pointing upwards like a compass needle seeking true north.

I nearly choked on my coffee. "I know you said you’re shaved, but, fucking hell, you weren’t joking,” the words came out half-strangled. "I didn't realise last night."

Callum grinned, slow and wicked, his fingers trailing down his own thigh. "You didn't feel me last night, so you wouldn't know," as his palm cupped himself casually, thumb brushing the tip. "Ewan always shaved me, every other day. He loves me like this, says I look much younger."

“That’s one way to describe you,” I said.

Gerry's expensive coffee reached parts that nothing else could reach. The sheets pooled around my hips suddenly, feeling like a flimsy defence as Callum's gaze dropped pointedly, then flicked back up to my face, one eyebrow arched. "You're staring again, Steve."

The mug trembled in my hands. Steam curled between us like a dare, as I put it on the bedside table. "You're sitting on my bed with a..." as I waved vaguely at his lap "...a fucking landmark, talking about coffee and…you wonder why I’m staring. This doesn’t happen often…I can tell you."

Callum leaned forward, setting his mug on the bedside table next to mine with deliberate precision, the ceramic clinking absurdly loud in the morning quiet. “Perhaps I should do something then?”

Before I could do something to stop him, his mouth was on my left nipple, hot, insistent teeth scraping just shy of pain before his tongue soothed the sting. I collapsed backwards onto the pillows with a groan, my coffee forgotten, the sheet sliding down to my ankles.

Callum sat back up on my thighs, his hands playing with my chest hair, twirling little circles from the follicles. "Can I tell you what I see, Steve," he murmured against my skin, his breath fanning wet where his mouth had been.

I smiled as my head remained padded against the pillows, wondering what he was going to say.

“I see your body, a testament to a life well-curated. Something I fancy, something I desire. Your silver hair frosting your head and temples spreading down, against the warm, olive tone of your chest.”

He paused for a moment, clearly collecting his thoughts.

“I see a mature man who I’ve fancied from the first time he said, nice midriff. Your chest is broad and weathered by time and sunshine, but our age difference means nothing to me. Your hips are bracketed by the lean muscles of a man who still looks after his physique. Your elegant thighs, Steve, you inviting cock demanding I worship it, a monument of experience and strength, lying open and inviting before me.”

He paused again as I absorbed his words, understanding this naked young man, sitting on my thighs with a whacking erection, leaking profusely, was in love with me.

“Lastly, I love the fact that you’re completely unaware of the power your maturity holds over me and my heart."

“Wow, does that mean you fancy me?” I jokingly asked.

Chapter Nine

It was all too much as Callum’s floodgates opened, his hands were everywhere on my body at once, mapping the planes of my chest with a mechanic’s precision, callouses catching on silvered hair. His knee slotted between mine, pressing up in a way that had me arching off the mattress. "Christ," I gasped, fisting the sheets as his teeth found my other nipple, worrying it until I swore.

"Like that?" he asked, pulling back just enough to watch my face. Morning light caught the gold stubble along his jaw, the way his pupils swallowed the blue of his eyes. His fingers traced downward, pausing at my navel like he was deciding which way to turn at a crossroads, choosing to go straight down instead of left or right.

His mouth was warm and damp against my navel, lips tracing slow, deliberate circles as if mapping constellations. Callum's breath hitched when I twitched under him, my hips jerking involuntarily as his teeth grazed the soft flesh below my ribs. "Ticklish?" he murmured against my skin, the vibration sending another shiver through me.

His stubble scraped a burning path downward, alternating between kisses so light they might have been imagined and bites that left my skin tingling. When his tongue dipped even lower, I nearly levitated off the mattress, my fingers tangling in his hair, not to guide him, to anchor myself against the onslaught.

Callum chuckled darkly, the sound reverberating through my abdomen as his hands slid under my thighs, spreading me wider. "Nice cock," he murmured against my hipbone, his thumbs kneading the tense muscles there. "I'm not skipping any steps."

He wasn't. His mouth moved south with agonising precision, pausing to lave attention on every scar, every stretch mark, every imperfection I usually hid under clothes. The hollow of my hip made him pause. He pressed an open-mouthed kiss there, then bit down just hard enough to make me gasp, his tongue soothing the sting immediately after.

Callum kissed every inch with the single-minded focus of a man reading braille. His tongue circled the dip slowly, savouring the taste of salt and sleep-warm skin, before dragging downward in a wet trail that made my stomach muscles quiver. When he reached the tangle of hair below, he nuzzled into it like a cat seeking warmth, his breath hot against my straining cock.

"Christ," I gasped, fingers tightening in his hair as he inhaled deeply against me. The bastard smiled, lips brushing the underside of my shaft in a way that couldn't possibly be accidental. "You're... fucking…"

"Taking my time," he finished for me, nipping at my inner thigh just hard enough to leave love bites. His hands pinned my hips to the mattress with surprising strength, calloused thumbs digging into the crease where leg met torso. "Unless you've got somewhere to be?"

The coffee cooled forgotten on the bedside table as Callum mapped my body with his mouth, every scar earned from decades of orchard work, every stretch mark from weight fluctuations, every imperfection I'd hidden under work shirts and self-deprecating jokes. He lingered at the surgical scar above my right hip, the remnant of an appendectomy at twenty, tracing the raised flesh with his tongue like it was something precious rather than a clumsy souvenir of NHS emergency care.

His mouth was warm and wet, and entirely unexpected when it finally closed around me. I gasped, fingers twisting in the sheets as Callum took me deeper, his tongue pressing flat against the underside in a slow, deliberate stroke that had my hips jerking off the mattress. He chuckled around me, the vibration sending sparks up my spine, his hands pinning my thighs to the bed with bruising strength.

"Relax," he murmured, pulling off just long enough to speak, his breath hot against my damp skin. "Let me..." his words dissolving into action as he swallowed me down again, his nose brushing my groin, his throat working around me in a way that made my vision blur. I could feel every ridge of his palate, every flick of his tongue, the way his lips tightened just below the head on every upward stroke.

Callum's hands shifted, one sliding up to cradle my balls with surprising gentleness while the other traced circles on my inner thigh, his thumb occasionally straying higher to brush the sensitive skin behind them. His rhythm was relentless, his mouth moving with the same single-minded focus he'd applied to repairing irrigation valves yesterday, methodical, thorough, and devastatingly effective.

I reached for him blindly, my fingers finding his hair, not to guide but to anchor myself as he hollowed his cheeks and sucked hard enough to make stars burst behind my eyelids. The sheets were damp beneath me, my back arching off the mattress as he worked me closer to the edge with every practised twist of his tongue.

Just when I thought I couldn't take any more, he pulled off completely, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist, his lips swollen and shiny. "Fuck," he breathed, resting his forehead against my stomach for a moment before looking up at me through his lashes. "You taste..." his voice breaking as he swallowed hard, his fingers tightening around my base. "...better than I imagined."

Before I could process that admission, he was moving again, crawling up my body with predatory grace, his erection dragging against my thigh as he settled over me. His mouth found mine, bitter with coffee and salt, his tongue sliding against mine as he ground down in a slow, filthy roll of his hips. I could feel every inch of him, hot and heavy against my stomach, his pulse thundering where our chests pressed together, my hands exploring his bottom, feeling around his cleft, his cheeks smooth as a baby's would be.

"Do we need protection?" he asked softly against my lips.

"No," I whispered. "I'm on PreP."

"Good, Ewan got me to take PreP," he responded with a beaming smile. "Any lube?"

"Bedside table," I responded as he lay on top of me, his cock rubbing against my skin with a sense of demand, evident.

The bedside drawer stuck when he yanked it, typical of this old farmhouse where every piece of furniture had a grudge. Callum laughed into my shoulder as he wrestled it open, his teeth scraping my collarbone.

"Christ, you're eager," I murmured, but his breath hitched when his fingers finally closed around the half-used bottle inside.

Callum snatched it from inside the drawer with surprising dexterity, popping the cap one-handed while his other arm braced against my chest. The cool slickness dripped onto my stomach unexpectedly, making me jump. "Oi..."

Callum laughed at my reaction as he slid back down my body to pull himself up, looking at my demanding manhood.

Callum's grin turned feral as he slicked me up with methodical strokes, his thumb circling the head just enough to make my hips jerk. "Relax," he murmured, though his own breath came ragged as he positioned himself above me, one hand braced on my chest for balance. The first press of him against me was electric, hot, tight resistance giving way with agonising slowness as he sank inch by excruciating inch. His thighs trembled against my hips, his free hand clutching at my shoulder as he took me deeper, his breath hitching each time he had to pause and adjust.

"Christ, you're..." I started, but Callum cut me off with a roll of his hips that sheathed me fully inside him, his body clamping down like a vice. He threw his head back with a broken groan, his throat working as he swallowed hard, his fingers digging into my pectorals hard enough to leave marks. For a long moment, he didn't move, just sat there breathing through it, the muscles in his abdomen fluttering visibly under sweat-slick skin.

Then he grinned down at me, all sharp teeth and challenge, and began to move.

The rhythm he set was merciless, slow drags upward until just the tip remained inside, then punishing drops back down that punched the air from my lungs. His fingernails carved crescents into my chest as he rode me with single-minded intensity, his cock bouncing against my stomach with each downward thrust. Every time he bottomed out, his thighs slapped against mine with a wet smack that seemed obscenely loud in the morning quiet.

Callum rode me with the precision of a man who knew exactly how his body worked, each roll of his hips calculated to drag the head of my cock against that sweet spot inside him with torturous accuracy. His thighs trembled with the effort, sweat glistening in the hollows of his collarbones as he braced one hand against my chest, the other gripping my thigh for leverage. "There?" he rasped, watching my face as he arched just so, the angle shifting until I saw stars. My groan was answer enough; his smirk turned wicked, his rhythm faltering for just a second as he adjusted to milk the sensation.

The morning light caught the sweat beading along his sternum, the way his abs clenched with each downward plunge. His cock, flushed and leaking, bobbed between us, untouched but straining. I reached for him, but he caught my wrist, pinning it to the mattress beside my head. "No," he panted, his voice rough. "Just...just let me," as his fingers interlaced with mine, squeezing tight as he picked up the pace, his breath coming in sharp, punched-out bursts.

I could feel the tension coiling low in my belly, the inevitable crest building with every slick slide of him around me. Callum seemed to sense it too; his movements grew more erratic, his hips stuttering as he chased his own pleasure. "Fuck, Steve, I can feel you..." he choked out, his free hand scrabbling at my shoulder. His thighs squeezed around my hips, his body clamping down in rhythmic pulses that pushed me right to the edge.

Then he stilled abruptly, lifting himself almost entirely off me, only the tip still inside. His chest heaved, his pupils wide as he held himself there, trembling. "Not yet," he whispered, more to himself than to me, his thumb brushing over my knuckles where our hands were still tangled. The denial was exquisite agony; I arched up, seeking friction, but he laughed breathlessly and pressed me back into the mattress with his palm. "Patience," he murmured, leaning down to lick a stripe up my throat.

Callum's smirk faltered for half a second when my upward thrust caught him off-guard, his back arched like a bowstring, his mouth falling open in a silent gasp. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple as he froze mid-motion, his thighs clamping around my hips like a vice. "Fuck..."

The word cracked in his throat as his cock twitched violently against my stomach, the first pearly streak painting my solar plexus before he could even process what was happening.

His young body betrayed him in waves, his hips stuttering, fingers digging into my shoulders as ropes of cum striped my chest and abdomen. The choked-off noise he made was equal parts surprise and helpless pleasure, his eyelashes fluttering against flushed cheeks as he shuddered through it, his body pumping more creamy liquid in quantities that should have defied medical science.

I didn't last twenty seconds after that. The sight of him coming undone, muscles taut, throat working around ragged breaths, drove me over the edge with embarrassing swiftness. My orgasm hit like a sledgehammer, white-hot and all-consuming, hips jerking up instinctively to bury myself as deep as possible inside him. Callum whimpered at the sudden rush of heat, his spent cock giving a feeble twitch and final dribble against my sticky stomach as I emptied into him.

For a man my age, I didn't disappoint as I continued to empty into him with each thrust I managed to complete until I couldn’t continue, feeling drained and milked entirely until nothing remained.

We collapsed in a tangled, sweaty heap, Callum's forehead dropping to my shoulder with a damp thud. His breath scorched my collarbone in ragged gusts, his entire body trembling with aftershocks. I could feel the rapid flutter of his pulse where our chests were pressed together, the slick slide of his softening cock against my abdomen. Neither of us moved for a while. We couldn't move, just breathing, just existing in the quiet aftermath as we remained connected.

Chapter Ten

I slipped out of him with a wet sound that would have embarrassed me if I'd had any dignity left to spare. Callum exhaled sharply through his nose, his hips twitching as he felt himself dribble onto my softening cock, a sensation that made my stomach clench all over again. He smirked at whatever expression crossed my face, then dragged two fingers through the mess cooling on my stomach with deliberate slowness.

"Waste not," he murmured, lifting his glistening fingers to his mouth. His tongue flicked out to lick them clean, his eyes locked on mine the entire time. The bastard even had the gall to hum appreciatively, like he was sampling some gourmet dish instead of my spend mixed with his own. My cock gave a valiant twitch against his thigh, but Callum just chuckled and pressed a sticky kiss to my collarbone.

Then he was moving downward, his tongue tracing the smeared trails on my chest with the same methodical precision he'd used on the irrigation valves yesterday. His nose bumped against my sternum as he lapped up a particularly thick stripe near my navel, the warm wetness of his mouth contrasting sharply with the cooling mess on my skin. I carded my fingers through his sweat-damp hair, not guiding, just feeling the texture of it between my knuckles as he worked.

Callum paused when he reached the join of my hip, his breath ghosting over oversensitive skin. "You taste different down here," he mused, nipping at the crease where thigh met torso. "More salt, less..." as his tongue darted out to lick a long stripe up my softening cock, cleaning the last of him from me. "...bitter."

I groaned at the sensation, too much and not enough all at once, my hips jerking involuntarily. Callum grinned against my skin before leaning up to kiss me, his mouth warm and slick and tasting unmistakably of both of us. The mingled flavours exploded across my tongue, salt and musk and something indefinably Callum, making my cock twitch weakly against his thigh.

He pulled back just far enough to smirk at my reaction. "Like that?" he teased, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist as the morning light caught the sheen of spit and semen on his lips, making them look obscenely wet and desirable.

Callum moved to snuggle against my shoulder, his fingers lazily tracing patterns through the drying mess on my stomach. His breath warmed my skin in slow, contented puffs. "Wow," he murmured eventually, the word muffled against my collarbone.

I chuckled, my own fingers combing through his sweat-damp hair. "I don't know how to describe how I feel," I admitted, words seeming inadequate, too small for the warmth spreading through my chest, the pleasant heaviness in my limbs. Instead, I pressed a kiss to his forehead and let the silence speak for us.

Callum's fingertip circled my navel absently, his touch feather-light. "Spanish oranges," he said suddenly.

"What?"

"You taste like Spanish oranges. That fancy soap Gerry buys," his grin flashing against my skin. "Mixed with something... Steve-ish."

"Callum," I whispered. "What happens now? I'm used to the local lads who just want a fuck after some beers, but with you...I feel different. Fuck, though, I'm old enough to be your father?"

Callum went still against me, his fingertip freezing on my stomach. For a heartbeat, the only sound was the distant trill of a swallow outside. Then he snorted, an abrupt, startled sound, before pressing his forehead harder into my shoulder. His shoulders shook silently for three seconds before he lifted his head, blue eyes bright with something dangerously close to affection.

"You're not my father," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, his thumb brushing my hipbone where the sheet had ridden up. "And I'm not some drunk kid looking for a quick shag behind the pub."

He hesitated, then added quietly, "That's not what I want or enjoy either."

The honesty of it punched through me. I could feel his pulse where our legs tangled, too fast for someone who'd just fucked my brains out.

Outside, Gerry's boots crunched on gravel near the kitchen window. Callum's gaze flicked toward the sound, then back to me. His fingers tightened briefly on my thigh. "What happens is..." he breathed sharply through his nose. "We see if this," gesturing between us, "is just lust and post-shower hormones or...maybe, we've found each other," his voice trailing off as the bedroom doorknob rattled.

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