Gerry's voice boomed through the wooden bedroom door. "You decent in there? Only because the bloody radio's saying storms are coming..." as he pushed the door open.

The door swung open before either of us could react. Callum didn't flinch away, just draped himself more deliberately across my chest, one leg hooked possessively over my thigh, his chin propped on my sternum like a human blanket.

Gerry froze mid-step, his tanned face cycling through shock, confusion, and finally delighted comprehension in the span of three heartbeats.

"Well," he drawled, leaning against the doorframe with exaggerated nonchalance, his gaze flicked over the rumpled sheets, the drying streaks on my stomach, and Callum's smug smile. "About bloody time."

Callum flipped him off lazily, but his fingers never stopped tracing idle circles on my ribs. "Piss off, Gerry. We're having a moment."

Gerry's grin widened. "That's more than a moment from what I can see," he answered, tossing a bundle of fabric onto the foot of the bed. Two of his work shirts, still warm from the line. "Storms by noon," he said, already backing out. "North grove needs pruning before the wind hits, so wear those. You don't need anything else."

The door clicked shut behind him, followed by his retreating whistle, some jaunty folk tune that sounded suspiciously like a wedding march.

Callum exhaled through his nose, his breath warm against my skin. "Noisy bastard. Did he also say, we don't need anything else?"

I chuckled. Knowing Gerry, ever the practical man, probably suspected we'd spend more time fucking each other and save on the laundry bill. Callum peeled himself off me with a wet sound that made my ears burn, reaching for one of the sun-warmed shirts.

He held it up critically, extra-large, faded blue cotton stretched thin at the shoulders. "Think he planned this?" he asked, rubbing the fabric between his fingers before tossing it at my face.

The shirt smelled like wind and detergent when I caught it, the kind of scent that clung to Gerry after hours in the groves. Callum was already pulling the other one over his head, the hem riding up to reveal the pale strip of skin above his hips where his tan ended. My throat went tight watching him. He caught me staring and smirked, deliberately rolling the sleeves up to his elbows to show off corded forearms still glistening with sweat. "Like what you see, old man?"

"Old man?" I echoed, dragging the shirt over my head just as the first fat raindrops hit the roof. The storm announced itself with a growl of thunder that rattled the windowpanes. Callum's smirk faltered for half a second, just long enough for me to see the flicker of memory in his eyes, before he schooled his expression into something more teasing.

Now dressed, the air between was thick with something beyond lust. Outside, the wind picked up, shaking the orange trees like they owed it money. Callum hesitated at the door, his hand hovering over the knob, looking silly wearing only a shirt and nothing else below the waist. "Steve..." he started, then stopped.

I caught his wrist before he could pull away. His pulse hammered against my thumb. "Tell me," I said quietly, though I wasn't sure what I expected.

Callum's throat worked silently. His fingers twitched in my grip before turning to thread through mine, squeezing hard enough to hold me close. "Since the first time I saw you, I wanted what we've just shared. Last night I wanted you, but I was happy to just cuddle. Does that make sense?"

Callum's hand in mine was warm, his grip tight enough that I could feel the calluses from years of grove work pressing into my skin.

"Yes," I said finally, my thumb brushing his knuckles. "It makes perfect sense... and you look fucking sexy like that."

Callum looked at himself and then at me. “Sexy? More like silly, but I definitely like what I’m seeing.”

The rain hit us sideways, stinging like needles as we bent into the wind, pruning shears flashing between us with the efficiency of men who'd worked orange groves for decades. Callum moved through the rows like a man possessed, his wet shirt plastered to his back, the fabric clinging to every dip and ridge of muscle as he reached for another branch. Water streamed down his neck, disappearing into the collar only to reemerge at the hem, tracing the curve of his arse before dripping onto the ground.

"Left side's clear," I shouted over the gale, wiping rainwater from my eyes just in time to see Callum's shirt ride up as he stretched for a high branch. The glimpse of pale skin above his waist sent a bolt of heat through me that had nothing to do with exertion as I muttered, “It really is a lovely midriff.”

Callum caught me staring and smirked, deliberately slowing his movements to make the fabric stretch tighter across his shoulders. "Eyes on your work, old man," he teased, though his own gaze kept flicking to where my shirt sleeves clung to my biceps and my naked arse clearly on view to the elements.

We finished the last tree as the wind hit its peak, branches whipping overhead like angry spirits. Callum's shirt had come untucked entirely now, flapping around his thighs as we jogged toward the house.

Gerry stood under the lean-to, arms crossed, taking in the sight of us, soaked through, hair plastered to our heads, company shirts stretched obscenely across our chests still heaving from the rain and...naked below the waist.

"We do have trousers and underwear, you know, boys," he said with a chuckle.

Callum answered his observation. "You told us to wear this and nothing else," laughing out loud as Gerry walked off in faked disgust, muttering something like fucking horny fucks as the door slammed behind him.

Callum and I sat under the lean-to watching the rain and wind trying its best to do its worst. Gerry came and joined us as Callum climbed onto my lap, nestling closely into me as I held him tight.

Gerry's smirk widened to Cheshire cat proportions as he watched Callum curl into my lap like a contented cat, rainwater dripping from his hair onto my thighs. His eyebrows did something obscenely knowing, one quirked up while the other twitched, telegraphing smugness without a word. He took a slow sip of his tea, steam curling around his smirk as he studied us over the rim. "Different," he finally pronounced, the word weighted with implication.

Callum snorted against my collarbone but didn't deny it, his fingers tracing idle patterns through the damp fabric stretched across my chest. The storm raged around us, wind howling through the orange trees, but under the lean-to, the air hummed with something warmer.

Gerry set his mug down with deliberate precision. "Right then," he said, rubbing his hands together like a man about to unveil a magic trick. "Since we've established you two aren't just..." he waved a hand vaguely between us "...bumping uglies like teenagers..."

Callum flipped him off lazily but didn't move from my lap, his thumb brushing the inside of my wrist where it rested on his hip.

Gerry ignored him, rummaging in the tool chest beneath the bench before producing a battered map. He spread it across the patio table, corners fluttering in the damp breeze. "Got a proposition," he said, tapping a circled area near the coast. "Estate sale. The neighbours are selling off their grove. Bloody beautiful land, but the trees need work," as his gaze flicked between us, calculating. "Thought we might put in an offer, and it's joining our land."

The map trembled under Gerry's fingertips as another gust rattled the lean-to's corrugated roof. Callum's thigh shifted against mine where he perched on my lap, his damp shirt hem riding up to expose a stripe of rain-cooled skin. I traced the map with a calloused finger, close enough to our existing groves to make irrigation feasible, far enough inland to avoid salt spray damage. "Make the offer," I said, glancing at Gerry's sharp nod. "We'll assess the trees when this blows over."

Gerry's grin split his beard like an axe through kindling. "Knew you'd see sense," he crowed, rolling the map with unnecessary vigour before vanishing into the storm's horizontal rain, his delighted cackle swallowed by the gale as he walked towards his office.

The sudden privacy left by Gerry's departure meant Callum and I were under cover, still watching the storm as Callum's body moulded against mine, his fingers stilled on my wrist, thumb pressing into the pulse point as if taking a silent reading.

"You wanted to discuss something," Callum murmured, not a question. His damp curls brushed my jaw as he tilted his head back to study me, rainwater clinging to his lashes.

I swallowed around the sudden thickness in my throat. His shirt gaped where the top button had popped, revealing the crescent-shaped bite mark I'd left earlier. Proof this wasn't just shared labour and loneliness. My palm slid up his spine, feeling each knob through soaked cotton. "Fancy a shag, Callum?"

Chapter Twelve

Callum's laughter curled warm against my neck, his hips shifting deliberately against my lap. "Thought you'd never ask," he murmured, his fingers already working at the remaining buttons of his shirt. The storm outside reached a new crescendo, rain hammering the tin roof like a drumroll, just as the last button slipped free.

He shrugged the damp fabric off his shoulders with a shiver, the shirt sticking for a heartbeat before sliding down his arms to pool around our waists. "Perhaps you should go and get the lube because I want you here, now."

The shirt hit the muddy ground with a wet slap as Callum twisted off my lap, his knees bracketing my thighs with predatory grace as he then walked into the house, shamefully naked without a care in the world, as rainwater dripped onto my bare chest, from a hole in the roof.

The lube bottle hit the table with a plastic clatter as Callum climbed onto its scarred wooden surface, scattering Gerry’s carefully arranged pruning schedules. His thighs trembled slightly against the wood, from cold or anticipation, I couldn’t tell, as I slicked myself with hasty strokes, the chill of the gel evaporating under the heat of his gaze.

Callum’s breath hitched when my wet fingers skated up his stomach, mapping the topography of him, the divot of his navel, the ridge of his ribs, the pounding jugular at his throat. His skin pebbled under my touch, goosebumps rising where my thumb brushed a nipple. “Christ, you’re...” I started, but Callum cut me off by hooking his ankles behind my back and yanking me forward.

The first inch was resistance and pure heat, Callum’s body clinging like the orange grove’s clay soil after a storm. His head tipped back with a bitten-off groan, the cords of his neck standing rigid as he forced himself to relax. I stilled, my hands braced on either side of his hips, letting him adjust. Rain drummed a frantic rhythm on the roof above us, matching the way his pulse fluttered under my palm where it splayed across his sternum.

Then he rolled his hips experimentally, and the slide became obscenely smooth, our shared gasp mingling with the storm’s howl. Callum’s thighs clamped around me like a vice, his fingernails scoring crescents into my shoulders. “Move,” he demanded, breathless, his cock flushed and leaking against his stomach as I stood, gazing over the view of his beautiful, demanding body.

Fully sheathed inside him, I started to move, not fucking him, but making love. The difference was in the way his breath hitched when I rolled my hips just so, the way his fingers flexed against my back like he was trying to memorise the shape of me. Callum arched beneath me, his body opening like the groves after a drought, every shuddering gasp a confession. Rain lashed the tin roof above us, a staccato counterpoint to the wet slap of skin meeting skin and my balls hitting him…just so, but all I could hear was the ragged catch in his throat when I brushed that spot inside him.

Callum's hands found my face, his thumbs tracing my cheekbones with a tenderness that belied the filthy way his legs locked around my waist. "Look at me," he demanded, and when I did, his expression shattered something in my chest, wide-eyed and vulnerable, his usual smirk erased by something far more dangerous. I watched his pupils dilate with each slow thrust, the way his bottom lip caught between his teeth when I angled deeper. This wasn't the playful teasing from the shower or the coupling of dawn; this was a man unravelling, his breath coming in punched-out little moans that disappeared into the storm's roar.

I kissed him then, swallowing his gasp as I changed the rhythm, grinding deep instead of pulling out. Callum's back bowed off the table, his nails scoring down my chest as he whimpered into my mouth. His cock leaked between us, smearing sticky streaks across his stomach where we pressed together. "Steve..." he choked out, his hips jerking erratically, "I can't..." but I silenced him with another kiss, my hand sliding between us to embrace his dripping length in time with my thrusts.

His orgasm ripped through him like a summer squall, sudden, violent, his entire body seizing as he came between us. Hot stripes painted his chest as he threw his head back with a soundless cry, his muscles clamping down around me in rhythmic pulses that dragged me over the edge moments later. I buried my face in his neck as I spilt into him, tasting salt and rainwater on his skin, as my hips stuttered through the aftershocks, pumping the last of my cum into him until I collapsed onto him, totally spent and trembling.

The kiss was deep and slow, our lips moving together as if we had all the time in the world, even as our bodies still trembled from our shared climax. Callum's fingers traced lazy circles on the back of my neck, his breathing gradually steadying against my mouth. Then I felt it, the first hot pulse against my stomach, subtle as a heartbeat. His cock twitched against me, and suddenly, warmth spilt between us in a steady stream, soaking my thighs and his body while dripping onto the wooden table with quiet patters that mingled with the fading rain outside.

Callum went perfectly still beneath me, his lips frozen against mine. His breath hitched, not in pleasure, but in surprise, as the flow continued, warm and insistent. I could feel his muscles tense around me where we were still joined, his thighs tightening against my hips. When I pulled back to look at him, his cheeks were flushed crimson, his blue eyes wide with something between horror and fascination.

"Fuck," he whispered, his voice cracking as his hips jerked involuntarily, sending another spurt of warmth splashing against our skin. His hands clenched on my shoulders, fingers digging in hard, almost enough to bruise. "I didn't...I wasn't..."

"It's alright," I murmured, kissing the corner of his mouth before trailing my lips along his jaw. His pulse raced under my tongue, racing against his damp skin. "It's quite natural sometimes," I told him. "It happens, peeing immediately after anal sex, often driven by intense prostate stimulation, which triggers a sudden urge to pee. Perhaps I've brushed your spot too much this time."

“I guess you have,” He responded, but I have to tell you, it’s a first for me.”

The laughter bubbled up between us like rainwater in a dry river bed, sudden, uncontrollable, shaking Callum's shoulders where they pressed against my chest. His fingers dug into my forearms as I lifted him, his legs wobbling for half a second before finding purchase on the muddy ground. The moment my cock slipped free, a hot gush followed, splattering our thighs before the rain washed it away in seconds. Callum's breath hitched, his forehead dropping onto my shoulder with a damp thud as another pulse escaped him, the warmth diluted instantly by the downpour.

"Christ," he wheezed against my collarbone, his hips jerking helplessly as his bladder emptied now that gravity took over. The rainwater turned his golden skin silver in the storm light, streams carving paths through the cum and piss drying on his thighs. I kissed his temple, tasting rain and salt as his body shuddered through the last of it, his fingers tightening around my wrists like I was the only solid thing in a world gone liquid.

The storm had gentled to a steady rhythm, the kind that soaks deep instead of battering. Callum lifted his head, rainwater clinging to his lashes like liquid diamonds, his grin sudden and brilliant despite the flush still high on his cheeks.

"That's one way to clean up," he shouted over the rain's murmur, twisting to look at the mess we'd left on Gerry's worktable, papers ruined, lube bottle overturned, two perfect arse-shaped wet spots darkening the wood. His laughter rang out again, bright as a bell, before he grabbed my hand and dragged me into the open grove, both of us naked as the day we were born, letting the rain sluice every last trace of sex from our skin.

Chapter Thirteen

Our bare feet sank into mud that squelched between our toes as we reached the oldest orange tree, its branches bowed low with the weight of the storm. Callum pressed his back against the trunk, still giggling like a teenager, his cock half-hard again from the adrenaline and absurdity of it all.

He reached for me, slick fingers sliding up my forearm, his touch electric against rain-chilled skin. "C'mere," he murmured, pulling me in until our bodies aligned, his heat against mine, the bark rough against my palms where I braced on either side of his head.

Callum's lips found mine with a desperation that tasted like rainwater and laughter, his tongue tracing the seam of my mouth until I opened for him with a groan. The storm had gentled to a steady downpour through the leaves above us, but his hands were wild on my back, fingers digging in as if memorising the shape of me through touch alone. When he broke the kiss to gasp for air, his breath fogged between us in the humid air, his eyelashes clumped together like wet ink strokes.

"Steve," he panted, his hips rolling up against mine in a slow, filthy grind that sent sparks down my spine. His erection slid against my stomach, already slick with rain and precum, his body arching into me like a bowstring drawn taut.

"Tell me..." his words dissolving into a moan when my hand closed around him, his cock hot and heavy in my palm despite the chill downpour.

I didn't answer with words, just dropped to my knees in the mud, ignoring the way the wet earth oozed between my fingers as I gripped his thighs. Callum's breath hitched audibly above me, his fingers tangling in my hair as I leaned in to lick a broad stripe up the underside of his cock. The taste of him flooded my senses, making my own arousal pulse between my legs.

“The benefits of youth,” I declared as his hips jerked when I took him deep, my tongue pressing flat against the vein running along his shaft as I swallowed him down. The tree bark scraped against his shoulder blades as he arched into the sensation, his thighs trembling under my hands. "Christ," he choked out, his fingers tightening in my hair almost painfully. "Your mouth..."

I hummed around him, the vibration pulling another broken noise from his throat as his knees buckled. He caught himself against the tree trunk, his nails biting into the rough bark as I worked him with slow, deliberate strokes, pausing only to swirl my tongue around the head every few passes. The rain dripped from his curls onto my forehead, mingling with the sweat beading at my hairline as I took him deeper, my nose brushing his smooth, shaved skin at its base.

Callum’s fingers twisted in my hair, not guiding, just holding on as I took him deeper, my throat working around him until his hips stuttered against my face. The rain sluiced between us, washing the salt from his skin as his breath came in ragged gasps above me. His cock twitched against my tongue, the taste of him, rainwater and precum, flooding my senses as I hollowed my cheeks and sucked harder.

"Fuck..." His voice cracked, his thighs trembling under my palms. "Gonna..."

The warning dissolved into a groan as his hips jerked forward, his cock pulsing hot against my tongue. I swallowed around him, feeling the rhythmic clench of his orgasm as it ripped through him, his release spilling down my throat in thick, salty bursts. His fingers tightened almost painfully in my hair, his entire body bowing over me like a tree in a gale.

I didn’t pull away until he’d finished, until his grip had slackened and his breathing had evened out. When I finally leaned back, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, Callum was staring down at me with a dazed, wrecked expression, his lips parted, his chest heaving. Rainwater dripped from his curls onto his flushed cheeks, his eyelashes clumped together like wet ink strokes.

"You," he panted, swallowing hard, "are fucking lethal."

I’m exploiting the benefits of youth and your refractory period,” as I grinned up at him, my knees sinking deeper into the mud as I reached for his hips, pulling him closer. His thighs were still shaking, his cock already softening against his thighs, but his eyes, his eyes were dark with something more than exhaustion.

“Shall I see if I can get you to cum again?” I asked. “I want to milk you, dry young man.”

The mud yielded beneath us like wet clay, cool and slick against my back as I pulled Callum down with both hands. He came willingly, collapsing onto me, his laughter cut short when I rolled us over in one fluid motion that left him pinned beneath me, our bodies caked in orange grove mud.

Callum's breath hitched as I straddled his hips, my thumbs sweeping through the muck on his chest to paint deliberate streaks across his collarbones. His skin pebbled under the touch, goosebumps rising where my fingers trailed through the cooling sludge. "You're filthy," I murmured, leaning down to lick a long stripe up his throat, tasting earth and rainwater and the salt of his sweat.

His answering grin flashed white against his mud-smeared face. "Says the man currently using me as a fucking canvas," he retorted, arching into the touch when I dragged my palms down his torso, leaving dark handprints in my wake. The rain had gentled to a drizzle now, beading on his lashes as he blinked up at me, his hips shifting restlessly beneath mine.

I kissed him then, deep and messy, our teeth clacking together as he surged up against me. His fingers found my hair, twisting in the mud-clumped strands as he licked into my mouth with a groan. The taste of him, copper and rain and the lingering bitterness of his orgasm, flooded my senses as I ground down against him, our erections sliding together through the slick mud coating our bellies.

Chapter Fourteen

Callum broke the kiss with a gasp, his head tipping back into the mire as my teeth scraped his jugular. "Christ," he panted, his throat working under my lips, "we're going to have to shower together."

“This time without you teasing the fuck out of me,” I declared. No dirty briefs to hide yourself.

The mud squelched between my fingers as I scooped up another handful, its cool weight heavy in my palm. Callum's cock twitched when the first clump landed on his groin, his breath catching as I smoothed the damp earth over him with deliberate strokes. "Not just yet, though. I haven’t finished with you yet," I murmured, watching his pulse jump under the mud-streaked skin of his throat.

His laugh hitched into a groan as I worked the sludge lower, coating his balls with the same care Gerry used when grafting new citrus branches, methodical, unhurried.

Callum's hips jerked when my thumb brushed his perineum, his fingers scrabbling at the mud beneath us. "Fuck," he gasped, his stomach muscles jumping as I dragged another handful up his torso, smearing it across his ribs in thick, swirling patterns. The rain had slowed to a drizzle now, leaving the clay to cling to his golden skin like a second layer, cracking at the edges when he breathed too deeply.

I painted him with the orange grove's earth, tracing the lines of his collarbones with mud-slick fingertips, mapping the valleys between his abs with careful pressure. His chest rose faster beneath my palms, his nipples pebbling under the cooling clay. When I reached his throat, he caught my wrist, his grip slippery with rainwater and dirt. "Tease," he accused, but his voice cracked halfway through, his pupils swallowing the blue of his eyes.

The mud caked in his curls as I leaned down to kiss him, our lips sliding together with the slickness of wet earth, his tongue hot against mine as his hips rolled up into nothing, seeking friction I wouldn't give him yet. His groan vibrated against my mouth when I pulled back, leaving him panting against the empty air.

Callum's fingers dug into my thighs where I straddled him, his nails leaving half-moons in the mud coating my skin. "Steve," he warned, but the threat dissolved into a whimper when I wrapped my hand around his mud-slick cock, the friction rough and perfect. His back arched off the ground, his head tipping back into the mire as I stroked him once, twice, my thumb swiping over the head to collect the bead of precum mixing with the sludge.

I slipped off his hips, sitting back in the mud, pulling Callum across my lap, face down.

The gentle smack left a perfect handprint in the mud coating Callum's arse, the wet slap ringing out through the grove louder than the fading rain as he feigned shock and humiliation of being spanked.

He yelped, a sound halfway between outrage and delight, before collapsing forward onto my thighs, his mud-slick back heaving with laughter. "Bloody menace," he gasped, wriggling shamelessly against my lap until his half-hard cock pressed into my cock, leaving earthy streaks across my skin as a gentle smack landed on his buttock again.

“Naughty boy,” I managed to say through a chuckle.

I traced the curve of his reddening cheek through the filth, my fingers slipping in the sludge. "Naughty boy," I murmured again, landing another smack that made him jerk against me with a breathless chuckle. His hips rolled instinctively, seeking friction even as he pretended to squirm away, his movements churning the mud beneath us into slick rivulets.

Callum twisted suddenly, flipping onto his back across my thighs with a splash that spattered my chest. His grin flashed white through the grime, rainwater dripping from his lashes onto his flushed cheeks. "You can watch me cum, old man," he taunted, arching deliberately to rub his erection as he lay on my thighs, allowing me to pull his legs towards his chest while his hand massaged his cock.

The movement sent fresh mud oozing between us, warm where our skin touched beneath the clay.

With his legs tucked up towards his chest, his hands working his cock slowly, ever so slowly, I had access to his bottom as my next smack landed firmer, the crack echoing off the orange trees as Callum's back bowed, his hand rubbing his cock more.

His fingers slid up and down his muddy shaft as he pleasured himself, as I continued to spank his arse, increasing the intensity with each smack against his skin.

"Say it again," he panted, his cock twitching against his stomach as he rubbed his shaft faster, the mud smearing on his firm cock as another smack landed on his bottom.

"Naughty boy," I punctuated with another smack, watching the way his muscles clenched under the impact.

"Filthy boy," I declared, landing another smack against his muddy arse.

“Harder,” he demanded, his hips stuttering from the smack, as his hand moved faster now, as I reminded him, "You're such a naughty boy," landing another smack on his arse as Callum groaned.

His third orgasm ripped through him as I watched him cum, his white release mixing with the rain and mud in hot streaks across his trembling stomach.

"Looks like you're running out," I murmured, swirling my finger through the diminishing streaks of his release on his mud-streaked stomach. Callum lay sprawled across my thighs, his chest still heaving, his spent cock twitching weakly against his hip as I traced lazy circles through the mess I'd made of him.

“Enjoy that, did you?” I asked.

Callum's breath hitched when my fingertip brushed his navel, his abdominal muscles fluttering under the touch. His skin was warm beneath the cooling mud, where it clung in the hollows of his collarbones and the creases of his elbows. "Cheeky bastard," he gasped, his voice raw, but his hips arched into my touch anyway, seeking more even as his body trembled with oversensitivity.

With a wet squelch, I pushed him off my lap and rolled him into the mud before standing, offering my hand. Callum stared up at me, mud caked in his eyelashes, his grin slow and filthy as he let me haul him upright.

His fingers slid against mine, slick with rain and clay, as I led him toward the outdoor shower between the barn and the tool shed. The wooden platform was already slick from the storm, rainwater sluicing through the slats as I guided Callum beneath the spray head.

“Callum,” I whispered into his ear, “I’m going to wash you now, you naughty boy.”

Chapter Fifteen

His breath hitched when I turned the tap, the initial blast of cold water shocking his mud-streaked skin. But then it warmed, steaming in the cool air as I stepped in behind him, my chest pressed to his back. Callum arched into the heat, his head tipping back against my shoulder as I reached around him, working the soap between my palms before smoothing it over his chest. My fingers caught on his nipples, circling deliberately until they pebbled under my touch, his gasp lost in the rush of water.

I soaped his stomach next, my hands sliding lower with agonising slowness, following the trail of running water that disappeared beneath the mud still clinging to his hips. Callum's thighs trembled when I cupped him, his cock twitching against my palm as I stroked him clean with lazy, teasing strokes.

"You're beautiful," I murmured against his ear, nipping the lobe, his eyes dark with anticipation as he leaned into me, the water sluicing the last of the mud from his golden skin.

My hands slid down his back, over the swell of his arse, kneading the firm flesh as I dropped to my knees behind him. Callum stood under the flow of water as I spread his cheeks, my tongue darting out to lick a hot stripe from his taint to the base of his spine. He jerked against me, a ragged moan tearing from his throat as I pressed closer, my tongue probing his rim with slow, teasing flicks.

I was finally rimming him with my tongue. Callum's legs nearly buckled, his fingers holding the wall in front of him. "Fuck," he gasped, his hips rocking back against my face as I worked him open, tasting rainwater and musk and the faintest hint of our earlier coupling. His thighs trembled when I added a finger alongside my tongue, the tight heat of him clenching around me as I crooked my finger, searching for...

His cry echoed off the wooden slats as I found it, his knees giving way completely as he slumped against the shower wall, his forehead pressed to the wet wood. I held him up with my free arm wrapped around his waist, my finger working him steadily as the water cascaded over us, washing away the last traces of mud from his shuddering body.

Callum's cock became erect again, flushed and leaking against his stomach as I added a second finger, scissoring him open with deliberate strokes. His breath came in ragged pants now, his hips jerking back onto my hand with each thrust. "Please," he gasped, his voice raw, his fingers scrabbling at the slick wood for purchase. "I want you..."

I withdrew my fingers suddenly, ignoring his whimper as I stood, turning him around, pressing him against the shower wall with my body, kissing him slowly as I said, "Later, my love, later. I’m not as young as you."

Callum arched against me, his head falling back as he took a deep breath. "Okay," as I reached out to stroke him, exhaustion overtaking me as I picked him up and carried him into the house, kicking the bedroom door open, dropping him onto the bed.

"It's siesta time, young man," I declared, "and we need to recover," as I slipped in beside him, cradling him in my arms as I lay looking at his body, his eyes already closed as I closed mine, drifting off into a doze, listening to the storm petering out.

Chapter Sixteen

The heat hit me like a brick wall when I stepped outside, the air thick with the scent of wet earth and citrus leaves steaming in the restored sunlight. Gerry didn't look up from the pruning shears he was sharpening, just jerked his chin toward the empty chair beside him, where a mug of tea sat sweating condensation. "Christ, Steve," he muttered, the whetstone pausing mid-stroke, "you look properly fucked."

I collapsed into the chair with a wince, the wooden slats sticking to my bare arse. The tea burned my throat, but I drank it anyway, watching a lizard dart across the patio stones. Gerry's beard twitched when I stretched, his gaze catching on the fresh bite marks circling my left nipple.

"It's different this time, isn't it?" as he set the shears down carefully, thumbs hooking in his shorts' waistband. The question hung between us like ripe fruit waiting to be plucked.

Gerry's whetstone scraped against the pruning shears again, the rhythmic sound syncopating with the distant drip of rainwater from the eaves. I watched a bead of sweat roll down his forearm, catching in the coarse hairs before disappearing into the cuff of his work gloves.

"Different how?" I finally asked, tracing a fingertip around the rim of my mug where the tea had left a tannin ring. The ceramic was warm against my callouses, familiar as the weight of Gerry's silence stretching between us.

He snorted, flipping the shears to work the other blade. "Don't play daft."

The whetstone paused mid-stroke as he jerked his chin toward the house where Callum still slept. "You've been walking like a man who found religion and a stiff drink at the same time since that lad turned up."

His beard twitched around a smirk. "You're in love. That's the difference."

The teacup froze halfway to my lips, tannin-bitter steam curling against my chin. Across the patio, Gerry’s smirk deepened into something dangerously close to sincerity as a bead of sweat rolled down the back of my neck.

"Don't be ridiculous," I muttered, but the words rang hollow even to me. Somewhere in the grove, a bee buzzed lazily around the newly bloomed orange flowers, the sound syncopating with the distant drip of water from the gutters.

Gerry exhaled through his nose, the sound more laugh than sigh. He set down the whetstone with deliberate care, the metal flashing in the sunlight as he turned the shears over in his hands. "You’ve known him two days, and you’re already letting the lad piss on you in a rainstorm," his eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. "That’s not just a fuck, mate."

Heat prickled across my cheeks that had nothing to do with the early evening sun. The memory of Callum’s laughter ringing through the downpour, his body arching against mine as the storm washed us clean. Christ, I realised Gerry had watched us. I rubbed my thumb over a chip in the mug’s handle, the ceramic rough under my skin.

Gerry leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "When’s the last time you fucked like that? You fucked him this morning and during the storm...I had to clean the table after the mess you two left. I watched you spank him as he wanked for you, and then in the shower, you rimmed him."

The tea had gone cold in my hands when Gerry’s words registered fully. My thumb stilled against the chipped ceramic. "Nothing wrong with rimming someone you…"

“Love,” Gerry said, finishing what I had failed to say.

Gerry’s grin was unrepentant as he wiped the shears with an oiled rag. "The window was open. Storm drowned out the noise, but the view was..." his whistle low, shaking his head. "Never took you for the type to get your knees muddy for just a pretty face," the emphasis on the, just.

A breeze stirred the citrus trees, carrying the scent of rain-drenched blossoms and the faintest musk of sex still clinging to my skin. I set the mug down harder than necessary. "It wasn’t..."

"...Just fucking?" Gerry finished, eyebrows raised. "Right. Because normal blokes spank their casual shags in the middle of a storm while they wank themselves off," he snorted, tossing the rag onto the workbench. "Face it, mate. You’re gone on him."

The screen door creaked before I could retort. Callum stood framed in the doorway, barefoot and rumpled, beautifully naked. His siesta had softened his edges, his hair curling wildly where it had dried against the pillow. His gaze flicked between us, lips quirking at whatever he saw on my face. "Am I interrupting?"

"Not at all, Callum," I said, "come and sit."

Callum perched on my lap with the easy familiarity of someone who'd already mapped the contours of my thighs, his weight warm and solid, his damp skin sticking slightly where it pressed against mine. I wrapped my arms around his waist automatically, my thumbs brushing the faint bruises I'd left earlier along his hipbones. Gerry cleared his throat pointedly, swirling his tea like a fucking fortune teller.

"I was just telling Steve," Gerry announced, "that he's gone and fallen in love with you."

The words landed like a dropped pruning saw, clattering and unavoidable.

Callum went still against me, his breath hitching mid-inhale. The cicadas chose that moment to start up their evening chorus, the sound swelling to fill the silence as Callum turned his head slowly to look at me. His eyelashes cast spiked shadows across his cheekbones where the setting sun caught them.

I could've throttled Gerry. Instead, I traced the knobs of Callum's nipples and said nothing, which was answer enough.

Callum's pulse jumped under my palm where it rested against his stomach. "That so?" he asked lightly, but his fingers had tightened around my forearm, nails biting crescents into my skin.

Gerry leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his tea forgotten between his boots. "Well?" he prompted, gesturing at Callum with the whetstone. "What are you feeling?"

Callum exhaled sharply through his nose, a laugh that didn't quite land. His fingers flexed against my wrist where I still held him. "Like I've been ridden hard with feeling," he muttered, but the deflection lacked his usual bite as the late sun gilded the sweat-slick hollow of his throat as he swallowed.

Gerry snorted. "Christ, lad, I didn't ask about your arse," as he tossed the whetstone onto the workbench with a clatter. "I mean here," as he thumped his own chest hard enough to echo.

A leaf spiralled down from the orange tree above us, landing in Callum's hair like an afterthought. He didn't brush it away. His silence stretched taut as irrigation lines after a drought, until finally he twisted in my lap to face me fully, one muddy knee braced against my thigh.

"You really falling in love with me?" Callum asked, the question coming out hushed, like he was afraid of the answer.

Callum looked at me. The leaf still tangled in his curls trembled with his breath. "I've been in love with you," he said, his voice cracking like citrus twigs underfoot, "since the first time you mentioned my nice midriff."

Gerry's whetstone hit the patio with a clatter.

Callum's palm settled over my sternum, sticky with early evening heat. "Today in the grove," he continued, thumb brushing my collarbone where his teeth had marked me hours earlier, "when you said it again, casual as checking the weather. Like my body was just...fact," his grin flickered, uncertain. "Nobody sees me like that, and you've said it twice."

The confession hung between us, fragile as a spiderweb in the irrigation spray. Gerry exhaled sharply through his nose and stood, gathering his tools with deliberate noise. "Right. I'll be in the kitchen," he muttered, before walking away, the screen door slamming behind him like a full stop.

Callum's knee dug into my thigh where he straddled me, his weight suddenly insistent. "Your turn," he whispered, rainwater still caught in the hollow of his throat.

Callum's breath hitched against my collarbone when I finally said it, three words, simple as sunrise, yet they cracked the air between us like thunder. His fingers spasmed where they gripped my shoulders, blunt nails biting crescents into my skin. "Say that again," he demanded, voice rough as the bark we'd fucked against hours earlier.

“I love your body," I murmured into the damp curls at his temple, tasting rainwater and sex on my tongue. "The way your hips hitch when you're close. How your thighs tremble when I touch your arse."

My hands slid down his back, following the dip of his spine to the swell of his arse, still pink from my palm. "I love marking this perfect skin."

He shuddered against me, his cock twitching where it pressed against my stomach. "Fuck," he breathed, forehead dropping to my shoulder as his hips rolled instinctively.

I kissed the shell of his ear, grinning at his sharp inhale. "Love your sounds most of all, that broken little gasp when I first push in. The way you beg prettier than any whore when you're desperate," my teeth finding his earlobe, worrying the flesh gently. "But mostly I just love you. Every stubborn, gorgeous inch."

Callum went rigid against me, his breath coming in short bursts against my neck. When he finally lifted his head, his eyes were summer-storm dark, pupils swallowing the blue. "You can't just say that," he whispered, voice cracking like citrus twigs underfoot. "Not after two days. Not while I'm sitting in your lap with your cum dripping out of me."

"Why not?" I demanded.

Callum's throat worked silently, the muscles jumping under the fading sunlight as he stared at me. His fingers dug into my shoulders hard enough to bruise, his breath coming in ragged bursts that stirred the hair at my temple.

"Because," he finally managed, his voice low and frayed, "people like me don't get this," as his gesture encompassed the grove, Gerry's retreating back, and finally, the imprint of my teeth still visible on his shoulder. "Not for real. Not like..."

The words died as I caught his wrist, pressing his palm flat against my chest where my heart hammered against his fingers. His pulse fluttered wild as a trapped bird against my thumb when I brought his knuckles to my lips.

"Feel that?" I murmured against his skin. "Count the beats. Too fast for lies."

Callum's deep breath shuddered through him, his knees tightening around my thighs as he leaned in until our foreheads touched. The leaf still clung stubbornly to his curls, trembling when he spoke. "You barely know me."

"That's true, but we have time enough if you're not rushing anywhere. Are you rushing anywhere?" I asked.

Callum's laugh hitched, wet and uneven against my collarbone. "Nowhere," he murmured, fingers tracing the fresh bite marks along my shoulder, his touch lingering, warm as the late afternoon sun soaking into our skin.

For the first time, Callum slumped against me. Initially, I thought it was surrendering to being in my arms, but it was something else, something I couldn’t quite work out.

“Are you alright, Callum?” I asked.

“I’m fine. Honestly. Sometimes, though, I feel my heart miss some beats and then feel tired. Don’t know why. Just occasionally. Probably because I’m in love with you, or maybe you’ve been abusing my body too much,” he suggested with a chuckle. “I’ll be fine if you cuddle me more.”

Chapter Seventeen

Gerry's kettle whistled from inside, sharp as a birdcall, but neither of us moved. Callum's thumb brushed the hollow of my throat where my pulse thrummed, his eyelashes casting spiked shadows across his cheekbones. "Tell me something real about you," he said suddenly, the words quiet as citrus leaves rustling. "Something nobody else knows."

I caught his wrist, turning his palm up to press a kiss along his lifeline. "When I was twelve," I began, watching his eyes darken with focus, "I stole a crate of apples from Bramley's south orchard in Surrey. Not to sell, just to see if I could."

Callum's grin flashed, bright as the blade of Gerry's pruning shears catching sunlight. "Little rebel," he teased, but his fingers tightened around mine.

"The night before my first harvest as foreman," I continued, tracing the veins on the back of his hand, "I vomited in Gerry's hydrangeas from nerves."

Callum's snort of laughter warmed my neck. "And last winter," my voice dropped, thumb brushing his lower lip, "I jerked off in the storage shed imagining exactly this, falling in love. Callum, I've fucked so many young men, but with you, I fell in love the first time I saw you."

"Tell me something about yourself," I demanded, my fingers tightening around Callum's wrist where it rested against my collarbone. The cicadas had reached their evening crescendo, their drone syncopating with the drip of rainwater from the gutters. "Something real. Not what you think I want to hear."

Callum exhaled sharply through his nose, his pulse jumping under my thumb. He shifted in my lap, his bare thighs sticking slightly to mine where sweat had pooled in the creases. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, roughened by the day's activities. "When I was fourteen," he began, picking at a fleck of dried mud on my forearm, "I stole a bottle of aftershave from Boots just to know what my dad smelled like."

The confession landed between us like a dropped fruit, soft and bruising. I watched his eyelashes flutter, casting shadows across the fading sunburn on his cheeks. His thumb traced absent circles against my sternum as he continued, "Wore it for three days straight until the headmaster pulled me aside. Thought I was drinking."

His chuckle lacked its usual brightness, the sound swallowed by the rustling citrus leaves. I said nothing, just pressed my lips to the damp crown of his head, tasting rainwater and the faint herbal tang of Gerry's shampoo. Callum's fingers flexed against my chest.

"First time I came without wanking myself," he admitted suddenly, his knee nudging mine, "was against a rugby goalpost after practice. Sixteen years old, pretending to stretch but totally aroused," his grin flashing, wicked and bright, before dimming. "The coach came over and started touching me and then started tickling me in a way I had never been tickled, saying I had talent but no discipline and then, my body erupted as my release flooded my briefs, in response to his touch."

"Wow," I managed to say. "Did you have an affair with him?"

Callum laughed, nodding his head as rainwater dripped from his curls onto my shoulder. His fingers traced idle patterns through the hair on my chest. "Did I have an affair with him?" as he tilted his head, the ghost of old mischief flickering behind his eyes. "No, but he took me into the showers after practice that day. Undressed me with those big rugby-coach hands and fucked me bent over the bench."

His thumb brushed my lower lip. "Took my cherry right there in the changing room, the bastard."

The confession landed between us like a fallen orange, heavy with unspoken weight. Callum's grin turned wolfish as he shifted in my lap, his thighs bracketing mine. "Fucked me once a week for the whole season after that. Wednesday afternoons, like clockwork," his fingers tightened around my wrist, pressing my palm flat against his still-racing heartbeat.

The screen door slammed hard enough to make the orange leaves tremble overhead. Gerry emerged, balancing three plates piled high with steaming paella, the scent of saffron and chorizo cutting through the lingering petrichor, setting the food down with a clatter that startled a lizard off the patio stones.

"Well?" Gerry demanded, "How's confession going, you two lovebirds?" his grin flashed white through his beard as he settled into his chair, deliberately scraping the legs against the tiles.

We laughed, but I asked Gerry, "I want your confession now, do you mind us... You know...?"

Gerry's spoon froze halfway to his mouth, a mussel dangling precariously from its shell. The silence stretched taut between us until Callum nudged his knee against mine under the table, his grin flashing bright as Gerry set his cutlery down with deliberate care.

"Mind?" Gerry repeated, dragging a hand through his beard before reaching for his wineglass. "You daft bugger, I'm the one who orchestrated this whole circus," his glass tipping toward Callum, ruby liquid catching the sunset. "Hand-delivered him to you like a fucking Christmas hamper."

Gerry's wineglass clinked against his plate as he leaned forward, elbows braced on the weathered patio table. "Now about this grove," he said, tapping his fork against the paella dish. A grain of saffron-stained rice clung to his beard when he grinned. "Old Man Vasquez wants out before harvest season. Says his knees won't take another round of ladder work."

Callum's bare foot nudged mine under the table, his toes warm and slightly sticky with residual mud from walking barefoot. "How many acres?" he asked around a mouthful of chorizo, his knee bouncing against my thigh with restless energy.

The conversation drifted to irrigation schedules and fertiliser ratios, the kind of small talk that would’ve bored me senseless a week ago. But now, watching Callum enthusiastically debate nitrogen levels with Gerry, his mud-streaked hands gesturing wildly, his bare foot tapping against my calf under the table as I felt something loosen in my chest. Too good to be true, my cynical half whispered. But then Callum laughed at one of Gerry’s terrible puns, head thrown back so far I could see the fading bite marks along his throat, and the thought dissolved like sugar in tea.

Gerry reached across the table to tweak Callum’s nipple, just to watch him yelp, and the sound startled a pair of finches from the orange tree above us. Sunlight caught in the arc of spilt wine as Callum retaliated by flicking a mussel shell at Gerry’s forehead. Real. This was real. The knowledge settled warm and heavy behind my ribs, brighter than the fading sunset.

The last of the paella sauce dripped onto Gerry's beard as he leaned back, patting his stomach with a satisfied groan. Callum's bare foot hooked around my ankle under the table, warm, insistent, while the cicadas filled the sticky silence between our laughter.

"Right," Gerry said suddenly, slapping his palms against the wooden tabletop. "Truth for truth, then," his gaze landing on me like a fallen orange branch, heavy with intent. "When'd you know you were bent?"

The wine glass nearly slipped from my fingers. Callum's toes curled against my calf.

"Twelve," I admitted, watching a gecko scurry across the patio stones. "Stablehand named Thomas caught me watching him piss behind the barn. Showed me exactly what to do with my hands after."

The memory surfaced like citrus oil, bright, stinging. "Got married anyway at twenty-three. Church wedding, full choir. Lasted eleven months before she found me in the hayloft with the farrier."

Gerry's laughter boomed across the grove, startling a nightjar from its perch. Callum's fingers found mine under the table, squeezing hard enough to ache.

Gerry wiped wine from his beard with the back of his hand, his eyes glinting in the candlelight as the cicadas pulsed around us. "Right then," he said, pointing his fork at Callum. "Most pervy thing you've ever done?"

Callum's grin went feral under the candlelight, the kind of expression that made Gerry lean forward instinctively. His fingers drummed against his wineglass, leaving smudges in the condensation. "Oldest was sixty-two," he said, stretching lazily, the movement pulling at fading bite marks along his ribs. "Builder. Used to pay me to piss on him after work."

Gerry's fork froze mid-air. My grip tightened around Callum's ankle under the table.

"He'd sit there in his vest and dirty Y-fronts," Callum continued, tracing the rim of his glass with a fingertip, "callused hands spreading his knees wide while I stood over him," the candlelight caught the flush creeping up his throat as he continued. "Liked watching it hit his chest, then licking it off his fingers after."

Gerry exhaled sharply through his nose, his beard twitching. The silence stretched taut between us until a moth thudded against the lantern glass, until he declared, “Yep, that’s fucking pervy.”

"Then there was Geoffrey," Callum mused, rolling a mussel shell between his fingers. "Retired dentist with a catheter fetish."

His smirk deepened at our identical blinks. "Used to thread a tube through my slit all the way to my bladder, before fucking me. He'd fuck me while I had no control over my bladder. Piss everywhere and his cum dribbling out of me."

"Fuck, that's even more fucking pervy," Gerry declared.

"Your turn, Gerry. Most disgusting pervy thing you've ever done," I demanded

Gerry's beard twitched as he set his fork down on the table with exaggerated care, fingers drumming once on the weathered patio table before he reached for his wine. The lantern light caught the ruby liquid as he swirled it thoughtfully, casting elongated shadows across the grooves of his knuckles.

"Most disgusting, eh?" His chuckle rumbled low as distant thunder. The wineglass paused halfway to his lips. "Summer of '98. Bangkok brothel with a gloryhole wall so thin you could hear the next bloke's knees creaking."

Callum's bare foot stilled against my calf under the table. Even the cicadas seemed to hold their breath.

Gerry's thumb smeared condensation down the stem of his glass. "Paired up with a German gay guy tourist named Klaus, who liked golden showers."

His grin flashed wolfish in the candlelight. "We took turns kneeling over this Thai lad - beautiful thing, couldn't have been older than nineteen. Every time the boy came, Klaus would piss on him, and I joined in, although it wasn't really my scene. I was extremely pissed that night, and by the time we finished with the lad, he was covered in our urine. Stank something wrotten."

"Oh...god...that's disgusting," Callum announced while laughing madly.

"Well, you did ask," Gerry declared. "Talking about disgusting, you haven't shaved and your pubes are beginning to grow. That's what I call disgusting these days. You look messy, Callum, messy."

Callum's laughter peeled across the patio like citrus rinds tossed carelessly, his bare foot kicking Gerry's shin under the table. "For a straight bloke," he taunted, fingers combing through his own damp curls, "you sound pretty gay sometimes."

The candlelight caught the sweat-slick hollow of his throat when he tilted his head, grin flashing. "If you're that worried about my pubes, shave me yourself."

Gerry's wineglass hit the table with a clatter. "Cheeky bastard, but for the record. Nothing wrong with being gay. Wrong is when you don’t maintain personal grooming," he muttered, but his beard twitched around something dangerously close to amusement.

Callum stretched lazily, the movement pulling at the fading mark along his inner thigh, my handiwork from earlier, before deliberately spreading his legs wider in the patio chair.

"Go on then," Callum goaded, fingers trailing down his own stomach toward the dark short hairs of new growth, which Gerry had criticised. "Unless you're all talk?"

The challenge hung between them, thick as the humidity clinging to our skin. Gerry's whetstone rasped against his pruning shears again, the rhythm deliberately slow. When he finally looked up, his gaze tracked the path of Callum's fingers with the same focus he gave to grafting citrus branches.

"Right," Gerry said abruptly, standing so fast his chair screeched against the tiles. He disappeared into the house, returning with a straight razor and a bowl of soap that smelled faintly of bergamot. The implements landed on the table with a thud that made Callum's knee jump against mine.

"If it's a shave you want, lad, it's a shave you'll get and don't laugh, Steve, you could do with a shave yourself."

The razor flashed silver in the fading light as Gerry worked the soap into a thick lather between his palms. "You'd better lie on the table, Callum," Gerry ordered.

Callum's breath hitched when Gerry's fingertips brushed his lower stomach, as he lay on the table, too deliberate to be accidental, spreading warm suds across the trail of dark hair.

The patio table creaked as Callum reclined, exposing the jut of his hipbones where my teeth marks still bloomed purple. Gerry's calloused thumb pressed into the hollow of Callum's throat, holding him still as the blade skimmed upward in one fluid stroke.

I watched a single bead of sweat roll down Callum's ribcage, catching in the divot of his navel. His fingers flexed against the wood. "Steady," Gerry murmured, the razor pausing at the crease of Callum's thigh. "Unless you fancy a slit instead of a shave."

Callum's laugh came out strangled as the blade resumed its path, clearing a neat swath of skin below his navel. Gerry's knuckles brushed the flushed head of Callum's cock, half-hard beneath his hand, and I saw his breathing stutter.

Gerry's blade whispered against Callum's skin with the precision of a man who'd done this before, each stroke deliberate, each flick of his wrist calculated to avoid nicking the tender flesh beneath. The razor scraped upward in neat, even lines, leaving trails of pinkened skin in its wake. Callum's breath hitched when Gerry's fingers splayed across his lower belly, pressing down to stretch the skin taut.

"Still," Gerry murmured, his thumb catching a bead of sweat rolling down Callum's hipbone. The scent of bergamot soap mixed with the musk of Callum's arousal as the blade cleared another swath of dark hair.

Callum's fingers dug into the wood of the patio table, his cock twitching against Gerry's forearm when the razor veered dangerously close to the crease of his thigh. "Fuck..."

"Language," Gerry chided, though his beard twitched with suppressed amusement. He flicked the razor sideways, clearing the last stubborn patch above Callum's cock, now fully hard and leaking against his stomach.

My grip tightened around my wineglass. Gerry didn't pause, didn't acknowledge it, just tilted Callum's hips up with one broad palm and dragged the razor downward in one final, smooth stroke.

Last but not least, Gerry concentrated on Callum’s torso, clearing any new growth on his chest and stomach with equal proficiency. Before I had time to comment, Callum’s body was as I saw him that morning. Beautifully shaved, looking ageless under the candlelight.

Gerry wiped the razor clean on his thigh before tossing it onto the table with a clatter. He grabbed a damp towel from the bench, the fabric smelling faintly of citrus, and wiped the skin at Callum's belly and groin with the brisk efficiency of a stable hand grooming a horse. "Done," he announced, flicking the towel across Callum's hipbone where the skin still gleamed pink from the blade. "And you look much better for it. Civilised, you might say."

Callum's laughter was breathless as he propped himself up on his elbows, his freshly shaved stomach twitching where Gerry had rubbed him with the towel. "Civilised?" as he ran a hand over the smooth skin, fingertips catching on the faint stubble already prickling back to life. His cock, still half-hard, curved against his thigh. "Feels fucking nice, I have to say."

Gerry looked at me. "Fancy a shave?"

"No thanks," I responded. "Perhaps a trim if you have scissors."

Gerry snorted, tossing the towel onto Callum's bare stomach where he still sprawled across the table. "Scissors? What am I, your fucking barber?"

But he was already rummaging in the tool drawer beneath the workbench, emerging with a pair of pruning shears that glinted ominously in the lantern light.

Callum's grin flashed as he sat up, his freshly shaved stomach catching the light when he stretched. "Careful with those," he warned, fingers trailing down the smooth plane of his belly. "Wouldn't want you snipping off anything important."

Gerry's answering smirk was all teeth as he motioned for me to stand. "Hold still," he ordered.

Gerry's pruning shears clicked open beside my ear like a threat. Callum whistled low and long from the patio table, fingers stroking his own freshly-shorn stomach in lazy circles. "Mind the goods," he teased, but Gerry just snorted and grabbed a handful of my pubic hair like he was gathering kindling.

The first snick of steel sent curls tumbling down my thighs. Gerry worked with the same ruthless efficiency he used on overgrown citrus branches, methodical swaths clearing chaotic thickets, his knuckles brushing dangerously close to my half-hard cock with each cut. Callum's whistle shifted pitch when Gerry tilted my hips forward, the shears grazing the crease of my thigh.

"Hold still or lose something precious," Gerry muttered, his breath warm against my ear as he trimmed the last stubborn patch above my cock. The blades hovered a heartbeat too long before snapping shut with finality.

Callum's bare feet hit the tiles as he crossed to us, fingers already tracing the neat borders Gerry had carved. "Fuck, that's tidy," he murmured, thumb catching on the short hair, his other hand palming my cock, grinning when I jerked against him. "All this order needs messing up again."

"Oh...god," Gerry murmured as he chuckled. "Take it to bed, boys, take it to bed," as he disappeared into the house. "See you tomorrow."

Chapter Eighteen

Callum's fingers traced idle patterns through my freshly trimmed pubic hair as we lay tangled in the sweat-damp sheets. "Better like this," he murmured, his breath warm against my collarbone where his head rested. His thumb brushed the short hairs, the motion sending tiny shocks of pleasure radiating outward. "Neat. Civilised," his last word coming out slurred with exhaustion, his lips barely moving against my skin.

“You feeling tired, Callum?” I asked.

“Yeah, I am, but I’m happy, happier than I’ve ever been,” he declared as he kissed me gently and then snuggled into me.

I watched his eyelashes flutter, shadows dancing across his cheeks in the moonlight filtering through the orange trees outside. His breathing slowed, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest pressing against mine in a syncopated rhythm that gradually evened out as he played with my trimmed pubic hair. His fingers stilled mid-stroke, twitching once before going slack against my hip as he fell asleep in my arms.

The indentation of Callum’s head was still warm on the pillow when I woke alone. The sheets smelled of bergamot and sex, twisted around my legs like vines. Through the mosquito netting, I saw Gerry’s silhouette on the patio, steam curling from his mug in the dawn light. No Callum.

I found him fifteen minutes later, semi-naked in his briefs, barefoot in the red dirt of Vasquez’s adjacent grove, tracing irrigation channels with his toes. He held a stolen orange in one hand, chewing absently on a wedge while studying the slope of the land. His hips swayed slightly as he walked, that familiar soreness from yesterday’s activities making his gait uneven.

“Already negotiating water rights?” I called, tossing him the coffee I’d brought. He caught it one-handed, the other still clutching half-peeled citrus, grinning when he tasted the extra sugar I’d added.

“Vasquez’s soil’s better than ours,” Callum said between gulps, gesturing with the orange peel toward the older trees. “Deeper root systems, which means these trees can handle drought years,” as he dropped to a crouch, fingers splaying over the earth like a diviner seeking water. The morning light caught the fresh pink skin of his shaved groin where his briefs didn't cover.

Gerry’s shadow fell across us as he joined our makeshift survey. “Lad’s got an eye for land,” he admitted, rubbing sleep from his beard.

Callum preened under the praise, shoulders straightening as he stood back up. "We can irrigate this easily using our water as well as the supply they have."

Gerry's departure towards his office heralded time alone with Callum as his fingers tangled in mine where we stood between the citrus trees, his thumb tracing idle circles against my palm. When I turned to ask if everything was alright, he silenced me with a kiss that tasted of stolen oranges and last night's promises.

"Mmm. Good morning and... I'm feeling... yesterday still," he murmured against my lips, his free hand drifting down to rub the inside of his thigh with a wince that wasn't entirely unpleasant. His grin flashed, bright as Gerry's pruning shears catching sunlight. "Every time I walk. Every time I sit." His teeth grazed my lower lip. "Love it. Never felt so good...ever."

“And your tiredness?” I asked.

“Gone. Goodnight’s sleep,” he responded.

The admission hung between us, warm as the morning sun already heating the back of my neck. Callum shifted his weight with a soft hiss, his briefs riding up just enough to reveal the crescent marks my nails had left along his hipbone. He caught me looking and laughed, low and throaty, before pressing another kiss to the corner of my mouth.

"I'll be fine. Just not used to being fucked so much," Callum declared.

"Perhaps we'll take it easy today," I suggested.

"Not a fucking hope," Callum responded, his grin sharpening as he rolled his shoulders back, a movement that made him suck in a quick breath through his teeth. The wince didn’t reach his eyes. Instead, they glittered with mischief, dark and liquid in the morning light. His fingers tightened around mine, pulling me closer until the heat of his bare chest pressed against me. "Easy’s not in my vocabulary, mate. Never has been."

He backed me into the nearest orange tree, its bark rough through my shirt, the scent of crushed leaves rising around us. His knee slotted between my thighs with practised ease, his breath warm against my neck. "Besides," he murmured, nipping at my earlobe, "you’re the one who left me like this. All sore and stiff."

A deliberate roll of his hips emphasised the point, the fabric of his briefs damp where he was already half-hard.

Gerry’s voice cut through the grove like a saw through green wood. "Christ’s sake, lads, it’s not even nine," as he stood at the edge of the irrigation channel, arms crossed, coffee steaming in one hand, his beard twitching with something between exasperation and amusement.

Gerry unfurled the picnic blanket with a snap that sent dust swirling in the morning light, the faded checkered fabric landing crookedly over gnarled citrus roots. "Breakfast," he announced, producing a basket full of food as he advised, "enjoy" before walking back towards the house.

Callum and I sat down on the blanket, unpacking the culinary delights brought to us by Gerry.

"Fuck me sideways," Callum breathed, tearing into the bread with his teeth before I could produce a knife. A shower of crumbs scattered down his bare chest, catching in the hollow of his freshly shaved stomach. "Did Gerry rob a café?" as his teeth sank into the baguette with a crunch that echoed through the grove, his fingers already greasy from the cured meat he'd snatched.

Sunlight dripped through the orange leaves overhead, dappling Callum’s bare torso with liquid gold as he demolished Gerry’s feast. A crumb clung stubbornly to the dip between his collarbones, riding the rise and fall of his breath with each enthusiastic bite. I tracked its journey with the same focus Gerry gave to grafting branches, that particular attention to how things connect, where they might grow if given the right conditions.

"Like what you see?" he taunted, deliberately smearing fig jam across his lower lip. The sticky residue caught the light when he grinned. His toes curled against my thigh, still dusty from his irrigation survey.

I reached over, brushing the crumb from his chest, but my fingers lingered, tracing the faint pink marks my mouth had left from yesterday along his ribs. Callum’s breathing hitched, his half-eaten peach forgotten in his lap. His skin tasted of salt and sunlight when I leaned in to lick the jam from his mouth.

Callum’s fingers tangled in my hair, sticky with fruit, as he deepened the kiss with a hunger that had nothing to do with food. The picnic basket tipped over, sending olives rolling between us like dark, brine-slick marbles.

My hands travelled up Callum's leg, past his thighs, past the fading bite marks to rest on his groin. Callum exhaled sharply through his nose, his hips twitching upward into the touch as a stray olive rolled against his bare ankle.

His fingers tightened in my hair, tugging just enough to sting. The morning light caught the sheen of sweat along his collarbone, the rapid flutter of his pulse beneath my lips when I kissed his throat. "Worried you'll break me?"

"Break you?" my hands sliding higher, tracing the divots of his hipbones. "I'm more concerned you'll break me," as I peeled his briefs down over his erection.

Chapter Nineteen

Callum's laugh was breathless as he arched into my touch, the briefs catching on his hips before pooling around his ankles. "That's the idea," he murmured, his fingers skating down my chest to pop the button of my shorts with practised ease.

"You're wearing red briefs today, instead of white," he commented as he pushed my shorts down.

The scent of crushed citrus leaves rose around us as Callum pushed me backwards onto the blanket, the bark of the orange tree rough against my shoulders. His knee pressed between my thighs with deliberate pressure, his breath hot against my ear. "Tell me you feel it too," he whispered, his teeth grazing my earlobe. "Every time you move..." his hand sliding down my stomach, fingers tracing the taut muscles there. "...it's me."

Callum's mouth travelled downward. His tongue swirled around my navel before dipping lower, teasing the sensitive skin just above my waistband. My fingers tangled in his sweat-damp curls, tighter than I meant to, but Callum only groaned approval, the vibrations travelling straight through me.

Callum's lips pressed against the straining fabric of my briefs, hot breath seeping through the cotton in waves that made my hips jerk involuntarily. He chuckled against me, the vibration sending another jolt up my spine, before dragging his teeth lightly along the outline of my cock. The damp fabric clung obscenely as he worked his mouth over me with slow, deliberate pressure, each movement calculated to wring out maximum frustration.

"Christ, Callum..."

My fingers twisted in his hair as he hummed approval, the sound reverberating through my pelvis. His tongue swirled where the head strained against the waistband, painting wet circles that darkened the red fabric to burgundy. When he finally hooked his thumbs in the elastic, peeling the briefs down just enough to expose the tip, his exhale against slick skin made my thighs tremble.

The first proper lick was filthy, broad and flat from root to tip, his tongue catching on the slit before diving back down. Callum moaned like he was the one being pleasured, lashes fluttering when precum beaded on his lower lip. He swiped it away with his thumb, then sucked the digit clean with pornographic slowness, watching me watch him.

"Taste yourself," he ordered, shoving his wet thumb between my lips before I could protest. Salt and musk bloomed across my tongue as Callum's mouth descended again, swallowing me whole this time with a greedy slurp that hollowed his cheeks. His nose pressed into my pubic bone, newly trimmed hairs catching in his stubble as he swallowed around me.

His throat worked around me, the tight heat punctuated by little choked-off noises that went straight to my balls. When his fingers found my perineum, pressing in just the right spot, my vision whited out for a second.

Callum kicked off his briefs with a practised flick of his ankle, the damp fabric landing somewhere near the overturned picnic basket. I wriggled out of my shorts and red briefs in a less graceful tangle of limbs, the waistband catching momentarily on my erection before pooling around my thighs. Callum didn't straddle my waist like I expected; instead, he crawled up my body with the predatory grace of a jungle cat, his freshly shaved groin leaving a slick trail across my stomach that had nothing to do with sweat.

"Fuck, you're smooth," I gasped when his hips ground against mine, the friction of skin-on-skin almost too much after yesterday's marathon. His answering laugh vibrated through my chest as he pinned my wrists above my head with one hand, the other roaming down to where we weren't quite touching.

"Gerry does good work," he murmured against my collarbone as his knee pressed between my thighs, nudging them wider as his fingers danced along the sensitive inner skin. "But you're still wearing too many clothes."

The morning sun baked through the gaps in the orange leaves above us, casting dappled shadows across Callum's back as he manoeuvred my shirt up with his teeth. The cotton caught on my nose before he yanked it off completely, tossing it toward our discarded clothes. His mouth descended on my nipple with none of yesterday's teasing finesse, just sharp teeth and hungry suction that made my back arch off the blanket.

I reached for him, but he caught my wrists again, pinning them to the earth with a grin that showed off the peach juice still staining his teeth. "Uh-uh," he chided, rocking his hips just enough to make us both groan. "My turn to play."

His tongue swiped a broad stripe up my sternum, pausing to lap at the hollow of my throat where my pulse hammered.

His tongue swiped a broad stripe up my sternum, pausing to lap at the hollow of my throat where my pulse hammered. I was hungry for him in a way that hollowed out my ribs, not just for the friction of his hips against mine or the sharp sting of his teeth on my collarbone, but for the way he took ownership of my body like it was his birthright. My surrender came easily, my wrists lax in his grip, my thighs falling open wider when his knee pressed deeper.

"Look at you," Callum murmured against my damp skin, his free hand skating down my side like he was mapping new territory. His fingers lingered on the jut of my hipbone, thumb pressing into the divot there hard enough to leave a mark tomorrow. "So fucking eager."

I arched into his touch when he palmed my cock, his grip just shy of too tight, his thumb swiping over the head with deliberate roughness. The noise that punched out of me sounded raw, unfamiliar, and Callum's grin flashed wild in the dappled light. He released my wrists only to grab my hips, flipping us with a grunt that betrayed his own soreness from yesterday, his freshly shaved groin pressing against mine as he settled in my lap.

"Use me," I gasped, hands spanning his waist, fingertips digging into the soft skin just above his hipbones. The admission hung between us, louder than the cicadas thrumming in the orange trees.

Callum went still above me, his breathing uneven. His pupils swallowed the hazel of his irises as he leaned down, lips brushing my ear. "Say it again."

Callum's weight shifted, his thighs tightening around my hips as his breath hitched. The morning sun lit the sweat beading along his collarbone when he tilted his head, studying me with an intensity that made my pulse throb where our chests pressed together. "Use you how?" he murmured, dragging his nails down my sternum. His erection pressed hot against my stomach, leaking between us.

I grabbed his wrist, guiding his hand between my legs. "However you want," my words coming out rougher than intended, my throat tight with want. “Just use me.”

Callum's laugh was dark as he wrapped his fingers around me, thumb swiping over the head in a slow circle that made my hips jerk. "Thought you wanted to take it easy today," as his free hand skimmed up my inner thigh, nails scraping lightly before gripping hard.

The sudden pleasure made me groan. Callum's grin turned wicked as he leaned down, lips brushing my ear. "You're lying there like a fucking buffet," he whispered, his teeth grazing my earlobe. "And I'm starving."

"Then ride me, Callum. I'm yours, but I have to see you. To see your face and all the sensations you experience."

Callum's fingers closed around the small bottle tucked between jars of preserves, clear plastic catching sunlight as he held it up with a huff of recognition. "Gerry, you absolute fucking marvel," he muttered, thumb popping the cap before I could process what he'd found. The lube glistened on his fingers as he smeared the gel along my entire shaft.

Then edged back to straddle my hips. Before I knew it, his body was sliding onto me as my cock impaled him slowly but surely.

The moment Callum sheathed himself fully, time fractured. His body swallowed me whole, a tight, molten vice that forced the air from my lungs in a punched-out groan. Above me, Callum went statue-still, his thighs trembling against my hips, his lips parted around a silent scream. Sunlight caught the sweat beading along his collarbone as he hovered there, impaled, his eyelashes fluttering like moth wings against his flushed cheeks.

"Fuck," he breathed at last, the word shattering the suspended moment. His hands braced on my chest, fingers digging into muscle as he experimentally rocked backwards, just an inch, before sinking again with a choked-off whimper. "Christ, you're...fuck..."

I could only watch, mesmerised, as sensation overload short-circuited rational thought. Callum was heat and pressure and perfection, his body clamping around me in rhythmic pulses that felt like being milked. His hips stuttered in tiny, aborted movements, as if his nerves couldn't decide between pleasure and overwhelm. A single tear escaped his lashes, tracking down to cling to his jawline before dropping onto my sternum.

"Look at you," I managed, my voice rough as gravel. My hands found his waist, thumbs brushing the delicate skin of his hipbones where yesterday's bruises were blooming purple. "Taking me so deep."

Callum's answering laugh was breathless, his fingers flexing against my pecs. "Not...not taking," he corrected through gritted teeth, his abdominal muscles fluttering visibly as he adjusted. "More like...being split open."

His thighs trembled when he attempted to lift himself, only to sink back down with a punched-out moan. "Fuck. Fuck."

The stretch must have been exquisite agony, I could see it in the way his lips parted around silent gasps, in the frantic flutter of his pulse at his throat. His cock lay flushed and leaking against my stomach, untouched despite its obvious need. When I reached for it, he caught my wrist with surprising strength.

"No," he panted, shaking his head hard enough that sweat-damp curls stuck to his forehead. "Want to feel...just this," as his hips rolled in a slow, experimental circle that made us both groan. "Just you. Inside."

His next movement was deliberate, a slow, torturous rise until only the tip remained inside, his body clinging obscenely, then a devastating drop that sheathed me completely again. Callum's back arched beautifully, his head tipping back as sunlight gilded the sweat-slick column of his throat. His thighs flexed, the muscles standing out in sharp relief as he established a rhythm that was more undulation than thrust, his body moving like the tide against mine.

"You're fucking perfect," I managed, my fingers digging into his hips, holding him in place. "Every inch of you."

Callum's laugh was breathless as he braced his hands on my chest. "Tell me," he whispered between shallow breaths, his eyelashes fluttering. "Tell me how it feels."

"Intimate," I groaned, my thumbs brushing the delicate skin of his hipbones. "It's a deep feeling, not necessarily submission, but more, a connection between us. Realising how completely our two bodies answer each other, mixed with a fleeting loss of separateness, where embarrassment, fear, and desire collapse into one consuming immediacy."

His rhythm stuttered when I thrust up to meet him, sheathing himself impossibly deeper. Callum's moan fractured into a whimper, his thighs trembling where they bracketed mine. His cock leaked between us, a bead of precum rolling down to catch in the newly shaved groin, the dribble stilling against his balls.

Sunlight dappled across his back as he rolled his hips in slow, deliberate circles, his body adjusting around me with each movement. The stretch must have burned. I could see it in the way his breath hitched, in the way his fingers flexed against my pecs, but his eyes stayed locked on mine, dark with want.

"Again," he breathed, his voice wrecked.

I obliged, thrusting up hard enough to lift his slight frame off the blanket. Callum's cry echoed through the citrus grove as he came apart above me, his body clamping down in rhythmic pulses that dragged me right to the edge. His thighs shook violently, his grip on my chest solid, as he rode out the aftershocks, his cock spurting between us, leaving pale streaks of warm cum, glistening against my stomach and chest.

Before I could recover, Callum leaned down, his lips brushing my ear. "Your turn," he whispered, his voice rough with satisfaction. "I want you to come inside me."

The command shattered what little control I had left. My hips jerked upward, burying myself to the hilt as heat flooded my veins. Callum moaned low in his throat, his body milking me through every pulse, his fingers digging into my hips as my cum surged with pressure through my length and then, the release, a powerful surge of cum escaping my tip as I flooded him from inside.

Multiple spurts left my body to join his, warm, assuring and very much me as I felt the last pulsed of my escape gush into him.

We collapsed in a sweaty, sticky heap, Callum's chest heaving against mine. The scent of crushed oranges and sex hung heavy in the air, mingling with the distant tang of Gerry's coffee from the house. Callum's fingers traced idle patterns through the mess on my stomach, his touch feather-like and tender.

"Told you easy wasn't in my vocabulary," he murmured, his lips quirking against my collarbone.

Gerry's boots crunched on gravel as he approached, his shadow falling across our tangled limbs. "Christ alive," he muttered, tossing a towel at Callum's head. "Save some for later, boys."

Callum caught the towel with one hand, the other still resting possessively on my hip. "Not my fault, your pruning techniques inspired us," he shot back, grinning when Gerry rolled his eyes.

As Callum remained impaled on me, Gerry crouched beside us, ignoring our nakedness with the practised ease of someone who'd seen it all before. "Vasquez wants to meet," he said, plucking an uneaten peach from the ruined picnic. "Says he's got an offer we can't refuse."

Callum went still against me, his fingers tightening on my skin. "How soon?" he asked, his voice suddenly serious.

Gerry took a bite of the peach, juice running down his beard. "An hour. His place," as he stood, dusting off his knees. "Might want to wash up first. You two smell like a brothel."

When we arrived at Vasquez's porch an hour later, the old man and his wife were already pouring drinks, amber liquid in chipped glasses that caught the midday light. His eyes flicked to all three of us; he smirked. "Boys," he greeted, pushing the glasses toward us.

Vasquez's offer was simple: his grove for a price far below market value, on one condition. "You take care of her," he said, gesturing to the ancient orange trees stretching behind his house. "Like I have."

Gerry's fingers tapped against his glass. "Why sell now?"

The old man's gaze slid to Callum, then away. "Time comes for all of us to retire, and my wife and I, know how much you love your grove, and we want that love to migrate here in a joining of groves. It's that simple."

Silence pooled between us, thick as the humidity clinging to our skin. Gerry's sandal-clad foot was tapping gently on the ground. "We'll need to see the water rights," he said, that razor-sharp business tone he used when masking emotion.

Vasquez nodded toward the weathered shed. "Papers are in the tin box. Same system my father installed in '58." His knuckles rapped the table. "But first, drink."

The Spanish brandy was an excellent one, probably vintage, as it burned hotter than the sun, going down my throat. Callum coughed into his elbow, eyes watering, while Gerry tossed his back with a grunt. Vasquez watched me swallow without flinching before refilling our glasses. "Second round seals the deal in my family."

Gerry's beard twitched. "Your father's grove...your grove... now ours to love. Salud.”

"Will be yours tomorrow if you sign tonight," as Vasquez produced a fountain pen from his breast pocket, the gold nib catching light as he slid it toward Gerry. "You're the numbers man."

Gerry's thumb brushed the engraved initials, EV, worn smooth by decades of use. His voice dropped to a murmur only I could hear. "This isn't just land. It's his legacy."

Vasquez's knuckles rapped the wood. "The legacy continues."

The pen scratched across paper like a branch against glass. Gerry signed with a flourish that sent ink splattering across the acreage clause, an accidental stroke that made Vasquez chuckle. "Always knew you'd ruin my perfect paperwork, boy."

Vasquez folded the documents with military precision. "Keys are in the biscuit tin," his chair groaned as he stood. "And, Steve," as the old man tossed something small that glinted gold in the porch light. "My father's pruning shears. They're yours now."

I caught them one-handed, my throat working silently, trying to find words suitable for this moment as I inspected the shears, the worn handles gleaming where generations of fingers had polished the wood smooth.

Vasquez drained his whiskey. "The deal's done," as he spat neatly over the railing.

The walk back to our house stretched longer than the acreage we'd just bought. Cicadas sawed through the twilight as Gerry trailed fingertips along every orange tree we passed, his steps slowing near a gnarled specimen twice as wide as the others.

"Fuck," Callum whispered, pressing his palm to the trunk's weathered bark. "This one..." his thumb finding initials carved deep, RC + EV 1972, nearly swallowed by decades of growth. "Must have been his dad planted this with him."

Gerry's shadow fell across us. "Bloody sentimentalists, both of you," as his hand lingered on Callum's shoulder a beat too long.

Back at the house, Gerry disappeared into the cellar, "Celebration requires proper libations," while Callum spread the land deed across the kitchen table. Moonlight bled through the window, turning his freshly inked signature blue.

"Sixty acres to christen," Callum murmured against my collarbone, slumping slightly into my chest as his hand touched my hip, suggesting he was using my body for support. "Enough to...ah..." as Gerry's boots thudded up the cellar stairs.

“You okay, Callum? You seemed a little bit unsteady,” I observed.

“Fine as a bell,” He responded with a smile. “Just not used the Spanish Brandy… even that good.”

"1978 Tempranillo," Gerry announced, setting the dust-caked bottle on the patio table with three glasses as he took in the interaction between Callum and me.

Callum's fingers traced the irrigation lines on the map with a precision that bordered on obsessive, his nail catching on a pencil-drawn route where water could theoretically flow downhill without pumps. "Gravity feeds here," he muttered, tapping a spot where the land dipped naturally, "but we'd need to reinforce these channels..."

His voice hitched oddly, and when I glanced up, his knuckles were white where they braced against the table's edge.

"You feeling okay?" as I reached for his wrist, feeling the tremor beneath his skin before he jerked away with a laugh that sounded too bright.

"Just tired and too much brandy," he deflected, rolling his shoulders in a way that made his t-shirt stretch across his back. The afternoon sunlight caught the sweat beading along his hairline. When he turned to face me fully, his smile was all sharp edges and calculated desire, "Unless you're offering a distraction?"

Callum pulled off his shirt with that careless grace of his, tossing it onto the patio railing where it caught the fading light like a surrender flag. The movement stretched his torso into a lean arc, sunlight licking along the sweat-damp hollow between his pectorals, down the ladder of his ribs. My wine glass halted midway to my lips as he stepped off the porch, his bare feet crushing mint beneath his toes, the scent rising sharp between us.

"Going to check the plans are correct," he said over his shoulder, fingers hooking in the waistband of his shorts to adjust himself with a casualness that made my throat dry. "While you and Gerry finish your wine," pausing, just long enough for his grin to flash wolfish in the golden light. "Then, come and find me for some distraction."

The way he lingered sent heat pooling low in my gut. Gerry snorted into his Tempranillo as Callum sauntered toward the grove, his shoulder blades moving under tanned skin like restless wings. From this angle, the shorts did nothing to hide the muscular curve of his arse, nor the way the fabric strained slightly with each step, a tease I knew was deliberate as his shorts fell down his legs as he walked, revealing his white briefs hiding a raging erection as he partially turned, providing a view that was definitely a distraction.

Gerry kicked my ankle under the table as Callum stepped out of his shorts, leaving them where they lay discarded. "Stop eye-fucking his arse and drink your wine. You can find him later when we finish celebrating."

I drained the glass in one go, only for Gerry to refill it, as Callum disappeared between the orange trees, his silhouette briefly backlit by the sun as Gerry and I watched the lad, push his briefs down until he stepped out of them, briefly turning so Gerry and I could see his cock, bobbing ready for action, standing almost vertical towards the sky.

“Don’t often get views like that around here,” Gerry declared, chuckling at his comment, as the sunlight caught on Callum's shoulders, gilding the sweat-slick planes of his back before the leaves swallowed him whole. Gerry nudged my shoulder. "He's stunning when naked, isn't he?"

Chapter Twenty

Being twenty-one had left its mark on Callum in all the obvious ways: the loose athletic grace in his shoulders, the smoothness of his skin, the easy arrogance of youth sitting naturally in his posture. His body seemed lit from within by vitality, lean muscle, shifting subtly beneath warm flesh whenever he moved. There was no heaviness to him yet, nothing worn down by time or caution. He carried himself like a dare, his erection teasing and demanding attention as he stood between the gnarled orange trees, sunlight filtering through leaves to dapple his flushed skin.

Gerry's wine glass clicked against the table as he stood. "Christ, he's...a fucking tease, that boy," he muttered, as his gaze lingered on the spot where Callum had disappeared. The admission hung between us, that neither of us could ignore, this golden boy who had chosen me to share his love with.

Gerry laughed. "Go on, go and find him," as I peeled off my shirt, the fabric sticking to my sweat-damp back. "Better make it quick, though," he called after me, tapping the wine bottle against his thigh. "Pasta waits for no man," as my shorts hit the patio tiles with a soft slap, leaving me bare except for the afternoon light painting my erection in gold as my briefs followed my shorts.

The mint crushed beneath my bare feet released bursts of sharp fragrance as I crossed the yard, each step heightening the ache between my legs. Callum had timed his disappearance perfectly, just long enough for anticipation to coil tight in my gut.

I figured he'd chosen the oldest orange tree, its trunk wide enough to hide his lean frame as I imagined his palm braced against the bark, the other working slowly between his thighs as he would welcome me, playing with his cock, demanding I fuck and milk him.

What I found was...unexpected.

Callum lay sprawled beneath the ancient orange tree, his naked body limp as a discarded shirt. Twenty feet became a marathon, my shout tore through the grove, "Callum! Callum!", before I skidded to my knees, fingers pressing into his throat where sunlight pooled in the hollow. Even in stillness, he was golden. Even in death, his lips curved with the ghost of that insolent grin, as if he'd tasted something delicious before the world went dark.

My hands travelled across his chest, still warm, still golden, but his ribs didn't rise beneath my palms. No heartbeat thrummed under my fingertips when I pressed them to his throat. The cicadas kept screaming. The sun kept shining. And Callum kept not breathing.

I lifted his lifeless body into my lap like he weighed nothing at all. His head lolled against my forearm, the nape of his neck damp with sweat. His eyelashes cast shadows too sharp for someone who should have been blinking. My thumb brushed his lower lip, still faintly sticky with peach juice, still slightly parted as if he'd been about to say something wicked. His hair curled around my fingers exactly as it had this morning when I'd woken with it tangled in my grip.

Gerry's boots pounded the earth behind me, having heard my shouting. "Christ..." his wine glass shattering against tree roots. "Callum?"

I couldn't answer. My throat had sealed itself shut. Callum's cheek pressed against my sternum like he was listening for a heartbeat that wasn't there anymore. His skin was cooling fast. The sun hadn't noticed yet, still gilding his shoulders, still caught in his eyelashes like nothing had changed.

Gerry dropped to his knees beside us, his fingers pressing under Callum's jaw. His other hand shoved my shoulder hard enough to bruise. "Do something!" his voice cracking on the last syllable. When I didn't move, he grabbed Callum's wrists, pressing them together like he could force life back into them through sheer willpower. "Fucking do something!"

I cradled Callum closer, my palm spread wide across his ribcage where I'd kissed into his skin hours ago. His body was slack in all the wrong ways, no tension in his thighs where they draped over my knees, no flex in his abs as I adjusted him. I pressed my forehead to his, breathing in oranges and mint and the fading warmth of him.

Gerry's hand connected with my temple. "He's dead!" spittle hitting my cheek. "He's dead, and you're..." his hands scrabbling at Callum's shoulders like he meant to rip him away from me. "Give him to me!"

I twisted away, shielding Callum's body with mine. Something wet hit his collarbone. Not sweat. Gerry made a sound like a wounded animal when he saw it. His fingers dug into my bicep hard enough to draw blood through my skin. "You don't get to cry," he snarled. "You don't get... to cry."

Gerry's breath hitched. "He was fine. He was fucking fine."

The cicadas had stopped. Only Gerry's ragged breathing filled the silence between us. Callum's head lolled against my forearm, his eyelashes casting perfect shadows on his cheeks. I brushed his hair back from his forehead, the way he liked when he was sleepy and watched his lips part slightly at the touch. Like he might sigh any second. Like he might murmur something filthy against my skin.

Gerry collapsed against the tree trunk, his knees hitting the dirt with a dull thud. His fingers found Callum's ankle, circling the bony prominence as if taking his pulse. "Check for snake bites or something," he whispered. "Had to be poison."

I traced the shell of Callum's ear where he'd blushed pink this morning when I'd bitten it. His skin was cooling fast in the air. "No," I said numbly. "He's..........happy just sleeping."

Gerry's laugh was a shattered thing. "Happy boys don't drop dead between fucking orange trees," as his thumb rubbed circles over Callum's instep, the way you'd soothe a spooked horse.

I rocked Callum against my chest like a child, his limbs loose and unresisting, his skin still warm where mine pressed against him. My lips brushed his forehead, his cheeks, his parted mouth, each kiss a desperate incantation, a prayer to any god listening, knowing all the signs had been there for us to see.

Tiredness. Missed heartbeats and his slumping moments earlier. Why had we not listened to the warning signs?

Gerry slumped against the dirt beside us, his fingers still wrapped around Callum’s ankle as if he could tether him to this world by sheer will. The scent of crushed mint rose between us, sharp and incongruously alive.

Callum’s head lolled against my shoulder, his curls damp with sweat. I pressed my nose into them, inhaling oranges and salt and the fading warmth of him. His eyelashes cast perfect shadows on his cheeks. If not for the stillness, the awful slackness of his jaw, he might have been actually sleeping.

Gerry made a sound, half sob, half laugh, as he dragged himself upright. "Check his fucking pulse again," he rasped, grabbing my wrist and forcing my fingers against Callum’s throat. His own fingers left bruises on my skin. "Check it properly."

I let him press my fingertips into the hollow beneath Callum’s jaw. Nothing. No flutter, no thready resistance. Just skin, cooling too fast in the early evening air. Gerry’s breath hitched when I shook my head, and he released my wrist like it had burned him.

The grove was silent. No cicadas, no rustling leaves, just the distant hum of a tractor somewhere beyond the trees. Gerry’s wine glass lay shattered by the trunk, its stem snapped clean in two. He stared at it as if it held answers. "Have to call the ambulance," he said, as he stood and ran towards the house.

The first siren wail cut through the grove like a blade, distant, then suddenly too close. I didn't realise I'd been rocking him until Gerry's hand clamped on my shoulder, his fingers digging into bare skin. "They're here," he said, his voice stripped raw, his thumb brushing Callum's collarbone once, quick and possessive, before he stepped back.

The paramedics came crashing through the citrus trees in a blur of hi-vis and equipment, their boots kicking up crushed mint. I barely registered my own nakedness as they dropped to their knees beside us, their movements efficient, practised.

One of them, a woman with a dark braid, pressed two fingers to Callum's throat while the other unzipped a defibrillator.

"Sir, we need to take over," the male paramedic said, already reaching for Callum's limp wrist.

Gerry hauled me upright with a grip that left fingerprints. We staggered back together, watching as they laid Callum flat on the earth, his golden body suddenly clinical under their hands. The female paramedic tilted his head back, sealing her mouth over his in a parody of our last kiss. Her partner busy sticking pads all over Callum’s chest with wires attached to the device.

"Clear!"

"Clear!"

The defibrillator discharged with a mechanical thump that jerked Callum's body off the earth like a marionette. His ribcage arched obscenely, his slack mouth gaping toward the twilight sky before collapsing back onto the dirt. I counted the seconds between shocks, one, two, three, my heartbeat stretching tighter than Gerry's grip on my forearm.

The female paramedic's braid swung forward as she pressed her stethoscope to Callum's chest. Her partner's fingers lingered over the carotid pulse point too long, his thumb brushing the fading love bite I'd left below Callum's ear yesterday. Their eyes met over his motionless body in a silent exchange that curdled the spit in my mouth.

Gerry made a wounded noise when they started packing up the defibrillator. "Try again," he demanded, shoving past me to grip the male paramedic's shoulder. "You didn't…"

The paramedic's expression shifted from professional detachment to something worse. Pity. "Time of death appears to be approximately thirty minutes ago," he said, gently removing Gerry's hand. "There's evidence of Cyanosis, see the greyish tint to his skin and lips."

Gerry recoiled as if struck, walking away towards the house.

I just dropped heavily onto the ground, continuing to stare at my lover, still beautiful but quieter than he had ever been and in that moment, the floodgate of tears erupted as I buried my head in my hands.

Time had dissolved into something viscous and meaningless, minutes? Hours? before Gerry's fingers dug into my shoulder again, forcing me upright. The world rushed back in jagged fragments: the strobing blue lights of the police car slicing through orange trees, the murmur of paramedics packing equipment, the metallic tang of blood where I'd bitten through my own lip.

Gerry shoved a pair of crumpled shorts into my hands without meeting my eyes, his jaw clenched so tight I could see the pulse in his temple.

The sheet covering Callum was too white, too crisp, like the ones they used in cheap hotel rooms. I crawled toward him on hands and knees, gravel biting into my skin, until my fingers found the edge of the fabric.

It whispered away from his face with awful finality as I tugged it gently, revealing him unchanged except for the waxy pallor creeping into his cheeks. His lips were slightly parted, still faintly sticky with orange juice.

I pressed my mouth to his one last time, tasting salt and the ghost of citrus, my tears dripping onto his eyelashes like rain as I looked at him. Impossibly dead. Impossibly… still beautiful.

Gerry's hand clamped around my bicep, hauling me backwards just as the coroner's van reversed towards where Callum lay.

"Enough," he rasped, but his grip faltered when I slumped against him, my forehead hitting his collarbone with a dull thud. For one suspended moment, we breathed in sync, two halves of a broken thing, before Gerry shoved me toward the house with unsteady force.

Inside, the remnants of our celebration mocked us: half-empty wine glasses catching moonlight, Callum's shirt still draped over the patio railing where he'd tossed it. Gerry moved like a man possessed, snatching up the garment, crushing it to his face as he inhaled deeply, before flinging it into the grove with a strangled noise, the fabric catching on an orange branch, fluttering like a surrender flag.

"They'll want statements," Gerry said roughly, pouring four fingers of cheap Spanish brandy with shaking hands. The glass trembled against my lips, the alcohol burning away the taste of Callum. Gerry drained his own in one swallow, then froze, staring at the land deed still spread across the table and the map that Callum had been examining.

Gerry's fist connected with the wood hard enough to send the bottle crashing to the floor, as I just remained, collapsed on the wooden crate that had briefly been a focal point of activity the day before.

The paramedics muttered technical terms that bounced off my skull: myocardial infarction, coronary thrombosis, clinical euphemisms for the fact that Callum's heart had simply stopped. Like a faulty engine.

The police asked their questions in sterile rotations, their notepads filling with details that felt grotesquely insignificant: Was he stressed? Any family history?

Gerry stood ramrod straight by the kitchen counter, Callum's passport held out like a talisman when they asked for identification. His thumb covered the grinning photo, Callum, at nineteen, sunburnt and golden at some Spanish beach, as if protecting him from their bureaucratic scrutiny.

They loaded him into the black Mercedes van with unsettling efficiency, the doors shutting with a finality that made my knees buckle. Gerry's hand gripped my shoulder as the taillights disappeared down the dirt road, his fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises. Neither of us moved until the dust settled and the cicadas resumed their evening chorus, as if the world had already forgotten him.

Inside, Gerry methodically destroyed what remained of our celebration. He upended the half-finished bottle of Tempranillo across the patio stones, the wine spreading dark as blood between the cracks.

The land deed and map fluttered to the floor when he swept the table clean as I watched from the doorway, paralysed, as Gerry dismantled the evidence that Callum had ever been here at all.

He froze mid-motion, clutching a dish towel that still smelled of sunscreen and salt. His shoulders hitched once, violently, before he pressed the fabric to his face and inhaled like a drowning man. The sound he made was inhuman, guttural, shattered, before he flung it into the grove where Callum had last walked alive.

Night fell with merciless swiftness. Gerry sat at the barren kitchen table, methodically shredding a beer label with his thumbnail. "His mother," he said abruptly, voice scraped raw. "Someone has to tell her."

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. Neither of us acknowledged the unspoken truth; she'd probably blame us, me, but at that moment in time, I looked at my friend, realising he had huge feelings for the boy like I did. "I'll do it," I said.

My last act that evening was walking over to where Callum’s Hanes brief lay discarded, picking them up to smell them, to smell him. I held them as I finished the cheap Spanish Brandy,  taking the occasional break from the glass, to smell him again and again.

Gerry remained in the kitchen as I walked drunkenly into my bedroom, our bedroom, smelling him on the sheets and pillow. Tears cascaded from my eyes as I imagined him snuggling up next to me. Sleep eventually took me, but not before my hands had travelled over the sheets again, hoping that perhaps this had been a terrible dream.

Chapter Twenty-One

The flight from Seville to Aberdeen was uneventful in all the ways that mattered, no turbulence, no delays, just six hours of recycled air, direct flights not possible and the constant hum of engines trying to drown out the silence between us.

Gerry slept fitfully against the window, his forehead leaving a greasy smudge on the plexiglass, while I traced the condensation patterns with a fingertip, imagining they were irrigation maps Callum might have drawn. When we landed, the rain came sideways, as if even the weather knew we didn’t deserve shelter.

The Kirk stood grey against a greyer sky, its sandstone darkened by centuries of Scottish drizzle. Ewan waited under the awning; his rugby player’s frame slumped into an uncharacteristic stoop. He nodded once when he saw us, the movement jerky, like his neck had forgotten how to bend. Behind him, Callum’s mother clutched a damp handkerchief in both hands, her knuckles white around the lace edges.

Then there was Callum’s father. The Prison Officer beside him kept a hand hovering near the man’s elbow, though the cuffs were gone for the day. He stood too straight in his borrowed suit, his eyes darting between the Kirk doors and the hearse parked at the curb.

"What was it all for?" Callum's father asked.

Gerry and I found ourselves unable to reply, as I placed my hand on his shoulder, trying to console a man who had sacrificed everything for his son.

The minister's voice cracked on various words during the service. Weakness. Taken before his time. Happy. Always full of life," as if even God's mouthpiece couldn't stomach the clinical cruelty of it. My words, though, were more personal and tore through my head, including loving, tender and…beautiful.

Twelve pairs of shoes shifted on damp gravel, three rugby mates who smelled of last night's whisky. Callum's aunt from Dundee, clutching rosary beads like grenade pins. His mother, stoic and proud and his father, distraught beyond consolation.

Gerry's steel-toed boots planted wide as if bracing against gravity itself. My own Oxfords had sunk two inches into the mud where I'd been standing motionless as they lowered the coffin into the ground, the rich black soil sucking at my soles like it already wanted to claim me too.

The finality of the act, beyond debate, as we trudged to the local pub. Even the Prison Officer joined us in a few drinks as Callum's father, muttered… “It isn't right,” as he downed another whisky.

It was Ewan, though, who caught Gerry and me as we headed towards the exit. He smiled, probably remembering the football match and how it all started, holding up his phone, showing us the last few WhatsApp messages from Callum to him.

His thumb had smudged the corner where he'd obviously re-read it a dozen times. Gerry leaned in too close, his temple grazing mine as we absorbed the message that should have been mundane, weather reports and sex jokes, but now felt like scripture.

"He wrote this the morning he..." Ewan's voice cracking on the unspoken, his rugby-calloused fingers surprisingly gentle as he swiped to a photo beneath the text. Callum grinned up at us, semi-naked, in his briefs against the grove's irrigation pipes, his torso gleaming with sweat and sunlight.

Gerry made a sound like a knife sliding between ribs. He snatched the phone, his thumb tracing the curve of Callum's smile before freezing on something in the background, his pruning shears clearly visible, discarded near the tree where we'd later find him.

Ewan reclaimed his phone with a softness that belied his frame. "He sent this right after, eh?" Tapping a video that loaded with excruciating slowness. Callum's laughter erupted from the speakers, tinny and alive, as the camera panned across rumpled sheets to where I lay naked, tangled in post-coital sleep.

His voice, bright with mischief: "Look at this lazy bastard. Can't keep up with me," the video jostling as he climbed back into bed, the camera lens panning across my body, capturing every detail as he whispered, "Ewan, I love him and then whispering in my ear as I slept, love you, you daft cunt," before the screen went black.

The silence that followed was thicker than the Kirk's mortar. Gerry turned away first, his shoulders rigid beneath his suit jacket. I stared at Ewan's lock screen, Callum mid-scrum, mud-streaked and glorious, until my vision blurred.

"Didn't even know he took that video," I declared. "Thanks for showing me."

"There's one more you have to see," Ewan insisted. "His final message, which I’ll forward to you if you want."

Ewan's thumb hovered over the screen. The message timestamp glowed accusingly, 12:47 PM, sent twenty-three minutes before I found Callum sprawled beneath that gnarled orange tree. My lungs forgot how air worked as I read the words:

"Mate, you won’t believe it, I’m proper fucking happy for once. Like, wake-up-and-grin-like-a-loon happy. Steve’s coming to find me right now, and I'm ready for him. I’m standing here, fucking naked, mate, horny as fuck, my arse still throbbing from getting properly railed under an orange tree this morning."

The next line made Gerry choke beside me: "Weather’s brilliant, sex is better, and he fucks me like he actually loves me. Never thought I’d have this, you know? A place. Them. Tell you the details later. Love you, mate and miss you."

Ewan's screen dimmed to black. The pub's noise rushed back in, clinking glasses, drunken laughter, all of it obscenely normal. Gerry's fingers closed around my wrist, his grip tight enough to grind bone against bone. "Outside," he hissed, dragging me past the bar where Callum's father sat slumped over a whisky, the Prison Officer's hand resting heavy on his shoulder.

Rain sheeted across the cobblestones as Gerry shoved me into the alley. His fist connected with the brick wall beside my head, knuckles splitting with a wet crack. "Happy," he spat, the word rancid on his tongue. "He was fucking happy."

His forehead dropped against my shoulder, his breath shuddering through my shirt. I gripped the back of his neck, feeling the tremor in his muscles, the sweat-slick skin beneath his collar as we both cried, the rain unable to wash away, the memories of Callum.

Chapter Twenty-Two

"Have you said good morning to Callum?" Gerry demanded as I walked onto the patio with my morning coffee.

I pressed my palm against the trunk's smooth curve, fingertips tracing the incision Gerry had carved three months ago with surgical precision: C.McL 21/25.

The bark had healed around the letters, swallowing Callum's initials into its flesh. "Good morning, Callum," I murmured, watching a ladybird traverse a leaf. "It's a lovely day. Thinking of you."

The lemon tree was barely waist-height, its leaves healthy and growing stronger each day. It stood where Callum had last stood, where his bare feet had crushed mint into the patio stones, a lasting memorial to such a short time, an epitaph to how his light had shone so brightly before tragically being extinguished.

I turned on my mobile phone, viewing the messages that Ewan had forwarded, enjoying the image of him…Callum, just happy, before closing my eyes, remembering...

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