Hooked

Eric Hart knelt in the sun-dappled garden, his hands deep in the warm soil, coaxing life from the earth. Thirst tugged at him, and he straightened, brushing dirt from his knees before heading inside to refill his watering can. The house lay quiet, save for the distant hum of running water. He paused at the bathroom door, drawn by the steam curling out like a lover's sigh. There stood Billy Kincaid, naked and gleaming under the shower's spray, lathering his lean body with slow, deliberate strokes. Soap suds traced paths down his chest, over the taut ridges of his abdomen, pooling at the base of his hardening cock. Eric's pulse quickened. He set the can aside—forgotten—and stepped in, clothes shedding like old skin. Billy's eyes met his, dark with hunger. No words needed. Eric's mouth claimed Billy's in a fierce kiss, water cascading over them both. Hands roamed, slick and urgent: Eric gripped Billy's shaft, stroking with a rhythm that matched the pounding spray. Billy gasped, bucking into the touch, his own fingers fumbling with Eric's belt, freeing him to the humid air. They pressed together, bodies sliding in soapy friction. Eric pinned Billy against the tiled wall, knees parting as he thrust forward. Billy's legs wrapped around him, pulling him deeper. The air thickened with moans, the slap of wet skin echoing like a private symphony. Eric filled him—thrust after relentless thrust—until release crashed over them, hot and spilling, more than any can could hold. They slumped, spent and sated, the garden waiting beyond.