Page 22 of Big Britches

What else can I do?

He combed his fingers through his hair and lowered his gaze a little more than half-speed, milking his movements for time and mimed effectiveness. His hand stroked down the back of his head to his neck, massaging.

Now what?

He glanced over his shoulder toward the pool.

No. Absolutely not.

Pedro lowered his hand and slid it beneath his t-shirt, circling his stomach before inching it higher to his chest, consciously raising the shirt to give Titus a glimpse of his navel.

Whatever. He’s not watching. This is ridiculous. You should stop.

But he didn’t stop. Instead, he grasped the hem of the t-shirt with both hands and lifted it, turning it inside out and removing it.

There. How about that, Titus?

Pedro bunched the shirt and began drying his chest with it. He alternated lifting each arm and mopping at his sweaty pits, tracing the cloth across his shimmering skin as if it were a shammy and he was washing a car. He did this slowly, too, and when he was done, he shook out the fabric, and tucked it in to the back of his pants.

That’s the front. How about the back?

Pedro turned, bending over and reaching for a fresh bottle of water in the cooler. He recalled Titus walking away in that wrapped towel, his ass swaying divinely beneath the terry folds. He wondered if–hoped that–Titus was watching him the same way now, too, getting a good glimpse of his own denim-clad cheeks, parted by a mock tail.

He turned back and removed the water bottle’s cap, lifting the bottle to his chest and circling the cool plastic on his pecs and nipples. His free hand lowered his to his waistband, hooking it with his thumb just above his crotch.

No. You are not going to pour it down your pants.

He didn’t. Instead, he thought about Jennifer Beals in the movie Flashdance and raised the bottle above his head, looking up with closed eyes and letting the cold water splash down on his face. It flowed freely down his shoulders, chest, and stomach. When one of the cool rivulets made it to the gap at his crotch, its icy tendrils seeping deep into his underwear, he thought–

What in the hell are you doing?

He opened his eyes and looked at his surroundings. He was alone, standing in the middle of a partially cut lawn, next to his mower and a bag of clippings. No one was there to witness, no chipmunks, nor even a bird in the sky.

You’re a fool, Pedro Torres. Even if your rich new employer was watching, he wants nothing more than to get into your pants–just a quick fix before heading to the country club.

Maybe. But Titus hadn’t come across that way. His attire may have been a bit risqué, but he sure seemed like a nice guy.

Get laid, Miguel had said back at the shop. Life is short.

No.

No matter how much he yearned for physical gratification, Pedro couldn’t jeopardize his future for something as meaningless as a quick lay. A relationship, however… well, that might be another story.

“As if.”

Pedro mounted the mower, started it, and continued with this work.

Once he completed mowing the yard, Pedro drove the lawn tractor back up on the trailer and secured it. He grabbed a weed eater and worked on spots closer to the shrubs, beds, and buildings that he couldn’t get to with the mower.

As he worked near the back of the main house, he thought about what he’d mentioned to Titus regarding height and balance. The trees near the house were shrubs—Tea Olives—that Carlos had been sculpting to grow tall, lifting their blooms and lovely fragrance higher to the second-story windows. The logic was there, but it looked strange. He also disapproved of the marigolds beneath them, scrutinizing their simplicity and identifying the opportunity to embellish with more color and depth.

At one point, his mind buzzing with potential while trimming around the front of the guest house, he sensed someone near. He turned and saw Titus approaching, a beer bottle in each hand.

Pedro shut off the gas-powered trimmer. “No, really. I can’t.”

“Just wanted to offer,” Titus said with a smile. “It’s a little early for me, too. Roz has sweet tea at the table.”

“That I can handle.”