Summer Sweat (Spruce Texas)

“I’m startin’ to like it here.” He puts his hand on my shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “I feel like I’ve finally won you over a little.”

“Get your hand off my shoulder.”

“Hey, can you come with me to the toolshed? I’ve been sent on a mission to find something and can’t for the life of me find it.”

I shrug his hand off. “What’re you looking for?”

“I dunno the name. Just come and help me, alright?”

And off he goes ahead of me, making his way to the toolshed. I let out a sigh, then follow him, figuring it’d be best if I help him, just in case Gary sent him on this mission, or someone out in the fields who’s waiting on him to return with a certain tool. Fred gets mighty agitated when people take long to return. I know so; he called me a “dang slowmagoma” for taking too long to bring him a paint roller.

I enter the toolshed, only to find Hoyt not there. “Hoyt?” I call out, turning around.

He rushes out of the dark and tackles me, gripping my waist with his hands and thrusting his lips onto mine. My back crashes against a workbench, causing all of the bins of screws and nails to rattle, as his mouth works over mine with need.

It’s heaven in an instant. Last night’s racing heart is back with a vengeance, consuming me whole.

His taste. His smell. His strength. His virility.

I could never have dreamed a mere kiss could feel so good.

Then I come back to my senses and shove him off of me. “For fuck’s sake, Hoyt!”

“What??” he protests. “You know you want it. Come on.” He lunges for my mouth again.

I fight him off for half a second.

The other half of that second is spent giving in, and kissing him right back, my arms wrapping around his slender waist and pulling him against me. His hard dick grinds against mine through the material of our jeans. I cup his ass for extra leverage, pulling him against my body like he’s my fucking possession.

I pull from his lips for a second. “We can’t do this.”

“Yes, we can,” he hisses before pulling my lips back onto his.

The workbench creaks under my weight as Hoyt presses me against it with his body. The toolshed is dark, with the lights off and the sunlight peeking through only a crack in the door and a few small fissures in the roof. All I see is a hint of Hoyt’s face as we make out. All I smell is him, his homely scent, the fabric softener in his clothes, mixed with a hint of earthiness and sweat and something oddly clean—whatever he shampoos his hair with, maybe? His lips are so soft, it feels like every time he kisses me, it’s a wordless promise of how truly gentle and sweet he is inside.

Hoyt Nowak. Gentle and sweet.

Sensitive and vulnerable and lonely.

Kissing me. Urgently wanting me to kiss him back.

None of these things make sense.

“Hoyt,” I murmur against his lips—his crazy soft lips. “We got to stop. Someone can just walk right in and—”

“They’re all busy in the fields. We’re alright.” He kisses me.

“How do you know that?” I mutter, saying the words against his lips, as we’re apparently incapable of taking even a tiny pause.

“I just came from there. Lea’s been showin’ me some stuff.” Now he stops for two seconds. “Since your stubborn ass wouldn’t trust me out there.” Then he resumes kissing me.

I don’t ever want this kiss to end. It feels so fucking good, to know that all of my pining over the years for the touch of another man’s lips on mine wasn’t for nothing. It’s as amazing as I dreamed.

Actually, it’s infinitely better.

And as long as I’m kissing him, I feel like nothing was ever wrong or missing in my life. I wasn’t spending countless lonesome nights in my cabin for nothing. I was just waiting, apparently—waiting for someone like Hoyt to come along and pull me right out of my dark corner and into the light.

He set my heart ablaze.

The soft sound of singing touches my ears. Hoyt hears it, too. At once, we separate, then become very busy looking for a tool we aren’t here to find. A second later, the toolshed opens, and in saunters the slouched, skinny shape of Turtle humming a tune to himself. “Hello, boys,” he greets us with a mild nod, then saunters over to the metal bin that holds a few tools. He pulls out the hoe, inspects it, then strolls right back out of the shed, still humming.

Hoyt and I stop pretending to be looking for something. He lets out a sigh. “Close call, huh?”

“Too close.”

He comes right up to me, ready to continue where we left off, but I put my hands to his shoulders. “Hoyt, I said it was too—”