Chapter 6: The First Time

The final Saturday of the yard project dawned like the climax it was meant to be—thick July heat already pressing down by eight, the sky a perfect, unbroken blue that made every leaf and petal glow. You stood on the deck in the same micro yellow sundress from last week, hem flirting with the breeze, no panties, nipples already tight against the thin fabric. The backyard was a masterpiece now: crisp mulch borders, flowers spilling color in riotous waves, the last stubborn roots gone, the fence straightened, everything blooming under Jake’s hands. One more morning and it would be finished.

He arrived at nine, cargo shorts low, faded tee already clinging to the hard lines of his chest. Luna bounded out first, tail whipping, but even she was slower today—exhausted from the week of daily walks and the final push yesterday. Jake’s eyes found you instantly, darkening as they traced the sway of the dress, the bare length of your legs.

“Last day,” he said, voice already rough. “Feels like the end of something.”

“Or the beginning,” you answered, handing him the first glass of lemonade. Your fingers brushed, electric as always.

You worked side by side for the last time—edging the final path, patting the last flat of bright zinnias into place, smoothing mulch until the yard looked like a magazine spread. Sweat gleamed on his arms, soaked his shirt translucent. You bent often, deliberately, letting the hem ride up, flashing the lower curve of your ass, feeling his stare like warm hands. His cock thickened visibly by ten, pressing against the cargo shorts every time you brushed past him. Luna trotted between you at first, then flopped in the shade, tongue lolling, done.

By noon the project was complete. The backyard breathed—alive, beautiful, yours again because of him. Jake straightened, wiped his brow, and looked at you with something raw in his eyes.

“Done,” he said quietly. “All of it.”

You smiled, heart hammering. “Inside. We’re celebrating.”

You led him through the sliding doors. The house was cool and dim after the blaze outside. Luna dragged herself upstairs to her favorite spot on your bed, circling once and collapsing into deep, snoring sleep—the kind that meant she wouldn’t stir for hours. Perfect.

In the kitchen you poured two tall lemonades, then reached for the bottle of good whiskey you’d bought midweek. You splashed a generous measure into each glass, the amber swirling into the pale yellow like liquid gold. The scent rose—tart citrus, smoky oak, summer itself. You handed him his, clinked glasses.