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There was a new man in his garden.
Francis usually didn’t like it when the agency send new guys over, but “his” regular all around maintenance man had retired two weeks ago. He’d been working in Francis’s garden for just over a decade and had known how Francis liked it just so. Shit.
So the circumstances of life landed him with a new face around the house and it made him nervous.
At this point in his life Francis Crozier was a recluse with trust issues, if he wanted to put labels on himself, which he didn’t. Not anymore. Ex-Navy Captain turned writer, he was finally comfortable in his own house if nowhere else.
In his mid-50s now, never married and without kids, none that he knew of at least, Francis sometimes felt like the last packet on the shelf. Held in a few hands sometimes, looked at from all angles and always put back for some flaw or another, he felt pretty banged up by now. Too shabby to even be taken off the shelf anymore, sell-by date expired long ago.
When he had discovered in his early twenties that he liked both women and men in all the possible ways, he’d arrogantly thought with literally all the possibilities open to him, he would be partnered up in no time. But there you go, life and lemons. He’d wanted all of it and had gotten nothing.
What Francis was proud of in his life he could count on one hand. He’d managed to save most of his crew when his last ship got bombed to pieces in the South Atlantic, he’d beaten the whiskey and learned to accept himself as a sober alcoholic, his friendship with Blanky and the fact, that his insides didn’t dissolve into an angry, self-hating, jealous puddle anymore when he met James Ross and his better half, or Sophia and her less better half, or even James Fitzjames for that matter. Although he did debate with himself now and then if he was truly proud of the latter. The faded memory of this man’s mouth on him could still send shivers down his spine.
But like in every one of his relationships the harder he’d clung the more he’d pushed until all of it snapped and James was gone and Francis hadn’t had any fight left in him. He’d made a fool of himself one times too many. Enough was enough.
Why was he thinking about his past lovers right now? Jesus fucking Christ. A new guy in his garden and he still hoped. How. bloody. pathetic.
The agency had been very keen on him and positively enthusiastic about this new man. His name was Thomas Jopson, he was in his mid-30s, very competent, very diligent, unassuming, punctual, never sick and an all around nice guy. Lived in a good neighborhood, had been with the agency for 6 years now and never had a single complaint.
Francis had snorted into the phone. It was unbelievable, what a saint. But sure, he’d take him, as if he had any other choice, since he wasn’t going to tend to his garden himself.
Francis shook his head, picked up his books and turned to leave his study. He’d planned a nice and comfy research day on his living room sofa.
When he passed the windows that looked out into the garden over his terrace, he couldn’t help himself and risked a peek through the drawn curtains, just to make sure saintly new guy wasn’t just lounging around on his lawn and actually did the work that needed to be done.
But by God, did he work. Francis’s mouth went slack as he spotted the man trimming the hedges. This Jopson fellow looked like he’d sprung fresh out of a certain type of magazine Francis used to enjoy in his younger days.
Given that it was a warm day Jopson had gotten rid of his shirt and there he was: Just in his jeans, his muscles flexing, almost raven colored hair covering his chest and head. From time to time he combed the shiny mess out of his face with his fingers. Sweat trickled down his spine.
“Fuck,” Francis thought rather unoriginally. This man was entirely too beautiful to be a maintenance man. On the other hand…
Suddenly he became aware of his prick. Jesus Christ. He’d almost forgotten this thing was there for something other than emptying his bladder. It grew heavier between his legs with every one of Jopson’s movements out there in front of his window.
Shit, he was an old lech now, leering at his gardener through the curtains. But it’d been awhile since he’d been hard. Really hard.
Jopson bent over to trim something at the bottom of the hedge showing off a nicely shaped ass. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Suddenly all Francis could feel was his cock swelling and starting to strain against his briefs.
He put his books away and sat down in his desk chair, aligning it just so that he could continue looking through the small gap in the curtains. He spread his legs and looked at his bulge. God, he needed it badly, if a nice looking man in just his jeans made him suddenly want to come in his pants.
As embarrassing as this was, another part of him was turned on by this whole situation and as he had learned in therapy years ago, self-care was important. Francis was fairly sure, getting himself off in his study right now would be a supreme form of self-care.
He closed his eyes for a moment and cupped himself. Oh good God. This was not going to take very long.
Francis opened his eyes to Jopson drinking some water. The lord was certainly smiling at him today. The way the younger man’s lips closed around the top of the bottle, the way he was swallowing it down. The moan that escaped Francis was positively obscene.
The time to tease himself was over. With slightly shaking hands he unzipped his pants, pulled his shirt out and unceremoniously gripped his hard cock. When was the last time his hands had shook from arousal? As much as he would have liked to, going slow was not an option anymore.
Jopson had gone back to work on the hedges. Francis stared and didn’t dare blink lest he missed something.
“Come on. Bend over for your old man again. Come on.” He almost came from muttering filth to himself.
“Oh fucking Lord.”
Outside Jopson was indeed bending over again.
“Yes. You little minx. Yes.”
He was stroking faster now, his hand and wrist practically working without him thinking about it, gripping harder. Pre-come was leaking out of his cock now, making him slick.
“Yeah, give Daddy what he needs,” Francis was panting now. God, he needed to come so badly.
Jopson had finished his work, but instead of using a rag to clean his hands, he wiped them off on his pants, sliding them over his shapely ass a few times.
“Oh, you dirty fuck, you’re so good,” Francis didn’t know what he was saying anymore.
Suddenly Jopson stuck both of his hands in his back pockets, stretching out his back which was still naked and sweaty.
“Shit, there it is, there it is,” Francis gripped his tight balls, involuntarily screwed his eyes shut and came in thick ropes all over his chest.
“Yes, yes, yes, fuck.” He was panting hard. What a mess.
Outside Jopson put his shirt back on, packed his tools away and called it a day.
Francis could see him looking at the house on his way out.