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The house was broken. As a house – that is as something to keep the elements out and keep you safe – it didn’t work. He stood on the broken porch in the shade of the broken roof and felt the summer heat desiccate and wither everything in the yard behind him.

The house would take a lot of work but he had time and it felt good to have a project. But before the house came the garden, if you could call it a garden. Where it wasn’t parched dirt and rocks it was waist high grass – coarse and tough as anything. And everywhere junk: broken wood, parts of unidentifiable machines.

Through the doorway the house looked blessedly cool and dark. It also looked like it had been gutted by both fire and flood at the same time. No wonder his uncle had done nothing to it in twenty years and had died before he’d gotten round to it.

Apparently Hal had spent his first five years in the house. He’d expected a few memories to be shaken loose when he first came back to take a look at the property he’d inherited, but nothing. Even so he didn’t just want to sell it and for some reason he didn’t want to tear it up and start again.

But the house was a lot of work. Start with just clearing the yard: that was the plan. He turned, and even in the shade, even that little movement made fresh beads of sweat start their journey down his brow.

The long yellow car pulling up on the other side of the low, wire fence seemed to be arriving perfectly on cue. He waved at the driver as she stepped out onto the road and held up her hand to keep the sun from her eyes. She was the only person in the car he noted with disappointment.

“Where’s Johnny?” he called by way of greeting.

“He said he forgot. He said he had another thing.”

“Yeah,” Johnny had taken a look at the air trembling over the blacktop beneath his window and found another thing he had to be doing. Probably in an air-conditioned bar. He didn’t blame him. “You could’ve called me,” he said as she rounded the front of the car and pulled on the passenger door. “You were only giving him a ride.” The car was a rust-trimmed classic, but you have to take classics like that on their own terms. The door didn’t open.

“I came to help,” she said over her shoulder and laughed.

He looked at her, her yellow sundress blurring against the bleached yellow of her car, her slender arms and legs bare and already tanned from the summer. Sandals. No hat.

“You came to help?” He moved his straw hat, settled it on his head. “I don’t mean to be rude, but… this is gonna be hard work Luce.”

The muscles of her arms tensed for a moment as she really put her strength into opening the recalcitrant door. She heaved, grunted and it popped open. “I ain’t helping with this fucking wasteland,” she informed him, again holding her hand up to shade her eyes in a lazy, thoughtless movement. She turned and bent and Con just let himself watch the thin dress slip up over her ass a little. He wondered if she was sweating as much as he was – her dress looked like it might be clinging in a few places. She had to be sweating. She wouldn’t be human otherwise.

She came up holding a glass pitcher and a thermos by their handles in one hand. In the other hand was a large plastic bag, which shone and glittered – crystal and white.

“I made lemonade,” she raised the flask and the pitcher. “I brought a pitcher and some glasses. And I got ice at the store.” She smiled, her eyes practically closed against the blinding, late morning sun. “Tell me that’s not helping.”

– – –

She had brought an old folding chair too, with a tear through the fabric at the back that made it look like it was going to give way at any moment. She set herself up on the porch, exactly where he had stood watching her arrive and she sat with her legs crossed, watching him.

He bent his back in the heat and worked. The thin, old shirt he’d picked was plastered to him in no time, and he felt a little like bacon – like meat on a grill. He waded into the sharp, dry grass and tried to clear out the engine parts and discarded furniture that was hidden like the world’s worst Easter egg hunt. When he’d cleaned an area enough he fired up the noisy petrol driven slicing thing that he’d rented and tore through the grass until you could see the ground.

He worked and he sweated, and every now and then she would call to him, “Have some lemonade.” Or he would feel his head start to buzz and knew he needed to get out of the heat for a while.

The sun moved over the house and the shade from the broken porch roof stretched a little further so he could sit on the low, broken steps and try not to down the cool, beautiful lemonade in one big gulp. She sat behind him in her chair and they talked about everything: the hot, hot city that they’d both only moved to (or moved back to) in the last few years, people they knew, the work where they’d met.

And he’d liked her since he met her, but whatever there was between them had just never had a chance to become something else. There were always other things in Escort Esenyurt the way, small things that made it seem like something that wouldn’t happen.

Now she was behind him in that thin, yellow dress, legs crossed and bouncing one foot idly in the air just at the corner of his vision. When he talked to her he didn’t turn to look at her, he just looked sideways at her small foot and the cheap sandal that was dangling from it, dancing with her movements. He looked at her orange nail varnish and as the cool, precious liquid flowed down his throat he wanted to turn and let his eyes roam up the rest of her legs.

“Who taught you how to make this stuff,” he held the tumbler of lemonade up to look at the cloudy, fresh juice, then gave into the temptation and rolled the glass across his forehead.

“My grandma told me. On her death bed.”

“Shut up.”

“I got the recipe off the internet,” she laughed, “but it’s good right? It’s like the third lot I’ve made this summer. I keep going to the store and buying all these lemons. It ain’t odd, I don’t think, but they keep looking at me so weird.”

He went back to work. He found a twisted, rusted child’s tricycle and tried to remember if he had ridden a tricycle when he was a toddler. He recalled the few photos he had seen of the time and nothing came to mind. He found three or four grills that he was sure were parts of refrigerators – but no actual refrigerators.

He cut the next area down and went back for more lemonade. She grinned as he came towards her and told him that she’d always wanted a porch to sit out on in the summer, and asked if she could come over and pretend it was her house when he’d finished with it.

“Of course, but I’d say we’ll both be old, old people by the time that happens.”

“You’re doing good! You look like you’ll have the place at least cleared today.”

“Yeah, and then there’s the house. I don’t even know if it’s, y’know, structurally ok yet.” He stopped at the steps and looked at the way her sun-bleached hair – dirty blonde, long and tangled – was held back by a thin black hair band. He looked at her shoulders. He didn’t look at her bare legs and how high up them her short dress was lying when she sat like that.

“Oh. Oh yeah.” She looked back over her shoulder at the building. He couldn’t stop his eyes flicking down just for a moment. Just a split second of her long legs rubbing against each other as she turned. Just the faintest shine of perspiration on them. “Can I look around?”

“Ah, sure. Be careful though, there are holes and nails and broken wood everywhere.”

“Am I gonna fall through the floor?”

“Don’t think so,” he said and grinned.

– – –

“Hey. Lemonade time?”

He looked up, smiling. She was standing, framed in the dark open doorway with the almost-empty pitcher in one hand and his glass in the other. He’d realised already that this was too much. He could finish the yard in a day by himself, but he’d be killing himself to do it. Johnny being there would’ve helped.

He dropped the rake he’d been using to gather up the cut stalks of grass and weeds and started up towards her. Halfway there she came down the steps of the porch towards him, and with the same careless, graceless poise with which she did everything, she sat on the step. She sat on the low step, her knees bent and the hem of her dress bunched up in her lap.

She turned her legs at least a little demurely, but it didn’t help. And he couldn’t stop his eyes this time. She looked to the pitcher of lemonade, and he let his eyes take in the view of her tan thighs, all the way up where they should’ve been covered by her flimsy dress. He couldn’t bring himself to watch her pouring out the last of the lemonade for him because the pure white of her panties against her dark, shimmering flesh had him completely mesmerised.

She shifted, tucking her legs together and turning properly to the side. And when he looked up to her face, he knew that she’d caught him looking. She offered him the half-full glass with a twist of the mouth that he couldn’t quite read. Annoyance? Amusement? Something else? He looked down on her dumbly and brought the glass to his lips.

“You look beat,” she said and leaned back. She arched her back, putting her hands back to prop herself up, and as she closed her eyes lazily he really noticed how that thin yellow dress really was sticking to her as much as his shirt was. They were in the shade, but he could see she was sweating and, hot as his blood already was from the sun, it got a couple of degrees hotter still. “Fuck, it is soooo hot.”

“I’m thinking,” he swallowed, but hadn’t been drinking anything, “of giving it up for the day.”

“I think,” she said in a low, sleepy way, “that would be a good idea.” She let her head hang back and the long, tangled strands of her hair almost brushed the ancient boards of the porch. Suddenly she snapped her head up and looked right at him. He snapped his eyes up from her small breasts, and the way her dress clung Escort Avcılar to them. “Hey, I’ve got an idea. I found something.”

“Yeah?” his head was buzzing, but he didn’t know if it was the heat of the sun now. He brought the last sip of lemonade to his lips.

“Yeah, let’s go inside.”

He finished the lemonade, swallowed again, and followed the curve of her – her dress perfectly pasted to the shape her hips made as they flared out slightly from her slender waist. He followed her into the dark house.

– – –

“Take that shirt off.” She led him to what was probably the living room, though none of the rooms now resembled any rooms that he knew. “The jeans too. I’ll be back in a second.”

“What?!” He smiled, tired and hot and off-guard. Now he’d been in the shade for a few minutes he felt… sticky. Everything sticking to everything else. More and more she looked too good to be true. Like he was a starving cartoon character, she almost started to look like one of those cool heavenly glasses of lemonade she’d been giving him. “What are we doing?”

“A little cleaning.” Then she was gone. He heard some sounds in the back yard, then something that sounded like running water. It stopped, then ran, then stopped again. He didn’t strip, he just stood there aching.

She came back with a bucket sloshing with water.

“I found a faucet out back that still works. And a bucket without a hole.” It was an ancient, battered tin thing, but it was holding the water well enough. She frowned, “You didn’t take your clothes off.”

“What?” Exhausted he smiled at her but his brain was still several blocks behind.

“Shirt goes on the floor, jeans go on the floor, water goes on Con. Con feels better. Pretty simple.” The windows were boarded up but slices of light slashed through the gaps and there was a goddamned hole in the roof. It was shady, and darker than outside, but still bright. “Just do it, you idiot.”

He couldn’t think of a good reason why not to, so he did. He unbuttoned his shirt halfway and then pulled it over his head with a groan of relief. He hooked it over the end of a curtain rod that didn’t look filthy, and glanced across at her. She wasn’t pretending to do anything but watch him strip. The bucket must’ve been heavy, she’d put it down.

Then his jeans. He popped the buttons of the fly and pushed them down off his lean hips with another sigh of relief. She was right, this was exactly what he needed to do. And now, cooled by the shade and the layer he’d taken off, his brain was catching up with what was going on.

His jeans went over the end of the curtain rod too, and his socks quickly followed leaving him standing there in front of her in just his fitted blue boxers. He turned to face her, caught halfway between confidence and reticence. She crossed her arms and moved as if to lean against the doorframe but she remembered the filthy state of the whole building and thought better of it. She didn’t know what to do with her hands, and clasped them behind her neck.

Her standing like that, of course he was going to look down at those small perky breasts that were being pushed out at him. Yes, it was cooler inside, but a fresh trickle of sweat started to make its way down his back. His heart sped, and energy flowed from his aching back and tired arms to his loins.

“You could take those off too if you wanted,” she said, her voice so carefully weightless that the hidden weight was obvious. The weight increase in his underwear was becoming a little more obvious to him every moment too. Not to her, yet.

“Is that necessary for having a bucket of water dumped over you?”

“Maybe not.” Her hands came down and she stepped towards him, her sandals crunching on the dirt and dust and grit of the old floorboards. He wiped his brow uselessly with the back of one big hand. It wasn’t until she was within reach that he realised she’d left the bucket at the door.

They both reached out at exactly, perfectly, the same time. He leaned towards her and put his hand gently to the side of her face. One callused thumb along her jaw, four fingers slipping into her straw-blonde hair. And as their lips met her hands came across and found his cock, half hard in those tight boxers.

Her mouth opened to him as he kissed her, as his hand pulled her face to his, but it didn’t yield to him. She kissed him back with just as much force, her lips hot but hard, her tongue fighting his between fast, gasped breaths. He was tired and aching but all she had been doing all day was watching him bend and stretch and work and sweat. He guessed probably she was the more frustrated of them.

Her fingers told much the same story. She was as forward with him here as he knew her to be with all things. As he kissed her she first explored the shape of him behind the fabric, then quickly grasped him and encouraged him to grow. He wanted to wrap his other arm around her and crush her to him, but he gave her room.

He used his other hand to pull down the shoulder strap of her flimsy dress. He tried to do it carefully, gracefully, but his weary fingers couldn’t grasp the fine strap so he just thumbed it down off her shoulder, then roughly slipped his fingers into her dress itself and yanked it down.

Her small upturned breast bore the same freckles as her face, and just seeing it, then touching it, teasing the small dark nipple with his thick thumb, he felt his erection quicken. He was hard, straining against the prison of his boxers. She held him with strong fingers and stroked him through them; hand over hand, up and up and up.

She murmured something against his lips and they separated properly for the first time.

“We’re going to get hotter and dirtier if we do this,” she said in a voice that was barely beyond a breath, or a purr.

“You might,” he cupped her exposed breast, “I don’t think I could get any dirtier.”

“We’ll see,” she grinned.

She pulled his underwear down under his solid, jutting prick with the same mix of clumsiness and effortlessness with which she had prepared the lemonade. Fuck, it was sexy. She was sexy; the way she moved, her shape, and above all the way she was handling his cock now.

The waistband pressed under his balls, and his member seemed to throb and pulse in her hands. He knew he wasn’t that long, but he was thick, and she had both hands on him, pulling forward and back on his shaft as she looked down. Her lips pursed and twisted into that same half smile he hadn’t been able to judge before. Must be a good thing.

This time he was able to pick the strap of the dress off her other shoulder, as he pulled down her dress on the other side and left her topless. Her small, hard nipples bobbed a little as she stroked and squeezed his cock and he wanted to lean in to suck on them, he wanted to gently bite those little tits, but she had him, she was in control.

He groaned, the sound coming from way down in his chest as she kept stroking him with one hand. The other one came back towards her, to caress the head of him. She passed her palm over the hard, purple crown and smeared the slick pre-cum back down his shaft. Then she started again, hand over hand, first only stroking him towards her, then only stroking away.

This time he growled.

Harder than he’d been for who knew how long, he grinned and took her slender wrists in his hands, stopping her as little flashbulbs of pleasure started to glow in his head. She grinned up at him wickedly.

“You wanna stop?” Her dress was down off her shoulders, her breasts bared to the room. Her slim, nothing hips certainly weren’t holding it up, it was just pasted to her with sweat.

“Not until we’re done,” he shot back. He looked to make sure nothing would lacerate his knees then he knelt. She crossed her hands over her stomach then touched her fingertips to the sides of her breasts as he put the flat of his hand on her – pressed against her mound – and pushed the dress up.

It had been far too short a dress, and it was far too easy for him to expose the brilliant white panties he’d caught a glimpse of before. He smelled old, burnt wood, sweat and earth, but he saw this perfect sight – her simple white underwear against her tanned skin. He pushed her dress up and she made to hold it, but it bunched and stuck by itself, just as his fingers stuck when he touched her thighs.

He moved closer and she shuffled her feet apart just a little so he could move two fingers up, between her thighs and stroke them slowly across the white fabric that protected her sex. He touched it and the spell was broken, no longer white, pristine, perfect; now dirtied by his sweat and his touch. He stroked softly and kissed her thighs, tasted the salt off her skin. She breathed above him and moved her feet apart again.

Her first soft moan came with the first sense of moistness in his fingertips. He stopped the slow, simple movement, the rocking of his digits under her, and pressed against her more firmly, more deliberately. Again she sighed, louder, almost complaining but not quite.

He hooked the fingers of his free hand into the waistband on her hip, but suddenly thought again. Instead he was reaching up, between her slender thighs and bending his fingers inside the crotch of her panties (the touch of her wet sex registered for a second). He yanked it aside roughly.

She said something, but he didn’t hear it, and he barely even gave himself time to enjoy the flushed pink lips of her pussy before his blood was pounding in his ears and he was pressing his face up, putting his lips to hers, dragging his tongue hungrily across her sex.

He tasted sweat and sex and his prick, still exposed, still sensitive with his underwear digging in behind it, told him he wanted more. He held her thighs and split her open and when she gasped and moaned her voice was surprisingly low and throaty. Like everything about her it was without pretence but sexy as hell.

The first lips he’d kissed had kissed him back just as hard, but these soft, sweet lips down here, they just yielded to his tongue. Her juices trickled into his mouth as he lapped at her, and she tasted like nothing but sunshine and fucking. Nothing like the tall, cool lemonade he’d pictured before, of course.

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