A/N:
18+ ONLY! Mature Audiences ONLY!
NSFW, but not until about Chapter 4.
This is a slow burning story, so if you don't like that kind of thing, don't read it.
Erotica, Smutty Smut Smut, Light D/s, Spanking, Sex, Oral Sex, Fluff, Floof
"I can help you with that, you know."
I cocked my head to one side, looking at the young man standing before me. He was terribly tall - having shot up years ago when he began luxuriating in calling me "Shorty" - having borrowed the nickname and the habit of using it at every possible chance to annoy me from my husband - with a riotous crown of gold ringlets that gave him an angelic air that the rest of him did everything in its power to make up for. He was impossibly long limbed and deceptively lean, with the strength of untested youth and the personality of the labradoodle he so closely resembled - with a generous sprinkling of stubborn English bulldog and a soupcon of pit bull if and when he deemed it necessary.
But mostly he was a smart, funny, personable young man that I'd been on the fringes of watching grow up. As an early adolescent, he had answered an ad I'd placed for someone who was willing to do regular yard word, and Oakley had shown up. My beloved husband had become unable to keep up with the place we'd bought only a year or so before, and Oakley's assistance had been invaluable. My husband had taken to sitting on one of the benches in our big garden and directing Oakley's activities. As a result of his efforts, even though Paul rapidly became entirely unable to see to it himself, our garden always looked amazing. He had a way with plants and so did Paul.
I just did my best to keep him fed while he was with us - and in addition to what we were paying him our grocery bill nearly tripled that summer and every one after it - usually giving him a second breakfast, lunch, mid afternoon snack and having him to dinner most nights, too. Sometimes the three of us got to watching movies or TV so late I didn't want him to have to drive home and then just come back in the morning, so he stayed overnight in one of the guest rooms upstairs. It seemed he had a very unsettled relationship with his father, and was often looking to be anywhere but at home.
I never had the gumption to ask him if his parents ever fed him, but he let it slip eventually that his mom wasn't much for cooking, so he mostly had to fend for himself or eat take out food.
He continued to come to us - for less time each successive summer that he was away at university, but always ready and willing to work, and keeping in contact with us over the year somewhat spottily but frequently nonetheless, especially considering we were no relation to him.
He had appeared on my doorstep one evening at the beginning of this summer unannounced. It was only seven or so, but I was in my pajamas and had hastily thrown a robe on over them to get the door.
"Oakley!"
"I hope it's not too late to visit -"
Those eyes had only gotten more and more startling as he'd grown. His face was tanned, making them - and that wonderful bright blonde hair of his - pop even more than they usually did against his skin.
He was downright gorgeous and I found myself staring up at him until he startled me by bending his legs and gathering me to him for a wonderfully gentle hug. As much as I wanted to melt into him - against him - to lean on his strength and youth and vitality that tried to draw me to him like a moth to a flame - I remained relatively stiff in his arms until he murmured, "I'm so sorry about Paul."
Tears - as always - sprang to my eyes as I could hear the warmth and affection he felt for my husband in his words, but that also got me to relax when nothing else could have, my fingers finding his biceps and squeezing - or trying to anyway. He had more muscles than I could ever hope to have in this lifetime and it was like trying to squeeze marble.
"Thank you for your beautiful card and the flowers." Kissing his cheek in what I hoped was a purely casual way, I backed out of his arms in order to prevent the inevitable flood of tears. I was then somehow possessed to let my hand fiddle with the perfectly proper neckline of my robe - as if I was wearing some lacy, Victoria's Secret style negligee in front of him instead of much more spinsterish - or more accurately, widowish - cotton robe. "I'm sorry for not really being ready to receive -"
It was his turn to color, and even that only seemed to enhance his beauty. "I'm sorry. I should have called, but I was in the neighborhood -"
My eyebrow rose. Where we lived was quite remote - we'd deliberately chosen it to be that way.
More blushing, but he didn't seem to let it bother him much and I heartily wished - not for the first time - that I could get him to show me that trick. "Well, I got home a few days ago and Mum and Dad had me scheduled with family things to within an inch of my life - but I wanted to come up here to see you as soon as I could."
I shrugged, saying, "I don't mind the informality if you don't," knowing it was a complete and total lie.
I had been horrified to realize that I had developed a sizeable mid-life crush on Oakley since the first summer he'd come back from university and I'd gotten a good look at the man he had suddenly become from the kitchen window as he'd been helping Paul - stripped to the waist, wearing just a pair of khaki board shorts, his body glistening with sweat and rippling with muscles, hair even curlier than usual from the heat, skin becoming darker and darker as the days and weeks went on. . .
That summer I'd seen less of him than I used to - deliberately finding other things to do rather than joining him and Paul to putter in the garden, and flat out refusing to join him when he availed himself of the cooling comfort of our pool before dinner - then again after, just before he left for the evening - if he did at all.
Now he shrugged, watching me intently. I didn't think I remembered him ever looking at me in quite that way. I was beginning to feel like a piece of steak that had been thrown to a ravenous dog, and, despite my crush, I didn't like thinking of Oakley like that.
Besides it was probably just me and my overactive hormones.
He'd always known that we didn't stand on formality in our - my - house, but I had always waited on Paul - and did so even when he was hale and hearty - so I reverted to type. "Can I get you something? I think I have a Guinness or two hiding somewhere for cooking purposes."
"Cooking?!" he looked flat out horrified, his hand over his chest, then followed me into the kitchen and got out a pint glass to hand to me.
I poured for him, then handed it back.
"You're not drinking?"
I shook my head. "I haven't taken a drink since before he died. Just . . . no fun to do by myself."
"But you're not alone; you're with me," he said matter of factly, putting his glass down on the counter to step past me, and I got an involuntary whiff of how he smelled, my eyes closing as my nipples peaked on potent hints of sunshine, youthful masculinity, whatever remained of his earthy cologne, and pure unadulterated sex. He smelled like sex, as if he'd up and left his lover to come see me. I hunched my shoulders just a bit, hoping to hide my most blatant reaction to his intoxicating scent as much as possible.
Oakely had an amazing memory, finding the bottle of white wine that lived at the back of my fridge, procuring a glass from the cupboard and pouring - in turn - a bit too generously - for me. "I remember you liked the liebfraumilsch."
"I do."
I followed him into the living room and we sat where we always sat - minus one; Oakley on our tiny loveseat, which looked that much ridiculously smaller now that he had come into his size, and me in one of the matching, rocking, wing-backed recliners that Paul and I had shared, mine being right next to the loveseat.
Easily within touching distance of Oakley - and his widely spread legs - in the small room.
Not that there would ever be a reason for me to touch Oakley's leg, of course.
Unfortunately, my mind supplied wistfully.
His choice of garb hadn't changed much - he was in shorts and a loose football jersey, with trainers. And, damn if his feet weren't the biggest I'd ever seen. Feet and hands were the two areas on a man I noticed first after eyes - not for the purported information they were supposed to impart about his intimate proportions, but rather to see what footwear he preferred, and, more importantly, how he used his hands - if the fingernails were clean, if there were obvious calluses, etc.
I didn't even want to think about what the rest of him might be like if his hands and feet were any indication . . .
Or did I?
"How was university this year?" I asked, taking a bigger than usual sip - more towards a gulp - of wine, hoping it would help dampen my libido and calm my nerves.
He told me all about his classes and what he and his friends had been up to.
"Oh, hey," I thought belatedly, "are you hungry?"
He shook his head, but I knew he just didn't want to bother me. "I'll get something on the way home."
I frowned, already getting up. I still had meals that I had cooked ahead in the freezer all portioned out, and I knew I had at least a couple of Oakley's favorite - lasagna. A few minutes in the microwave, a bit of doctoring with fresh parmesan and I brought him a hot, home cooked meal in less than five minutes.
"Oh, man, I had forgotten what food like this tasted like," he said, taking an enormous bite and groaning in a most improper manner. "You're not eating?"
I didn't tell him that eating was one of the things I did infrequently at best nowadays. Instead, I laughed. "I remember what food was like in my college cafeteria, back in the stone age. It was barely edible."
"Don't do that," Oakley said between bites, putting his spoon down and frowning fiercely at me.
"Do what?" I took another swig of wine and tried to ignore just how dominant he looked and sounded. Where had that voice and that look come from all of a sudden? I wondered. Had Oakley lost his virginity this late - he was too damned good looking for it to have taken that long -
Stop thinking about when - or worse how - Oakley had had his first sexual experience! my mind screamed at me.
Those blue eyes settled on me and unsettled me in the process. I was beginning to think I should never have invited him in. "Talk as if you're an old."
I laughed. "I am an old, Oakley. Hell, I could be your mother."
He snorted. "You'd've had to have been a damned precocious young girl."
"I didn't say it was probable, I said it was possible, and that is true."
"You don't act old, like my parents do."
My smile was wan at best, my voice soft. "But I feel old, Oakley, especially these days. Paul kept me young."
His eyes softened. "You look tired."
I frowned at him with a half smile. "Thanks ever so much." He didn't smile back, but continued to look at me as if willing me not to try to make a joke out of my answer. The callow youth that had come to us less than a decade ago had faded as if he'd never been there, and I gave him his due, admitting on a sigh, "I am tired. More tired than I've ever been in my life." I drained my glass and he put the empty bowl on the table, but I scooped it up immediately, too.
"Thank you for dinner, but you didn't have to do that."
"I don't have to do this, either." When I returned seconds later, I handed him a homemade brownie that I had thawed at the same time, so that it was warm and gooey.
He bit into it and threw his head back, groaning in ecstasy.
My dirty mind, of course, immediately suggested that that was probably what he looked like when he orgasmed. Dear God, I wished he wouldn't do that.
Mental note: no more brownies for Oakley.
He paused while devouring the treat to look at me so intently that I allowed myself to be the first one to look away, which I almost never did with anyone. "I came up here to offer my help this summer in doing whatever needs done around the house that you can't - or don't want to do -"
"Oh, Oakley, that's sweet, but - "
"Paul asked me to keep an eye out for you the last time I saw him," he stated firmly, as if that trumped any objection I might raise.
My eyebrows hit my hairline. I was completely taken aback. He'd asked Oakley to do that? Not that we had a ton of friends, but there were certainly ones that were more of my age that he could have asked, and as far as I knew didn't - unless Oakley was the only one of them to take Paul's dying charge seriously. The unhappy truth was that when your mate died, other couples who had been your good friends tended to fall away from you, whether from fear that mortality was catching or concern that you might go after their mate.
Regardless, after Paul's death and the flurry of activity for a week or month or so afterwards, I found myself very alone here - and not necessarily inclined to change that fact.
Except for Oakley.
He saw my surprise. "He did. It makes the most sense. I know the place, I know your habits - a lot of them, your likes and dislikes. I think he thought it would probably be good for the both of us." He finished off the brownie and physically turned towards me, his back against the corner of the small divan.
"You and Paul . . . you always treated me differently to any adults I knew, any of my parents' friends. You always treated me as an adult, too; you never talked down to me." His eyes remained where his hands were in his lap for a moment, then he looked up at me again. "I always felt . . . welcome here. Probably more than I did in my own home."
I smiled and it was genuine. "I'm glad you felt that way - that you feel that way. I'd be very happy to have your help, but I don't think I have enough to keep you busy all summer. I . . . " The words suddenly stuck in my throat as a wave of sorrow swept through me. I blinked hard and cleared my throat, but there was no disguising why I had paused. "I'm not going to bother with the garden this year. I just want the lawn mowed and the trimming done -"
"I'll take care of the pool for you, too, if you like," he volunteered.
"It's not even filled." I didn't mention that I could barely stand to look at it - there were too many memories of Paul and me surrounding it and in it that I was certain it would just serve as a reminder of all I had lost.
"I'll do that, too - if only for my own greedy purposes." He waggled his eyebrows outrageously and managed to coax a smile from me when few could have.
I yawned all of a sudden, covering my mouth late and laughing for the first time in a long time. "Sorry. It's really not the company."
He stood anyway, the top of his hair - like a curly pompadour - nearly grazing our low ceilings. "I'm sorry to have kept you up."
On a chuckle, I said, "You haven't - not at all. I hang around in my pajamas a lot theses days, but it's not because I sleep a lot. Exactly the opposite."
Oakley mosied towards the door but kept his head turned and his eyes on me. "Oh?"
Not sure exactly why I was confiding this to him, I nevertheless said, "Yeah, I haven't gotten a good night's sleep since . . . since he died. We were together for so long - twenty-four-seven for most of it since we both worked from home. We almost never spent a night apart, and now I - " I shrugged and somehow smiled up at him through tears, knowing it wasn't a pretty sight. "I find can't sleep without him."
The last was barely a whisper.
Becoming embarrassed quickly, I wrenched my gaze away from those azure eyes that saw entirely too much for someone his age and brushed my palm over my cheeks. The last thing I expected was for him to pull me into a hug, a very tight, very real one that wouldn't let me pretend that everything was all right when he knew it wasn't, holding me there for the longest time, rocking us both just slightly, rubbing his hand up and down my back, as if inviting me to cry on him.
I wanted to - I wanted to more than almost anything else in my life, but I just couldn't. He was Oakley. For my own sanity, I had to keep thinking of him as still being a child. I didn't want to burden him with my frightfully adult woes.
When I went to step back, I found I couldn't, but after a long beat he let me go, keeping a hold of my arms, then down to my hands, then finally my fingers and then fingertips, while I stared at my slippered feet. Oakley reached out and tipped my face up, his big thumb brushing away the tears he found there.
"You can cry on me, you know. I'd like to be your shoulder, if you'll let me."
He sounded so earnest. I wished I could have taken him up on it. "Thank you, Oakley. I appreciate that."
"But you're not going to do it," he pronounced wisely.
I grimaced. "No, I'm not. You're too young to be saddled with trying to console an inconsolable middle aged housefrau -"
"Stop that!"
He seemed genuinely annoyed.
"Truth hurts?"
An eyebrow rose into those curls. "Didn't I just say stop that?" He crossed his arms over his chest, looking down at me as if he was doing his best to try to intimidate me into behaving.
I ignored the image he was trying to present to me and smiled at his widened, dommish stance, which I don't think he appreciated much. "Go on with you," I said, trying to shoo him out the door.
He turned and opened it with obvious reluctance. "I'll be here early tomorrow morning. Be thinking what you'd like me to do when I get here."
I said goodbye and cautioned him to drive carefully, to which he said in a tone that was only a step away from actual anger, "I'm not your son - stop trying to sound like you're my Mum."
Surprised at the venom in his tone when this was nothing different from what I'd done nearly every night he'd left us, I shut the door and leaned back against it.
I knew the fact he was trying to emphasize to me all too well. And the list of things he wanted me to give to him of things I wanted him to do for me was much more likely to turn into a list of things I wanted him to do to me . . . if I wasn't careful.
