DIGGING DEAN
Chapter 3
Gratuitous; now that's a good word!
Good job really, because it really kinda sums this piece up. Ladies, I bring you Dean, lots of mud, a shovel and STILL no sign of that pesky T shirt …
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Dean stood motionless as the dark clouds rolled overhead taking the downpour with them. He paused in the fresh, post-storm air, broad chest lifting with a deep breath. He slowly raised his arms, feeling the stretch through flexing pectorals, entwining long fingers across the back of his head, feeling droplets of moisture from his wet hair trickling along strongly muscled forearms, dripping off the points of his elbows.
Cold, sodden jeans clung heavily to narrow hips and long, stocky thighs, and he scowled as the thick, soaked denim resisted and pinched against his movements.
A soft breeze ghosted across his bunched shoulders, and he shivered; smooth skin puckering into goosebumps under the sudden chill.
The short downpour had turned the peaty soil into thick, black mud which squelched around his feet, soaking into his boots. He wiggled numb toes through the cold sludge and cringed.
Sculpted chest swelled around a long sigh, and he knew that his job had suddenly become much heavier and much messier.
Reluctantly picking up the shovel he bent stiffly, ignoring the protesting muscles along his arching back and thrust it into the base of the pile with a grunt.
Two hours later the trench was full and he was standing over the freshly laid mound of soil. He leaned bonelessly on the shovel, back heaving heavily through each weary breath. He wiped a filty forearm across his sweat slicked forehead, briefly giving in to the ache of every bone, muscle and sinew in his body.
Staring down at his mud spattered torso, he dragged a clammy hand across his taut midriff, spreading the dirt thinly across the smooth, damp plane of his belly.
Streaks of mud mottled his skin, and watery, black trickles spidered over the ridges and contours of his chest. His soaked jeans were stiff with the foul, viscous slurry; and the foul stench of the stuff combined with the sour tang of his own sweat made his stomach lurch. No way was he getting in the Impala in this state.
He stared up at the darkening sky, long neck flexing sinuously with the motion.
Where's another freakin' rainshower when you need one?
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