It started with a sketchbook and a stolen glance.
Every Saturday morning, Silas arrived at the town farmer's market just as the vendors were setting up their stalls, his leather messenger bag slung across his chest, sketchbook tucked under his arm. While everyone else carried baskets and reusable totes, Silas carried graphite and desire.
He wasn't there for produce. He was there for him.
Booth #17. Cedar crates stacked with carrots, honey sticks, golden beets, and bundles of spring herbs. But the real attraction was the man behind the stand.
Chase.
Twenty-something. Broad-shouldered, sun-kissed skin, brown curls tucked beneath a backwards cap. He wore faded denim shorts, frayed at the edges, hugging his thighs indecently. His white tank always rode up just enough to flash that obscene V-cut of his lower abs--and sometimes, if Silas was lucky, the trail of hair vanishing beneath his waistband.
Silas tried not to be obvious. He'd settle on a bench across the plaza, angle his sketchpad just so, and draw with the obsession of a sinner painting his own temptation. Lips. Jaw. The curve of Chase's ass as he bent over the crates. The veins along his forearms when he lifted a basket of apples.
It was ritual. And it was safe. Chase didn't know. Couldn't know.
Until he did.
It was the third Saturday in April. The sun was out, the breeze smelled of lilac and damp mulch, and Silas had just finished shading the cleft of Chase's chin when a shadow fell over his sketchbook.
"You always watch me like that?"
Silas jolted. His pencil slipped, dragging a line across the page. He looked up--and there he was. Chase. Smirking. A honey stick between his teeth.
Silas' mouth went dry. "Sorry--I wasn't--"
"Drawing me?" Chase grinned, cocking a brow as he leaned in to look. "Could've fooled me. That's definitely my ass."
Silas snapped the book shut, face flushing. "It's just... studies. For a series."
Chase squatted down so their eyes were level, his voice dipping lower. "What kind of series?"
Silas hesitated. Then, boldly: "Intimacy. Masculinity. Things we look at but don't talk about."
Chase's eyes twinkled. "And my ass fits the theme?"
"Perfectly."
Chase laughed, a full-bodied sound that made Silas's stomach twist. He bit the end off his honey stick and chewed, his tongue flicking over his lips. "Well, if you're gonna sketch me, you should at least get the good angles. I close up at noon. Wanna come by the stall after? I'll model for you."
Silas blinked. "You're serious?"
"Dead. You bring the paper; I'll bring the body."
And just like that, the air changed. No more stolen glances. No more anonymity. Just the promise of skin and sketching and the kind of tension Silas had only ever imagined.
--
At twelve-thirty, Chase led him behind the vendor tents to a side lot where his truck was parked--an old Ford, mint green and rusting at the wheel wells. A mattress was laid out in the bed, topped with a blanket and two pillows. Homemade. Intentional.
"You live out of this?" Silas asked.
"Nah," Chase said, hopping into the bed. "But I nap here between markets. Helps my back." He tugged the tank off in one smooth motion, tossing it aside. "So, how do you want me?"
The question hit like a punch to Silas's gut.
He took a breath, willing his voice to stay level. "Lean back. Elbow propped. Legs relaxed."
Chase arranged himself with surprising grace, one arm bent behind his head, abs flexing as he shifted. "Like this?"
Jesus. The lighting caught every ridge of his stomach, the softness of his lips, the bulge beneath his waistband pressing against the seam of his shorts.
"Yeah," Silas croaked. "Perfect."
He began to draw. Lines flowed easily now, his wrist moving with practiced control, capturing the tension in Chase's pose--the ease in his muscles, the quiet hunger behind his smirk.
"You always draw people like this?" Chase asked, eyes following Silas's strokes.
"Only the ones I want to see naked," Silas muttered before he could stop himself.
Chase raised an eyebrow. "Oh yeah?"
Silas looked up, his cheeks burning. "Sorry, that was--"
"No, I like it," Chase interrupted, his voice low, gravelly now. "You're honest."
Then, slowly, deliberately, Chase lifted his hips and popped the button of his shorts.
Silas's pencil froze.
"Thought you wanted the good angles," Chase murmured, unzipping. His shorts slid down his thighs, revealing snug white briefs that did nothing to hide the shape of him--thick, curved, clearly half-hard already.
"Chase," Silas breathed.
"I'm not shy, Silas. And you don't have to be either."
Silas's sketchbook hit the mattress as he crawled forward, the charge between them snapping like a live wire. He hovered over Chase, eyes flicking to his mouth. "You sure?"
Chase's answer came with a hand behind Silas's neck and a kiss that melted every inch of restraint he had left. It was firm, tasting of honey and citrus, lips parting to let Silas in. Their tongues met, slow and hot, hands roaming without direction.
Chase tugged Silas's shirt off, fingers brushing his chest, his ribs, until he reached the waistband of his jeans.
"You been thinking about this?" Chase whispered, grinding up against him, the bulge in his briefs pressing against Silas's thigh.
"Every Saturday."
Their mouths crashed again. Silas slid down, kissing along Chase's jaw, his chest, his stomach, dragging his tongue down the trail of hair that led to the waistband. Chase arched beneath him, panting.
"Then stop drawing," he groaned, "and do something."
Silas did.
And the farmer's market would never taste the same again.
Chase's thighs tensed under Silas as the artist slid down, slow and deliberate, teasing him with nothing but breath and the scrape of stubble. His briefs were damp, clinging to every curve of what had been sketched and imagined for weeks. Silas paused there, right at the hem, letting his lips brush the fabric.
"You're taking your time," Chase murmured, voice husky with anticipation.
"I've waited a month for this," Silas said, pressing a kiss right where Chase's cock strained. "I'm going to enjoy every second."
With that, he mouthed over the outline, tongue tracing the shaft through the cotton. Chase bucked slightly, a soft groan escaping his throat. Encouraged, Silas peeled the briefs down, releasing Chase's cock--thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip.
"Fuck," Silas whispered, just staring for a beat. It was even better than he'd drawn.
Chase cocked an eyebrow. "You gonna keep looking or put that pretty mouth to use?"
Silas smirked--and obeyed.
His tongue traced the head slowly, collecting the bead of precum, savoring the slightly salty taste. Then he took him in, inch by inch, hand curling around the base as he hollowed his cheeks. Chase let out a ragged moan, fingers tangling in Silas's hair.
"That's it," Chase hissed. "God, you've definitely done this before."
Silas pulled back with a pop. "I study what I draw."
Then he dove in again, deeper this time, working his throat, letting Chase fuck slowly into his mouth. Every suck, every swirl of his tongue drew another moan, another curse, until Chase's thighs started trembling.
"Stop--shit--stop, or I'm gonna blow."
Silas pulled back with a sly grin. "Not yet."
He crawled up Chase's body, straddling his waist. Their cocks rubbed together, slick and hard, grinding in a slow rhythm that left both of them gasping. Chase's hands gripped his hips, nails digging in.
"I've wanted this since the first time I saw you sketching me," Chase confessed. "You looked so serious, like you were trying not to pop a boner in public."