Under the Scorching Sun

The midday sun fell like a hammer over the city, turning the asphalt into a trembling mirror of heat. The trees, motionless, seemed to hold their breath, and even the birds had taken refuge in the densest shadows of the branches. On the quiet street of the gated community, where the houses lined up like jewels in a necklace, the Mendonça residence stood out for its impeccable garden, an oasis of green that contrasted with the scorched yellow lawns of the neighbors. It was there, under the weight of that relentless summer, that Clara spent her afternoons, watching the world through the white linen curtains that lazily danced with the breeze. She was thirty-five years old, her body shaped by years of yoga and swimming, her skin golden from the filtered sun of club pools. Married to Ricardo, an executive who spent more time at the office than at home, Clara filled her days with the meticulous routine of an upper-class housewife: lunches with friends, French lessons, shopping at boutiques with flawless window displays. But there was something restless in her, a spark that boredom couldn’t extinguish. Maybe it was the way men looked at her when she passed by, or how her body responded to those glances, even if she pretended not to notice. Or maybe it was just the heat—this suffocating heat that turned even the most innocent thoughts into something denser, more urgent. It was on one of those scorching afternoons that she saw Thiago for the first time. He arrived in a white pickup truck, old but well-kept, the bed filled with tools and bags of soil. He must have been in his early twenties, his sun-kissed skin marked by the sun, his strong arms covered in a fine layer of sweat that glistened like oil. When he stepped out of the cab, his cargo shorts revealed thick thighs, and his tank top, already clinging to his body, left little to the imagination. Clara watched him from the kitchen window, where she was washing a wine glass from the night before. The way he moved, with a quiet confidence, as if the whole world were his territory, made something inside her clench. — Good morning — he said, taking off his cap and running his hand through his dark, damp hair. — Are you Mrs. Clara? She nodded, drying her hands on the apron she wore over her light cotton dress. — Yes. Are you the gardener the building manager recommended? — Thiago. — He extended his hand, and when she shook it, she felt the heat of his rough, calloused palm. — I’ll take a look at what needs to be done. Mr. Mendonça said the garden’s a bit neglected. — My husband travels a lot — she explained, as if she needed to justify the neglect. — I try to take care of it, but I’m no good with plants. Thiago smiled, a slow, lazy smile that made dimples appear on his cheeks. — Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it. In the following days, Clara began to wait for Thiago’s visits with an anticipation she barely concealed. He always arrived at the same time, when the sun was at its peak, and worked with silent efficiency, pruning, watering, replanting. She watched him from the porch, pretending to read a book, but really paying attention to every movement: the way the muscles in his back contracted when he lifted a bag of fertilizer, how his long, agile fingers handled the pruning shears. Sometimes, he took off his shirt, and she could see the sweat running down his defined chest, disappearing into the dark line that led to the waistband of his shorts. — Do you want me to do anything different? — he asked one afternoon, noticing she was watching him more intently than usual. Clara felt her face flush, but she held his gaze. — You’re doing a great job. The garden’s never looked so beautiful. — Thanks. — He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. — But if you have any preferences, just say so. — Actually… — she hesitated, playing with the strap of her dress. — I was thinking of adding some flowers near the pool. Something colorful. — What kind of color? — Red. — The word slipped out before she could think, and Thiago raised an eyebrow, as if he knew exactly what she was suggesting. — Red’s good — he said, his voice lower. — It draws attention. That night, Clara dreamed of calloused hands running over her body, of the weight of a young, strong body on top of hers. She woke up with the sheets tangled, her heart pounding, her body damp with a sweat that wasn’t just from the heat. The next day, when Thiago arrived, she was in the kitchen making lemonade. She poured two glasses and took them to him, where he was kneeling near the flower beds, his hands buried in the soil. — It’s really hot today — she said, handing him the glass. — I thought you might need this. Thiago took the drink, his fingers brushing against hers a second longer than necessary. — Thanks. — He took a long sip, his eyes fixed on her over the rim of the glass. — You’re hot too. It wasn’t a question, but a statement. Clara felt the air grow thicker between them, as if the summer itself had held its breath. — A little — she admitted, running her tongue over her lips. Thiago set the glass aside and stood up slowly, the dirt still clinging to his hands. — I could help with that. — How? He took a step forward, closing the distance between them. — There’s a hose over there. Cold water. Clara laughed, nervous. — You want to get me wet? — Only if you want me to. She didn’t answer with words. Instead, she pulled her dress over her head, letting it fall to the stone floor of the porch. Underneath, she wore only a white bikini, so thin it barely hid the outline of her nipples, already hard. Thiago watched her, his dark eyes tracing every curve, every shadow, as if memorizing every detail. — Are you sure? — he asked, his voice rough. Clara nodded. — I am. Thiago grabbed the hose and turned the faucet slowly. The water gushed out cold, and he aimed it at her, starting with her feet. Clara shivered as the stream touched her skin, a shiver running up her legs. He moved slowly upward, wetting her calves, her knees, her thighs. When the water hit her groin, she let out a low moan, her toes curling against the hot ground. — Does that feel good? — Thiago asked, his voice a whisper. — Yes — she moaned. — More. He obeyed, moving the hose upward, wetting her belly, her breasts. The water ran down her body, leaving glistening trails that reflected the sunlight. Clara arched her back, offering herself to the stream, and Thiago didn’t resist. He dropped the hose and stepped closer, his hands replacing the water. He cupped her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples through the wet fabric of her bikini, and Clara moaned, throwing her head back. — You’re beautiful — he murmured, his mouth near her ear. — So beautiful it hurts. Clara couldn’t respond. Instead, she pulled his head down, kissing him with a hunger that surprised her. Thiago responded with the same intensity, his tongue invading her mouth, his hands sliding down to squeeze her ass. She felt his hardness against her thigh and moaned against his lips, her whole body vibrating with desire. — I need you — she whispered, her nails digging into his shoulders. Thiago didn’t need any more encouragement. He lifted her, her legs wrapping around his waist, and carried her to the wicker lounge chair by the pool. He laid her down carefully, his eyes never leaving hers as he took off his shorts and briefs. Clara watched, fascinated, as he revealed himself, his sun-kissed skin contrasting with the white of the lounge chair. He was beautiful, perfect, and when he knelt between her legs, she knew there was no going back. Thiago pulled the bottom of her bikini to the side, exposing her completely. Clara felt the hot air against her damp skin, and then his mouth was there, hot and wet, licking, sucking, exploring every inch with a patience that drove her wild. She grabbed his hair, pulling him closer, her hips moving in an ancient, instinctive rhythm. — Please — she begged, her voice breaking. — I need you inside me. Thiago didn’t make her wait. He positioned himself between her legs, his eyes locked on hers as he entered her slowly, inch by inch. Clara moaned, her body adjusting to his, feeling him fill her completely. He began to move, first slowly, then with more force, each thrust drawing a moan from her. The sound of skin slapping echoed in the silent garden, mingling with the song of the birds and the rustle of the leaves. — Do you like that? — Thiago asked, his voice rough with desire. — Yes — she moaned. — Don’t stop. He obeyed, increasing the pace, his hips pounding against hers with a force that made her see stars. Clara felt the pleasure building inside her, a delicious pressure that threatened to explode at any moment. Thiago held her hips, lifting her slightly to go even deeper, and that was enough. She came with a cry, her whole body trembling, her nails digging into his back. Thiago didn’t stop. He kept moving, prolonging her pleasure until he couldn’t take it anymore. With a rough groan, he pulled out and came on her belly, the hot jets marking her skin. Clara watched him, her eyes half-closed, her body still trembling with the last spasms of her orgasm. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was their ragged breathing and the distant hum of a lawnmower from a neighboring house. Thiago lay down beside her, pulling her close, and Clara rested her head on his chest, listening to his strong heartbeat. — That was… — she began, but couldn’t find the words. — Unexpected — Thiago finished, kissing her forehead. — Yes. — Clara smiled, tracing lazy circles on his chest with her fingers. — But I don’t regret it. — Neither do I. They stayed there, lying under the sun, their bodies still damp with sweat and water, until the sound of an approaching car made them jump. Clara looked at the clock on the house wall and cursed under her breath. — My husband — she said, getting up in a hurry. — He’s home early today. Thiago dressed quickly, grabbing the hose and pretending to be working. Clara ran inside, changing out of her bikini into a clean dress and drying her body hastily with a towel. When Ricardo walked into the kitchen, she was standing by the sink, washing an apple, her face still flushed. — Hi, love — he said, kissing her on the cheek. — How was your day? — Normal — she replied, forcing a smile. — And yours? — Exhausting. — Ricardo sighed, taking off his tie. — But it was worth it. I closed that deal with the Chinese. — That’s great — Clara murmured, her eyes involuntarily drifting to the window, where Thiago was working, oblivious to the tension in the air. Ricardo followed her gaze and frowned. — Who’s that? — The new gardener — she explained, trying to keep her voice steady. — The building manager recommended him. — Hmm. — Ricardo didn’t seem very interested. — Since when do we need a gardener? You’ve always taken care of the garden. — I’ve been busy — she lied. — And he’s good. The garden’s never looked so beautiful. Ricardo shrugged and went to the fridge, grabbing a beer. — If you say so. But I don’t want that guy here when I’m home. Understood? Clara nodded, her heart pounding. — Of course. But as she watched Thiago work, the muscles in his back flexing under the sun, she knew it wouldn’t be that simple. Something had changed between them, something that couldn’t be undone with a simple order. And, for the first time in a long time, she felt an emotion she hadn’t experienced in ages: excitement for the unknown.