Under the Scorching Sun

The midday sun hammered down on the city, turning the asphalt into a shimmering mirror of heat. The trees stood motionless, as if holding 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 houses lined up like jewels on a necklace, the Mendonça residence stood out for its impeccable garden—a green oasis contrasting with the scorched yellow lawns of the neighbors. It was there, beneath 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, her body sculpted 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, its bed filled with tools and bags of soil. He must have been in his early twenties, his sun-bronzed skin marked by the elements, his strong arms covered in a fine sheen of sweat that glistened like oil. When he stepped out of the cab, his cargo shorts revealed thick thighs, and his sleeveless shirt, 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 a 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. You’re the gardener the building manager recommended?" "Thiago." He extended his hand, and when she took 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 been 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 days that followed, Clara began to anticipate Thiago’s visits with an excitement 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 veranda, pretending to read a book, but really paying attention to every movement: the way the muscles in his back tensed 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 trickling 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 the word." "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 exploring her body, of the weight of a young, strong body pressing down on hers. She woke with the sheets tangled around her, 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 brought them to him, where he knelt by the flowerbeds, his hands buried in the soil. "It’s really hot today," she said, offering 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 locked on hers over the rim of the glass. "You’re hot too." It wasn’t a question, but a statement. Clara felt the air thicken 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, dirt still clinging to his hands. "I could help with that." "How?" He took a step closer, closing the distance between them. "There’s a hose over there. Cold water." Clara laughed nervously. "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 veranda. Underneath, she wore only a white bikini, so thin it barely concealed the outline of her already hard nipples. 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 directed it at her, starting with her feet. Clara shivered as the stream touched her skin, a shiver running up her legs. He moved upward slowly, 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. "Is this good?" Thiago asked, his voice a whisper. "Yes," she moaned. "More." He obeyed, moving the hose upward, wetting her stomach, her breasts. The water trickled 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 into 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 into his arms, 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 removed his shorts and underwear. Clara watched, fascinated, as he revealed himself, his sun-bronzed 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 turning 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 together echoed in the silent garden, mingling with the song of birds and the rustle of leaves. "Do you like that?" Thiago asked, his voice rough with desire. "Yes," she moaned. "Don’t stop." He obeyed, quickening his 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 gripped 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 hold back any longer. With a rough groan, he pulled out and came on her stomach, 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 sounds were 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 like that, lying under the sun, their bodies still damp with sweat and water, until the sound of an approaching car made them jump. Clara glanced at the clock on the house wall and cursed under her breath. "My husband," she said, getting up quickly. "He’s home early today." Thiago dressed quickly, grabbing the hose and pretending to be working. Clara rushed inside, changing out of her bikini into a clean dress and drying herself off with a towel. When Ricardo walked into the kitchen, she was standing by the sink, washing an apple, her face still flushed. "Hi, honey," he said, kissing her cheek. "How was your day?" "Normal," she replied, forcing a smile. "And yours?" "Exhausting." Ricardo sighed, taking off his tie. "But worth it. I closed that deal with the Chinese." "That’s great," Clara murmured, her eyes involuntarily drifting to the window, where Thiago worked, 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.