I cut the engine and sat for a moment, watching the figure climbing up into the seat of the John Deere tractor parked near the equipment shed. Zachariah. I'd know that confident stride anywhere, even after all these years. But the body attached to it—that was something different entirely.

He hauled himself up into the tractor seat, one boot finding the step, then the other, and those jeans stretched tight across his ass as he reached for the key in the ignition. My grip tightened on the steering wheel. The last time I'd seen Zachariah Miller, he was twenty years old, home from college for the summer, all lean limbs and eager energy. That had been eight, maybe nine years ago. The memory of that night in the cab of his daddy's truck, his mouth fumbling but determined around my cock, surfaced unbidden and settled low in my gut.

I shook it off and climbed out of the truck. Now wasn't the time for that particular trip down memory lane.

"Hey! Zachariah!"

He turned at the sound of my voice, and I got my first good look at him in the daylight. He'd filled out. That was the first thing that hit me. He’d never been skinny but he’d always been lean given his height. The kid I remembered had been replaced by a man that was 100% grade A beef. His face had matured too—stronger jaw, a hint of stubble, the same blond hair but cut shorter, practical for farm life. He looked good. He looked like a man who'd spent the years since I'd last seen him building something of himself.

"Mr. Danvers!" He climbed down from the tractor, and I noticed the way his thighs pushed against the denim, the easy strength in his movements. "Didn't expect to see you today."

"Thought I'd check in, see how you're settlin’." I extended my hand, and he clasped it firmly. His palm was calloused, rougher than I remembered. "Heard you were back for good."

"Yeah, well." He glanced back at the farmhouse, then at the fields stretching out around us. "Dad couldn't keep it up anymore, and someone had to take over. Sarah and I talked it over, and here we are."

Sarah. Right. The wife. I'd heard about her through the local grapevine—met Zachariah after undergrad and he’d supported her through grad school, then she’d followed him back to this small town like something out of a storybook. They had a son now too, a toddler. The whole package.

"How's she handling the move?"

"Adjusting." He shoved his hands in his pockets, and his shoulders dropped slightly. "She's from the city, you know? It's a lot to get used to. The quiet, the distance from everything. And Tommy's at that age where he's into everything, so she's got her hands full while I'm out here just trying to keep this place from falling apart."

I nodded. Along with a couple other guys from the area, I'd been pitching in around the Miller farm for the last few years as Harold's health declined. Small projects here and there, extra hands during harvest, that was just how things worked around here. You just showed up when someone needed help.

"You remember what to do with all this?" I gestured at the equipment, the fields, the barn in the distance.

A smile cracked through the stress lines on his face. "It's like riding a bike. Dad had me running this place before I could reach the pedals. The land hasn't changed much."

"No, it hasn't." I leaned against the tractor, studying him. The shadows under his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the way he kept glancing back at the house like he was running a mental checklist of everything that needed doing. "But the rest of it—the family, the responsibility—that's different."

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah. That's different."

"You're doing fine, Zack." The nickname slipped out before I could stop it, something I'd called him when he was younger. "Your dad would be proud."

Something flickered in his expression—gratitude, maybe, or just the relief of hearing it said out loud. "Thanks. Means a lot, coming from you."

We talked for another half hour, walking the property while he showed me what he'd been working on and what still needed attention. I offered what advice I could, made a few notes about projects I could help with, and tried to keep my eyes off the way his ass moved in those jeans every time he climbed over a fence or bent down to check something. By the time we circled back to my truck, the sun had shifted lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the gravel.

"You should come by tonight," I said, pulling my keys from my pocket. "Poker game at my place. Nothing serious, just a few of the guys getting together to blow off steam."

His eyebrows rose. "Poker?"

"Every Wednesday. It’s mostly guys around my age. Sometimes Marshall shows up with Coach Patterson, I think you two were in the same class?"

"Marshall Bennett?" A surprised laugh escaped him. "Haven't seen him since graduation. Yeah, I remember him. Are he and Coach still close? He used to follow him around like a lost puppy."

I just chuckled. Sometimes you realize that nothing really changes in a small town.

"So you'll come?" I tilted my head toward him. "Could use the company. And you look like you could use a night away from all this."

He hesitated, glancing at the house again, then back at me. "Sarah's probably got her hands full with Tommy's bedtime routine..."

"Just come on by once he’s down." I opened the truck door. "Low stakes, cold beer, good company. What else do you need?"

The corner of his mouth curved up. "Alright. Yeah, I'll be there."

Zachariah was the last to arrive that evening. I heard his truck pull into the drive while I was dealing the second hand of the night, and by the time he knocked on the door, the rest of us already had beers cracked and chips scattered across the table.

"Come on in!" I called, and the door swung open to reveal him standing on the porch, looking uncertain in a way that made him seem younger than his years. "Grab a seat. You're just in time."

The regulars looked up with varying degrees of interest. Sheriff Davies, whose weathered face had seen every kind of trouble this town could produce, nodded from his seat at the end of the table. Mr. Lee, older than all of us and still running his convenience store six days a week, peered at Zachariah over his reading glasses. Coach Patterson, built like a man who'd never stopped doing squats, raised his beer in greeting. And Marshall, always seated beside the coach, tore his eyes off his companion and I saw the recognition flash across his face.

"Miller?" Marshall's voice cracked slightly. "Man, it's been forever."

"Marshall." Zachariah walked over and gave him a quick bro hug. "Do these old guys keep you around just to feel young or something?" He joked as he settled into the empty chair beside me, accepting the beer I slid across the table. 

"Someone's got to keep him out of trouble." Coach cuffed Marshall lightly on the shoulder, and the younger man's cheeks flushed but no one commented on it. 

We dealt Zachariah in, and for a while, the game proceeded as it always did—bad jokes, worse cards, and the comfortable rhythm of men who'd been doing this long enough to know each other's tells. Zachariah seemed to relax as the evening wore on, though his pile of chips shrank steadily. He wasn't a terrible player, just not taking any risks tonight, and maybe a little too distracted by the unfamiliar company.

It was after his third consecutive losing hand that I saw my opening.

"You know," I said, shuffling the deck with practiced ease, "we could make this more interesting."

The table went quiet. Even Mr. Lee looked up from his cards. These games were never high stakes, the buy in was just enough to cover the beers we drank. Mr. Lee held the more serious games back in his storeroom on Sunday nights when he closed up shop. I’d learned long ago that that wasn’t my scene. I only gambled socially like this and preferred to get my thrills elsewhere.

"What'd you have in mind?" The sheriff's voice was careful, measured.

"Strip poker." I let the words hang in the air, watching for reactions. "Loser of each hand takes something off. Makes the stakes a little more personal, don't you think?"

Everyone laughed—or most of them did. Marshall's face went red. Mr. Lee chuckled into his beer. Coach Patterson leaned back in his chair, considering. And the sheriff caught my eye across the table, his gaze sliding briefly to Zachariah and then back to me with a raised eyebrow.

He saw right through me. Davis had known me for twenty years, and he'd always been able to read me like a billboard. That raised eyebrow said everything: I know exactly what you're doing, and I'm going to watch you do it.

"Sure," Davis said, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Why not."

One by one, the others agreed. Mr. Lee shrugged like he'd seen stranger things, he wasn’t planning to lose anyway. Coach cracked his knuckles and said he was due for a win anyway. Marshall looked like he might pass out, but he nodded along with the rest of them. And Zachariah, seated beside me with his beer halfway to his lips, just watched with an expression I couldn't quite read.

The first hand ended with Coach shedding his polo shirt, revealing a chest that was still impressively built for a man his age. He took it in stride, flexing dramatically while the rest of us hooted. After that, things evened out for a while—Mr. Lee lost a sock, Marshall his belt, the sheriff his jacket. I stayed fully clothed, my cards running hot for once.

Zachariah wasn't so lucky. He lost his shirt on the fourth hand, and I made a point not to stare when he pulled it over his head, but my eyes were quickly drawn back to the substantial muscle mass he’d gained and the new patches of blond hair along his chest and belly. He caught me looking and quickly looked away, but not before I saw the flush creeping up his neck.

The game continued. Sheriff Davis went next, stripping down to a white undershirt and then losing that too, his barrel chest covered in graying hair. Marshall had lost his shirt and shoes, sitting there in his jeans and bare feet, trying not to look at Coach's bare shoulders.

It was the sheriff who ended up in the most precarious position. After a particularly bad hand, he was down to nothing but his tighty whities and the badge he’d pinned to the waistband after losing everything else. The image was ridiculous enough that even Davis laughed, his belly shaking as he adjusted the badge.

"This is what you boys wanted, right?" He struck a pose, hands on hips. "Sheriff of the damn underwear modeling squad."

The next hand did him in. He stared at his cards, then at the rest of us, then sighed heavily.

"Well, shit." He stood up, turned around, and shimmied out of those tighty whities with a theatrical flourish. His bare ass—hairy, pale, unapologetic—wagged at all of us as he danced a little jig.

The table erupted. I was laughing so hard my sides hurt, and even Mr. Lee had tears in his eyes. Zachariah covered his mouth, shoulders shaking. Marshall had gone scarlet, but he was laughing too.

"I think that's my cue," Coach said, standing up and stretching. He was down to a jockstrap, the kind that left nothing to the imagination, and he caught Marshall's eye as he reached for his clothes. "Come on, Bennett. Let's call it a night."

Marshall nodded quickly, gathering his things without meeting anyone's gaze. I didn't comment on the fact they were wearing matching straps or the way they couldn't keep their eyes off each other. Coach's hand was lingering on Marshall's shoulder as they headed for the door and I spotted it slide down his back as they walked outside. The door shut just as he palmed Marshall's ass cheek. The boy’s affection for his coach had been an open secret for years, but what was less known is that it wasn’t so one-sided these days. 

One by one, the others filtered out. Sheriff Davis didn't bother putting his clothes back on, just held his badge between his teeth as he gathered up his clothes and waved cheerfully as he walked to his cruiser in nothing but his birthday suit. Mr. Lee, only missing one sock after the entire night, shuffled out with his winnings and a knowing look in my direction that I pretended not to notice.

And then it was just Zachariah and me.

He was standing near the window, silhouetted by the moonlight filtering through the glass. Down to his underwear—a pair of simple boxer briefs that clung to his thighs and left very little to the imagination. He hadn't dressed again after the game ended, and I couldn't bring myself to suggest he should.

I stayed where I was, leaning against the table, still wearing my jeans. My eyes moved over him slowly, taking in the changes the years had made. The thicker arms. The broader shoulders.  The hourglass figure of his wide lats tapering down to his narrower waists and then back out to hips that were somehow even more tempting than they'd been when he was twenty. The country bubble butt that had been distracting me all afternoon, now barely contained by thin cotton.

He didn't move from his spot as he turned back around. Didn't reach for his clothes. Just stood there, watching me watch him.

I pushed off the table and reached for my belt. The metal clinked as I unbuckled it, and I saw his breath catch. I shoved my jeans down, stepping out of them and kicking them aside. Now we were even—both of us in nothing but underwear, the space between us charged.

He was getting hard. I could see it happening, the fabric of his boxer briefs tenting as his cock filled, and he made no move to hide it. His chest rose and fell with quicker breaths, and his hands hung at his sides like he wasn't sure what to do with them.

"You need to get home soon?" My voice came out rougher than I intended.

He swallowed and shook his head. "I told Sarah not to stay up."

I held his gaze for a long moment, then turned and walked toward the bedroom. I didn't look back to see if he followed. I didn't need to. The sound of his bare footsteps on the creaky hardwood following me down the hall was all the answer I needed.

The bedroom was dark except for the light spilling in from the hallway. I turned on the lamp beside the bed, casting the room in a warm glow, and turned to face him. He stood in the doorway, his cock straining against his underwear now, a wet spot forming where the head pressed against the fabric.

"Come here," I said.

He crossed the room in three steps, and then his mouth was on mine. The kiss was hungry, desperate, all the pretense of the evening stripped away along with our clothes. I gripped the back of his neck, pulling him closer, tasting the cheap beer on his tongue and the desperation in his movements.

"Fuck," he breathed against my lips. "I've been throwing hard all day. Since you showed up at the farm. You don’t know how much I've been wanting—"

I cut him off with another kiss, walking him backward toward the bed. His knees hit the mattress and he sat down hard, looking up at me with wide eyes. I stepped between his legs, my cock level with his face, and he reached for the waistband of my underwear with trembling fingers.

"Go ahead," I said, “I’m sure you remember what to do.”

He pulled them down, and my cock sprang free, already half-hard and rising. His eyes fixed on it, and I saw his throat work as he swallowed. Then he leaned forward and took me in his mouth.

The first touch of his lips was electric, warm and wet and eager. But where the Zachariah I remembered had been fumbling, uncertain, all enthusiasm and no technique, this version knew exactly what he was doing. He wrapped one hand around the base of my shaft, the other gripping my thigh for balance, and took me deep in one smooth motion.

"Shit," I hissed, my hips jerking forward involuntarily. "You've been practicing."

He hummed around my cock, and the vibration shot straight to my spine. His tongue worked the underside of my shaft as he pulled back, swirling around the head before taking me deep again. The wet, sloppy sounds of his mouth filled the room, and I tangled my fingers in his blond hair, gripping tight enough to make him moan.

That mouth. That fucking mouth. He'd been good before—eager, willing, determined to please—but this was something else entirely. He found a rhythm, bobbing his head in long, smooth strokes, his hand working in tandem with his lips. He knew when to speed up, when to slow down, when to suck hard enough to make my knees weak. And then his throat was opening just enough to playfully squeeze around my head.

I looked down at him, at the sight of my cock disappearing between his lips, his eyes closed and leaking in concentration, his own cock twitching through his underwear, and something possessive surged through me. This was the kid who'd blown me in his daddy's truck, all grown up and in my bedroom after all these years. He was mine for the night.

"Enough," I said, pulling him off by the hair. His lips were swollen, slick with spit, and he looked up at me with dazed eyes. "Up on the bed."

He scrambled backward, kicking off his underwear as he went, and I finally got a look at all of him. His cock was thick, cut, curved slightly to the left, flushed red and leaking at the tip. His balls hung heavy between his thighs, and below that—below that was the ass I'd been staring at all day, round and firm and practically begging for my hands.

I reached for the nightstand, pulling out lube and a condom, but he shook his head.

I hesitated for a fraction of a second, then tossed the condom aside with a smirk. Fuck, this boy was perfect and right now, with him looking at me like that, I wasn't going to argue.

I climbed onto the bed, pushing him back against the pillows. His skin was hot under my hands as I ran them over his chest, his stomach, the sharp ridges of his hip bones. He arched into my touch, his cock brushing against mine, and we both groaned at the contact.

"Can you turn over for me?" I asked.

He flipped onto his stomach without hesitation, presenting that incredible ass to me. I grabbed both cheeks, kneading them roughly, spreading them apart to reveal the tight pink hole hidden between them. He shuddered as I dragged my thumb across it, his hips pushing back against my hand.

"Yes," he hissed as his breathing picked up.

I grabbed the lube, slicking my fingers, and pressed one inside him. He was tight, clenched around me like he hadn't done this in a while, and I took my time working him open. One finger became two, scissoring and stretching, and he moaned into the pillow, his hands fisting the sheets.

"I can take it," he gasped. "Give me more. I remember how thick you are."

I added a third finger, and his whole body trembled. I could feel him relaxing, opening up, his hungry hole swallowing my fingers like it couldn't get enough. I found his prostate and pressed against it, and he nearly came off the bed.

"Fuck! Right there, oh god, right there—"

I pulled my fingers out, and he whimpered at the loss. But only for a second, because then I was pressing the head of my cock against his entrance, and he was pushing back to meet me, and I was sliding inside.

He was hot and tight and perfect. I went slow, inch by inch, giving him time to adjust, but he was having none of it. He shoved his hips backward, impaling himself on my cock in one smooth motion, and we both groaned as I bottomed out.

"Fuck," I said through gritted teeth. "Slow down."

"No." He turned his head to look at me over his shoulder, his eyes dark with want. "You’re gonna fuck me. You've been thinking about pounding my ass all day, haven’t you? I saw you watching me, saw you staring at my ass every time I turned around."

I grabbed his hips, my fingers digging into the firm flesh, and pulled almost all the way out before slamming back in. The force of it drove him into the mattress, and he let out a sound that was half moan, half scream.

"Like that?" I demanded.

"YES," he screamed.

I fucked him just how he wanted. Long, deep strokes that made the headboard bang against the wall, that made the bedsprings creak in protest, that made him claw at the sheets and sob into the pillow. I watched my cock disappear into that perfect ass over and over, the slick sound of our bodies meeting filling the room along with his moans and my grunts.

"You like that?" I slapped his ass, watching the flesh jiggle, leaving a red handprint on his cheek. "You like getting fucked by a man twice your age?"

"Yes," he whined. "Yes, god, yes, I love it, I love your cock, I love—"

His words dissolved into incoherent sounds as I picked up the pace, driving into him relentlessly. I leaned over his back, my chest pressed against his shoulders, my mouth against his ear.

"You know, I've been thinking about this for years," I growled. "Thinking about that mouth, that ass, what it would feel like to fuck you properly. You've grown up nice, Zack. Real nice."

He shuddered beneath me, his hole clenching around my cock, and I could tell he was getting close. I reached around to find his cock, hard and dripping, and stroked it in time with my thrusts.

"Come for me," I ordered. "I want to feel you come on my cock."

It only took a few more strokes. His whole body seized up, his back arching, his hole clamping down on me like a vice, and he came with a shout that probably woke the closest neighbors half a mile down the road. Thick ropes of cum shot over my hand, over the sheets, over his own stomach, and I fucked him through it, prolonging his orgasm until he was trembling and oversensitive.

I wasn't far behind. The feeling of him coming around my cock, the sight of this beautiful specimen sprawled out beneath me, wrecked and satisfied, pushed me over the edge. I slammed into him one last time, burying myself as deep as I could go, and came inside him with a groan that came from somewhere deep in my chest.

I stayed there for a moment, catching my breath, feeling my cock soften inside him. Then I pulled out slowly, watching my release drip from his well-fucked hole, and collapsed onto the bed beside him.

He turned his head to look at me, his eyes half-closed, a satisfied smile playing at his lips. "Wow."

"Yeah."

"I always regretted not doing that a long time ago, but now I know what I was missing out on."

I laughed, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from his forehead. "Give me a bit and we can go again."

He shifted closer, his body warm against mine, and I could feel his heart still racing. Outside, the night was quiet except for the crickets and the distant bark of a dog.