He's been watching the gardener work for almost a week now, though voyeurism is more JC's thing than his own. Lance prefers participation, likes the slick slide of sweaty body against body, likes the firmness of flesh under his teeth, his hands, his tongue. Watching has never had much appeal.

Until now.

He likes sitting at the table early in the morning, wrapped in his robe, sipping cold tart juice, watching the gardener—Nick—work. Even mid-morning, it's almost unbearably hot; late August in Mississippi is like that. Still, he doesn't mind, because he likes to watch the sweat stains spread across the gardener's chest, under his arms, in the small of his back. Lance likes to imagine the smell of sun-warmed skin, likes to think of how his own hands, slim and pale, would skitter across the slick wet swell of Nick's tan biceps. He likes to think of licking the sweat from the long nape of Nick's neck, where the blond hair shades dark with moisture.

Around eleven, the gardener usually sheds his sleeveless tee shirt, and Lance loves that. The gardener isn't ripped, isn't smooth and gym-perfect, like the men who usually share Lance's bed; he's solid, a little soft around the middle, but his shoulders and chest and arms are heavy with muscle from a lifetime of physical labor. His long legs swell with muscle at calf and thigh and ass, and Lance thinks of the quarter horses he's ridden over the years, stocky and muscular, sleek and strong, and his mouth curves as he thinks of riding this man, of sliding down onto him, of clasping Nick's hips with his own strong thighs.

It's a good thought, oh yeah, and he feels the rush of desire curl deep in his belly, feels his dick stir beneath his robe, though after last night's marathon session he shouldn't be able to get it up for a week.

His body aches in the best way, and he feels wonderfully used; he can still almost feel JC deep inside him, and his dick is tender from the slide of hands and lips and tongue. He wishes JC didn't tour so relentlessly, wishes he could have him in his bed more often, but those are just wistful thoughts, and unproductive ones; what kind of manager wishes his star talent less busy, less productive, less successful? Not one worth his salt, and he knows he's good at what he does, knows JC is successful because of his drive, his desire to see JC at the top of the entertainment world. And JC is successful; he has four hit albums, and a fifth in production, which is why JC is even around at the moment. He's been in more-or-less constant rotation on radio and MTV and his face smiles out from countless teen mags. Lance has made JC a well-known star, and the price of that has been JC's absence, punctuated by the occasional sex-saturated visit.

He doesn't regret it. They've never agreed to be faithful to one another; neither of them is the sort to go without pleasure, without sex, for very long. Any attempt at monogamy would be ridiculous when it's sometimes weeks between the times they can steal a moment or two together. So JC has his smorgasbord of flesh, and Lance has his own favorites who slide into his bed when he beckons. It's not a fairy-tale romance, but Lance has always prided himself on his practicality. It works for them, and that's all that matters.

And for the moment, he has the gardener to watch while he sits at the table and leafs through contracts, or through the newspaper, or works on his laptop. Lance figures he has probably another four weeks of work for Nick and his landscaping business; Lance has been away, spending most of his time in LA, and his yard is a wreck, certainly in no shape for his sister's upcoming wedding. He still can't figure out why Stacy wants to hold it at his house—though he has to admit the view of the lake is spectacular—but she and his momma decided that they wanted to have the ceremony here, and no one has ever had any luck talking a Bass woman out of what she wants. Harried by meetings and temperamental clients, he'd agreed, and she'd hired a service with the ridiculous name of Frick and Frack Construction and Landscaping to wrestle his yard into shape. He returned home last week to supervise things, and they showed up just a day later, two strong, tanned guys, one small and surprisingly muscular; the other, bigger, with shoulders like a mountain range.

The smaller one, Brian, has a certain undeniably goofy charm, but of the two, Lance prefers Nick, because he's always laughing, always smiling, his teeth brilliant against his tan, against his messy sun-bleached blond hair. He likes how the gardener laughs with his whole face, his whole body, likes how the loud, merry sound, curiously high-pitched, carries even through closed windows and the hum of central air. It makes him think of JC when they were both teenagers. He doesn't think JC laughs like that anymore, so free and easy and honest, and he knows for certain he doesn't.

But that's neither here nor there. Padding in from the front door, he sets the morning paper on the table, stretching hugely, lazily contemplating coffee and maybe, if he can work up the energy, waffles. It's only the soft brush of bare foot against tile, the ocean-fresh scent of shower gel that alerts him to JC's presence before long wiry arms wrap around his waist, before he feels the brush of damp curls against his neck, before JC laughs, low and smutty, into his ear. "Mmmm," JC hums. "You were gone when I came out of the shower. Seriously messed with my morning fuck vibe."

Lance leans away, scrunching his shoulder against the tickle of JC's curls, but JC will have none of that. He tightens his arms, nuzzling against Lance's throat, humming against his skin. It tickles. JC licks up his neck, bites at his earlobe, and Lance shudders against him. "Keep in mind I'm a love machine, ready twenty-four seven, call me anytime you need some extra attention," JC sings into Lance's ear, then laughs again. Lance has to smile, because it's so cheesy, and so JC.

"You can't possibly want to fuck again," Lance says, and JC presses closely to him, warm against Lance's back. Through the layers of JC's low-slung jeans and his own robe, he can feel that JC's hard against him, and he laughs, a little incredulously. "Guess I was wrong."

"Guess you were," JC replies, and slides a hand into Lance's robe. His fingers are cold, and Lance shivers against him, then harder when JC runs his thumb over a bite-tender nipple, before scratching at it with his nail. "You all fucked out, or up for another round, cat?"

And yeah, his ass is a little sore, but not enough to pass up having JC again. Lance pushes back against JC's crotch with a slow roll of hips that startles a bark of delighted laughter out of JC, the sound bouncing sharply around the room. Lance glances over his shoulder, looking up at JC through his lashes; he knows that little flirtation turns on JC as much as the grind of ass against crotch.

"Excellent," JC says, patting Lance's belly before pulling his hand from beneath the terrycloth and putting it on Lance's back, pushing him down onto the table. "That's what I like about you," JC says, his voice warm with admiration. "Always up for a good fuck. Anytime, anywhere."

Lance doesn't bother to deny it. It's the truth, and has been since he was old enough to figure out that his dick was his best friend in the whole world, second only to anyone else who'd pay attention to it. The table is smooth and cool against his chest and cheek, and Lance spreads out his arms, fingers curling around the edges, holding on, because JC fucks like a demon once he gets going.

JC's hands bunch in Lance's robe, pushing it up over his hips, baring him from the waist down. Lance doesn't mind, because he knows the view is great—he's certainly worked hard enough to get it that way. He can feel JC's jeans rasp against the backs of his bare thighs, and JC's foot taps the inside of each instep to get him to spread his legs further. Lance complies with a little rumble low in his chest that grows louder as JC's hands stroke over his ass. "And this is another thing. Finest ass ever." He hums a little appreciative note.

"You have an ass fetish," Lance says, and grunts when JC smacks his right cheek smartly.

"I have a lot of fetishes," JC replies cheerfully. "And you've indulged me in most of them, at one time or another." His thumb circles and then slips in. Lance's start of surprise is just that; there's no discomfort, no pain, as he's still slick and open from the night. "Nice," JC murmurs.

"I'm so glad you approve," Lance mutters, and oh hell, that's good, when JC's fingers slide in and hit just the right place to make him see a cascade of sparkles behind his closed eyes.

"Hush," JC says with false sweetness, "or I won't fuck you all nice-like." JC's fingers slip away, and Lance wriggles at the empty sensation. His stomach tightens as a familiar, achy need builds low in his belly, the need that craves, that demands the push of JC deep inside him, easing the ache by fucking him until he can't think, until he's nothing but lust and sensation.

In spite of the threat, Lance hears the slide of JC's zipper, the little sigh as JC takes himself in hand and smooths his palm over his length, all sounds Lance knows without bothering to open his eyes. Next is the little crinkle of plastic as JC fishes a condom from a pocket—he always has one around, though Lance doubts that the boy scouts would appreciate the manner in which JC takes their motto to heart—and then he feels JC's hips shimmy a little as he slicks on the rubber.

JC makes a throaty little sound as he pushes in, echoed by Lance's deeper rumble. The slide of thick hot flesh into him is good, familiar, and JC fills him so well. JC doesn't stop his steady push until his belly is flush with Lance's ass, and he seats himself with a little grinding twist of his hips and a satisfied "Ah, fuck yeah," that Lance agrees with whole-heartedly. They might fight and snipe and bitch at one another over everything else, but in this, they're always in agreement.

He can feel sweat gather at the nape of his neck, on his upper lip, at the small of his back where the terrycloth lies heavy and bunched against his skin. JC draped over him is surprisingly heavy, all hard angles and taut muscle. Lance wishes he'd stripped off the robe, wishes he could feel the slide of hot skin against his, the scrape of JC's chest hair against his back, but he's not going to stop now that JC's getting started. He shivers as JC licks a wet stripe across the nape of his neck, and a hitching moan escapes him when he feels the scrape of teeth against tender skin.

Another bite, this one harder, deliberate, on the thick muscle of his shoulder has Lance gasping as lightning flashes down his spine, curling up and spreading heat down into his belly. That one will leave a mark, but he can't be bothered to care, because damn. JC licks the bite, then levers himself back with a satisfied grunt, his hands running down Lance's body to his hips, then curling around, thumbs inscribing little circles onto his skin.

Half-hard, Lance's dick bobs in front of him, and the thought skitters through his head how good it would be to have someone kneeling and sucking him as JC moves smoothly in and out of his body; the best of all possible worlds. Lance imagines broad tanned shoulders, big work-scarred hands holding his hips firmly, imagines sun-bleached blond hair tickling his belly as a red, red mouth sucks him in, imagines the swirl of talented tongue, the heated tightness of swallowing throat, and he goes from half to fully hard in the matter of seconds. Maybe not zero-to-sixty, but damn close enough to count.

JC's hands are big but narrow as they grasp Lance's hips. Lance can't remember anyone touching him in recent years whose hands weren't soft, who didn't have a good manicure, and he wonders what it would be like to feel hands on him that were callused and rough from years of working, of careless abuse.

And then he doesn't think much of anything at all as JC begins to move. His lips part but all that escapes is his breath in little grunts as JC proves to him once more that the hip thrusts he does on stage aren't just for show. Lance is a little tender, a little sore, but that just adds a zing, adds spice to the whole experience as JC drives in and out of him smoothly, slowly, letting him feel every inch. It's good, so good, and Lance's fingers tighten on the edge of the table, holding on fiercely, because he feels like otherwise he'll go spinning off into the atmosphere.

Lance shifts and tries to meet JC's strokes, tries to force him to go just a little faster, a little harder, because he's hanging right on the edge of just-so-fucking-perfect, but JC laughs at him, a little breathy, and says, "Oh, no. My game, cat." His grip on Lance's hips tighten, holding him still.

"Fucker," Lance says, and grunts as JC's next thrust drives him to his toes and sends the table—and Lance—skittering an inch or so across the tile.

"You bet," JC replies, and his hips slow, even further, dragging out each stroke until Lance wants to yell at him to stop being such a dick and to give it to him.

And then JC stops, buried deep inside, and Lance kicks back at him with one bare foot, which JC avoids easily, smacking his ass in retaliation.

"Oh, honey, you've been holding out on me," he says reproachfully.

"What?" Lance shifts again, but JC has him pinned.

"Now that is a whole lot of pretty," JC says, and Lance opens his eyes. A quick glance over his shoulder shows JC gazing raptly out the French doors that lead to the deck, and beyond that, the yard. "You didn't tell me the scenery got better."

Lance releases the edges of the table, flexing his fingers, and draws his arms up enough to lean his weight on them, to bring his chest and shoulders high enough to see out the doors. Of course, it's Nick who's captured JC's attention. Nick and his broad shoulders and muscular ass and thick thighs and his boyish, pretty face, now split into a bright smile as he laughs at something his partner says, unaware that he's being watched. Dressed in ragged cut-offs and sleeveless tee shirt and tan construction boots, his knees muddy and grass-stained, he looks like living porn.

"Very nice," JC croons. "Bet you'd like to get some of that, hmm? That boy would make two of me, easy." His hips begin to move again, slow strokes that are so deep Lance gasps with the pleasure of them. "You always did like the big boys. You only keep my skinny ass around because you like the way I fuck."

"I'd like it a whole hell of a lot better if you'd shut up and do it."

JC laughs, and picks up the pace just enough that Lance grits his teeth. His blood rushes hot and heavy in his veins, throbs low in his belly, in his dick, and Lance would pay money, good money, if JC would either hurry up and get on with it, or reach around and close his fist around Lance's dick and give him some relief. He doesn't really expect either, though, because JC in a teasing mood is a little shit.

"He's really pretty. Bet he's hung, too. Big hands. He could really hold you down and give it to you, hm?" JC's voice has gone a little distant, dreamy, but his hips are moving faster, so Lance doesn't care. "C'mon, look at him."

As if Lance could do anything else, because hell yeah, off comes the shirt, crumpled up and given a careless toss in the direction of the deck. Muscles move and bunch beneath what seems like miles of sweat-slick skin, hot and tanned, generously marked with dark ink, and yeah, yeah, Lance would like some of that, without a doubt.

"Mmm, so nice," JC croons. "I'll bet you've thought about it a lot. Bet you'd like it, having his dick in your ass, because you're such a slutty little bottom-boy, spreading your legs for anyone who asks. You'd like for him to bend you over the deck railing, like for him to slam it to you so hard you'd be feeling it for a week, like him to give it to you so rough, so deep that you couldn't even walk the next day...."

Though his face burns hotly from the truth of JC's words, those visuals are so bright, so vivid, Lance can't help but stutter out a hungry moan, because yeah, he's thought about just that. His hips lift, twisting back onto JC's dick, blindly seeking more, wanting the strong, slick, gliding thrusts, hungry for more, more, as much as he can get.

Out in the yard, Nick and Brian are wrestling a small tree into place, and the sun is bright on Nick's blond hair, shines on the bunch and flex of muscles in sweat-slick arms and thighs, and it takes so little for Lance to imagine feeling that body, those muscles against him, to imagine himself tucked beneath Nick, surrounded, almost overwhelmed by his strength, impaled on a long, thick dick that fills him full. Heat flushes over him, though him, turning his blood to lava and his muscles molten.

"Like that, doncha?" JC's voice is breathy with the force of his thrusts. "Like the thought of him fucking you, all muddy from working, dirty hands touching you, holding you down, making you take it...."

Fire licks down his spine. "C'mon and fuck me," Lance growls, his voice dropping. He can hear the catch in JC's breathing, and JC's thrusts don't falter as his hand strokes up Lance's back beneath his robe. Lance arches cat-like into the touch, and he wants, wants. He twists and tightens around JC, and hears JC say, "Oh, you bastard," before ramming hard into him, sending him up onto his toes with the force of it, and yeah, this is what Lance wants, what he needs. His pulse thunders in his ears, and he can hear himself moaning as he pants, his blood roiling through his veins.

One of JC's hands slides over his hip, fingertips brushing against his dick before wrapping around it, and Lance wants to yell at the hotbright spiral of sensation. Lance's world has narrowed to JC's hips slamming against him, the push of dick, hot and thick, into his ass, the curl of JC's fingers around him, hand moving almost in time with his hips. Lance scrabbles for something to hold to, because he can feel JC let himself go, let passion and pleasure take him over. Lance closes his eyes, and behind his lids, he can see Nick, big and golden and strong, fucking him with abandon.

It makes him dizzy with want, makes him shake and gasp with need. JC's hand twists up his dick, moving with the certainty of long experience, thumb slicking over the head just so, and Lance can't hold out any longer. Pleasure shudders down his spine, up his thighs, and he comes with a loud hitching moan, comes so hard he thinks he might wring himself inside out from the force of it. Red flutters behind his closed eyes, and he's swamped by the pleasure that breaks over and through him, helpless to resist.

JC's relentless rhythm falters, and his thrusts grow erratic, though no less powerful. He lets go of Lance's dick and wraps that arm around his waist, fist knotting in his robe; the other reaches up, hand sliding over his shoulder, and pulls Lance back onto him, fucking frantically until JC comes with a sharp cry, hips grinding hard against Lance.

JC folds down on top of him, hot and heavy, panting breath hot and moist against the nape of Lance's neck, curly hair tickling his ear. Lance would push him away, but he's too exhausted to move, unable to make his fingers let go of the edges of the table, unable to shift beneath JC's weight. His head spins and his heart pounds in his ears, in his chest. His own breathing sounds as panting and hitching as JC's. His dick and his balls, tingle, and his skin buzzes, a million bees are just beneath the surface. He feels glorious.

He allows JC to lie on him until he grows too heavy, then shifts until JC gets the hint and levers himself off Lance with a moan. When JC pulls out, Lance hisses, because between last night and this? Oh yeah, sore. Sitting will be problematical. But so worth it.

Lance glances over his shoulder. JC looks flushed and sated, color high in his cheeks, blue eyes dark and heavy-lidded, his hair a tangled mess of curls. His wide mouth curves into a half-smile, then he strips off the condom and staggers away to dispose of it, still-open jeans riding low on his narrow hips. He bounces off the hallway wall, and Lance smiles as he hears a muffled, "Fuckit."

It takes conscious thought to make his fingers release the edges of the table, to make himself stand up, his robe falling back down to cover him as he does. He stands for a moment, letting the post-rush dizziness fade, clenching and releasing his fists to get the circulation back into his fingers. He's sticky and stiff and sore, but satisfied, for the moment.

Unbidden, his eyes go to the French doors, to the yard where Nick is working, shoveling dirt into the hole where he and Brian have placed the tree. Lance finds himself drawn to the scene, straightening his robe as he drifts to the doors. Nick's facing away from him, kneeling down, and his cutoffs have ridden low enough to expose a strip of pale, untanned skin, the shadow of the cleft between his ass cheeks. He has to be going commando, and Lance can't help the little thrill that skitters down his belly at that realization. Nick has a lot of ink; the word KAOS marches boldly down his spine, and Lance wonders what it means even as he acknowledges to himself that he'd like nothing better than to lick over each letter before diving lower to taste the pale skin beneath the cutoffs.

Lance jumps a little as JC steals in behind him, quiet as a cat. JC grins at him, then tugs down the collar of Lance's robe to look at the bite mark he'd left behind on the top of his shoulder. "You have the best skin for marking," he says happily. "Great bruises."

"Freak," Lance replies, and JC hums and wraps his arms around Lance before leaning in and kissing his neck.

"Don't you know it," JC says, his lips warm and soft. He squeezes Lance tightly for a moment. "Gonna jet off to LA tomorrow, do some remixing with Justin on his track for the album. Think it'll be good." JC hooks his chin over Lance's shoulder and watches as Brian turns the hose on Nick instead of watering the newly-planted tree. Nick screeches in outrage, drops his tools, and sets off chasing after a cackling Brian. "I'm thinking you can keep yourself occupied here."

Lance snorts. "As if. I'm not playing this into the big gay version of Lady Chatterly's Lover."

JC's laugh is low and rich. "Mmm. I remember seeing that movie. Sean Bean was Mellors, the gamekeeper. Very rough, very sexy. Sorta like your gardener out there. I think you'd make a really hot Lord Chatterly." He licks over the curve of Lance's ear. "Tell me all about it if you do. I love sex stories. Or get out the camera. I'd like that even better, cat."

JC runs a hand up Lance's throat, and tips his head back for a kiss. JC's mouth is cool and tastes of toothpaste, but warms quickly, his tongue slick and clever against Lance's, his fingers smoothing over the column of Lance's throat, light petting that makes Lance shiver against him.

"Gonna go make coffee," JC says, licking his lower lip. Then he looks past Lance, grins, and winks before peeling away and padding off to the kitchen.

Lance blinks and slowly straightens, turning his face back toward the doors. Nick stands on the deck in muddy cutoffs and boots, his wadded up tee shirt in hand. Lance has never seen him close-up before, and decides the view is pretty damn great. He's drenched, water dripping off his thick hair, off his nose and chin, slicking down his throat, his chest, down his belly. Lance watches the water slip down Nick's body until it soaks into his cutoffs. And yeah, he's commando, and yeah, he's just as hung as JC had said.

Lance jerks his eyes back up Nick's body to his face. Nick's eyes are very blue, the corners crinkled in amusement, his red mouth curved upward. He shakes himself like a wet dog, shaggy blond hair flying, slinging water everywhere. Small drops patter against the panes of the doors, and Lance licks his lips as if the water had actually landed on his skin. Nick's eyes grow darker.

Nick stands casually, letting Lance look his fill, so Lance does. Then Nick winks at him, and the smile turns into something warmer, something promising. Nick swipes the tee shirt over his broad chest, down his belly, and slowly, deliberately between his legs, before turning away, clattering down the two steps to the yard. Brian yells something at him, and Nick cheerfully offers him the finger. He spares a moment to glance back over his shoulder at Lance, blue eyes half-hidden beneath his hair, and the look is half come-on, half dare. The corner of his mouth lifts in the smirk of a man self-assured in his own appeal before he trots off and gets back to work.

Oh, damn. If he weren't completely used up and then some, Lance would've grown hard just from that last look Nick offered. It wasn't subtle, but then Lance doesn't think Nick is the subtle type—more a type that sees, wants, and offers. It's refreshing, after all the backbiting, all the Machiavellian maneuvering of the LA scene he's accustomed to.

He likes it.

JC's voice floats back to him. "I'm starving. I'm making waffles."

Lance clears his throat. "The hell you are—I've seen you cook. You're not burning down my damn kitchen. I'll make them."

JC laughs. "I knew that would work."

"Asshole," Lance calls back, and JC's laughter grows louder.

Lance spares one last look at broad tanned shoulders, at long muscular legs, before turning away from the door to make JC breakfast. Maybe he'll consider indulging this little bit of fantasy when JC leaves. He knows that JC remixing with Justin often turns into more than studios and sound boards, and that's fine, because JC always returns to him, just as he always returns to JC. It's a good system, and Lance knows you don't fuck with something that works.

JC's mouth tastes of oranges when Lance kisses him in the kitchen.