Under the Desert Sky by Josephine Myles

Nick thinks it’s worth the risk of getting his head kicked in to find out if the gorgeous redhead on the building site really is checking him out. Only trouble is, even if he is interested, Nick tends to end up spoiling things with his nervous babbling. This time he’s going to have to keep his mouth shut. It’s either that or he’ll have to find some other way to occupy it…

***

I walked along the perimeter fence, sweat prickling my palms, trying to maintain a casual amble to give the impression that I was the kind of guy who did this sort of thing all the time. The site looked deserted until I passed the foreman’s cabin where the workers sat outside on piles of breeze blocks, chatting idly under the punishing sun as they swigged down cold drinks and munched on sandwiches. He wasn’t with them. That was good. I picked up my pace, determined to find him before he decided to join the lunch crowd.

He wasn’t a sociable guy and I’d never seen him chatting – he just got on with his job – taciturn and focused. It gave me hope that here would be someone who could understand me; who could forgive my lack of social graces and ignore my nervous babbling to see the man underneath; the man with intelligent things to say if only he could pluck up the courage. The man who’d never done anything like this before, but was now carefully dressed in tight jeans and close-fitted red T-shirt, intent on risking humiliation just to have a chance. It was now or never, as I was due back in London tomorrow and I knew that my work wouldn’t bring me back to Sheffield for at least another couple of months.

As I rounded the corner of the large, half-finished building, a solitary figure came into view. There was no mistaking the supple grace of his movements as he hopped up onto the scaffolding, measuring tape in hand. My breath hitched when I saw that he was bare-chested under the reflective tabard, the previously covered skin glowing pink where the sun caught it and spattered with ginger freckles. His body was stocky, heavily muscled; the type you knew would run quickly to fat if deprived of regular manual labour. Yet despite being built like so many of these sturdy northern men, he moved with a fluidity that belied his size. The strands of hair that escaped his hat glowed in the harsh light like burnished bronze. He was a work of art. I wanted to study him, learn him. Explore him thoroughly.

I cleared my throat, but he didn’t hear me. I waited, paralysed by indecision, clinging on to the wires of the fence panel with white knuckles. Willing him to look down and see me there; to give me that look again that I was sure I’d seen yesterday. That deliberate once over, followed by a slow smile that made my heart lurch and my cock stir.