The Garden Hand
Margaret, a retired 67-year-old, sat in her favorite chair by the bay window overlooking her lush garden. Her husband, Henry, was asleep in his recliner as usual, the television humming in the background. She sighed, running her fingers along the edge of her teacup. Retirement was supposed to bring excitement and passion, but their once-vibrant relationship had grown stale.
Her hip operation couldn’t come soon enough; the pain and immobility made her feel old and disconnected. That was until she hired James.
James was a young gardener she’d found through a recommendation from a neighbor. At 26, he was a mountain of a man—tall, broad-shouldered, with a strong jawline framed by a dark, rugged beard. His muscular arms flexed as he worked, and Margaret couldn’t help but watch him from her window as he trimmed hedges and mowed the lawn.
One sunny afternoon, as Margaret sat by the window with her book, James knocked on the door. She shuffled over, her cane tapping against the polished wood floor.
“Afternoon, Mrs. Hargrove,” he greeted, his deep voice resonating in her chest.
“Afternoon, James,” she replied, her cheeks flushing slightly. “How’s the garden coming along?”
“It’s looking great,” he said with a warm smile. “But I noticed your rose trellis is loose. I thought I’d fix it up for you if that’s alright?”
“That’s very kind of you,” she said. “Come in for some water first—you must be boiling out there.”
He stepped inside, ducking slightly under the doorway. The air seemed to change as his presence filled the room. Margaret poured him a glass of water, her hands trembling slightly as she handed it to him.
“Thank you,” he said, his fingers brushing hers briefly.
As he drank, Margaret’s gaze lingered on his broad chest, the fabric of his t-shirt damp with sweat, clinging to his defined torso. She caught herself staring and quickly looked away.
“You’re very kind to do all this,” she said, her voice wavering slightly.
“It’s no trouble,” James replied, his eyes locking with hers. “You deserve to have a beautiful garden to enjoy.”
Margaret felt a warmth she hadn’t experienced in years.
“Is there anything else you need help with?” James asked, stepping closer. His tone was casual, but there was something in his eyes—a flicker of something unspoken.
Margaret hesitated, her heart pounding. “Well, I…” she began, but the words caught in her throat.
James smiled gently, setting the glass down on the counter. “You don’t have to say anything, Mrs. Hargrove. I can tell when someone needs a little extra attention.”
Before she could respond, he reached out, his large hand brushing her cheek. Her breath hitched as his thumb traced the edge of her jawline.
“James, I…”
“Shh,” he whispered. “Let me take care of you.”
He leaned in, his lips brushing hers softly at first, then with growing intensity. Margaret felt a rush of excitement she hadn’t known in decades. Her cane clattered to the floor as James lifted her effortlessly, carrying her to the sofa.
“I don’t know if I can…” she began, but he silenced her with a deep kiss.
“I’ll be gentle,” he assured her, his voice low and soothing.
James explored her body with a tenderness that made her feel young again. His hands were strong yet careful as they moved over her, unbuttoning her blouse and tracing the curves of her body. Margaret let out a soft gasp as his lips trailed down her neck, his beard brushing her skin and sending shivers down her spine.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, his eyes filled with genuine admiration.
Margaret felt a confidence she hadn’t known in years. She ran her fingers through his thick beard, pulling him closer as he worshipped her body with his mouth. When he moved lower, his skilled tongue sent waves of pleasure through her, igniting a fire she thought had long since burned out.
James took his time, bringing her to the brink of ecstasy again and again, his devotion to her pleasure unwavering. Margaret’s hands gripped his broad shoulders as she cried out in release, her body trembling with the force of her climax.
When they were finished, James held her close, his strong arms enveloping her in a warmth that felt like home.
“You deserve to feel this way,” he said softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
Margaret smiled, her heart full for the first time in years.
As James left that evening, she watched him go with a newfound sense of hope. Retirement might not have turned out as she’d expected, but with James in her life, she realized it was never too late to rediscover passion and joy. |
