Where the Devil Says Goodnight (Folk Lore #1) - K.A. Merikan Page 0,25

sun shone through the short blond hair at the top of his head, and since it was now behind the running figure, the front of Adam’s body remained shadowed. Emil couldn’t stop staring at the shapely legs that stirred dust with each step.

As Adam approached, passing Emil’s small fruit orchard and continuing along the low wooden fence, his face emerged from the shade—a ripe peach with rosy cheeks, ready for picking. He looked as if he was in the most pleasant of trances, about to take a deep breath and let the air carry him above the ground, away from the troubles of mere mortals.

Emil took a long drag from his cigarette and held the smoke in his lungs when Adam slowed down and met his gaze.

“Mornin’,” Emil said, and wouldn’t even blink from the excitement curling in his stomach. He wouldn’t chase the lamb, but he wouldn’t hesitate to lure it to his doorstep.

Adam rolled his shoulders back, briefly showcasing his pecs under the yellow T-shirt, and walked into Emil’s yard. “Good morning. May I ask for some water? It’s getting hotter every day.”

Emil put out the cigarette in an ashtray and got up. “Yep. Hotter every day.” He made a point of undressing Adam with his gaze. “Wait a sec.”

Adam licked the tiny beads of sweat from above his lip and shifted his weight, for a moment acting as if the wandering chickens were more interesting than Emil himself. Nice try.

Emil filled a whole jug at the kitchen tap and came back with it to find his unexpected guest scooting next to a couple of dandelion blowballs while the rooster circled him with curiosity. He hadn’t noticed Emil’s return yet, which gave Emil plenty of time to ogle the way Adam’s running shorts clung to his ass. Did he come here to torture Emil or to get some?

“Your water.”

Adam rose and stepped on the porch with a small smile. “Do you have a glass?” he asked, eyeing the large container in Emil’s hands.

“Just drink from the jug. Jeez. You’re not a prince. Are you?”

“It’s just a bit too much for me.” Adam’s brows lowered in disapproval, but he accepted the pitcher and took his first sip. Emil leaned against the porch railing, watching Adam swallow over and over while sunlight reflected off the sweat on his neck.

“No one tells you to drink the whole thing. Sometimes… a lot might be on offer, but you can have just a little. That’s fine.”

Adam choked on the water and put the pitcher on the wooden table, coughing from deep in his chest. Emil’s gaze followed droplets of water down Adam’s throat, all the way under the collar of his top. He imagined them rolling through the middle of Adam’s chest, into his shorts, and wished those were his kisses. He felt silly over developing such an intense crush—he was no teenager—but no one needed to know what was inside his heart.

“Are you okay?” Emil stepped closer. If only Adam had the courage to admit the sparks between them existed, they wouldn’t even have to say anything. Emil would have opened the door, and Adam would have entered. If no one else knew it happened, would it still be a sin?

Unaware of Emil’s thoughts, Adam nodded, but as he kept on coughing, Emil patted his back several times, and that seemed to have done the trick.

Sucking in air, Adam rolled into Emil’s chair and pulled up his T-shirt to wipe dampness off his face, but showcased his abs in the process. Adam had a beautiful body. Naturally trim, with a dusting of blond hair marking the path between his navel and the shorts. No harm in staring, but if Emil was to stay sane and cut the insistent daydreams about fucking Adam in the old confessional, he needed to get laid. There were too many charming guys out there to waste time on obsessing over the one he couldn’t get.

Then again, all those available men didn’t live in Dybukowo. Cracow would offer a much-needed break from the isolation of the valley.

“Those are some interesting tattoos,” Adam said, changing the topic yet keeping it close to matters of the flesh. It made Emil smile.

“Which ones?” he asked, presenting both his arms. He was aware none of them were works of art, but not ugly either. The friend who’d given them to Emil had used his skin for training purposes. He’d been kind enough to cover the worst of his early designs with something