The Sicilian Boy, by Mr Grey

The heat of the Sicilian sun made everything feel slow, sticky, and overripe. Luca sat on the edge of the crumbling stone wall that overlooked the terraced vineyards, legs dangling, a cigarette tucked behind his ear and a sheen of sweat glistening on his bare shoulders. He wore loose linen shorts, low-slung, revealing the sharp V of his hips. He was golden, from the sun and from youth, and he knew the power his body held—he could feel it in the way eyes clung to him like humidity.

He turned when he heard the rustling of tires against gravel.

The tourist. Again.

Tall, pale, with dark hair and glasses, a quiet confidence in his walk. American, probably. He’d been staying in the villa above the village for over a week. Always alone. Always watching him attentively. Like he was there to notice things other people missed.

Luca slid off the wall as the man passed. “You’re back early,” he said, his accent heavy, words rolled like olive oil.

The man smiled, surprised. “Didn’t know you were timing me.”

“I time everything,” Luca said, stepping closer. “You like walking the vineyard. You always stop at the same tree.”

“I like the view from there.”

Luca tilted his head. “Is it the grapes, or is it me?”

The man hesitated. Then smiled, slower this time. “You.”

There it was. That thin crack in politeness, that quiet hunger.

Luca turned and began walking toward the the orange trees outside of the grove without looking back. “Come,” he said. “It’s too hot to talk standing up.”

They walked in silence. The grove was abandoned this time of day, the trees heavy with silver-green leaves and shade. Luca led him to a flat stone under the oranges, dropped onto it, legs stretched, the muscles in his thighs long and firm. He pulled off his vest and wiped the sweat from his neck.

The American watched, tongue tracing his lip. “You don’t want to know my name?”

“No.” Luca’s voice was soft, but confident. 

Silence hung, then a rustle. The American stepped forward, close now, one hand hesitating at Luca’s shoulder before making contact. Fingers explored his collarbone, his chest, the soft hair that darkened toward his stomach.

Luca exhaled slowly and stood, facing him. He reached for the hem of the man’s T-shirt, lifting it, watching him raise his arms. It caught briefly on his chin, then fell to the ground.

“You’re white like milk,” Luca said, pressing his hand to the man’s chest. “But hot, under the surface.”

“You’ve done this before?” the American said, breath shallow.

“Yes.” Luca undid his own shorts and let them drop, stepping out of them barefoot, naked now in the dappled shade. He stood still, unapologetic, watching the other man take him in.

There was nothing shy in Luca. His cock hung thick and curved slightly to the left, already half-hard. His body was lean, tanned, and smooth but for a thin trail of hair leading down from his navel. The American looked at him like art. Like temptation.

Luca stepped forward, pressing their bare chests together, their lips nearly touching. “You want me, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Then take me.”

The American kissed him, and the world melted into heat. Their mouths tangled, desperate and slow at once, like they were both trying to memorize the taste. Hands roamed—shoulders, hips, ass. Luca’s fingers tugged at the man’s waistband until his jeans dropped, then briefs, both of them now naked under the trees.

The American pushed him back onto the stone. Luca lay down with a sigh, legs open, inviting, cock now hard against his belly. The man knelt between his thighs and kissed down his chest, tracing his ribs with his tongue, pausing to bite softly at a nipple.

Luca gasped, his hand curling into the man’s hair.

Then the tongue moved lower, across his stomach, around his hips, until warm lips wrapped around him. He arched with a moan, the sudden wet heat of a mouth on him electric. The American took his time, slow, teasing—one hand wrapped around the base of his shaft, the other gripping his thigh, fingers digging in as his head bobbed with deepening rhythm.

Luca’s breath turned ragged. “Wait,” he said. “I want... more.”

The American looked up, cock glistening in his mouth. He climbed up over Luca, kissed him again, and reached into his discarded jeans for a condom.

They moved together easily—Luca turning, arching his back as the man slid fingers into him, opening him up with skill and care. He sighed, pressing his face into his arms, feeling the stretch, the fullness, the pulse between his legs begging to be touched.

Then—finally—he felt the man push into him.

It was slow. Deep. Luca gasped, every nerve lit. The American gripped his hips and started moving—thrusting slowly, then harder, the slap of skin echoing under the trees. Sweat slicked their bodies. Luca moaned, reaching down to stroke himself in rhythm, his body trembling as pleasure built like pressure behind his ribs.

He came first—hard, spilling onto the stone, crying out as his body spasmed around the man inside him. The American held him tight, buried deep, then followed moments later with a groan that sounded like surrender.

They collapsed, tangled and panting.

A breeze rolled through the grove. Somewhere above, a bird sang lazily.

After a while, Luca sat up and stretched. “You’ll come back tomorrow?”

The American nodded, lips still parted, eyes dazed.

Luca smiled. “Good,” he said. 

Mr Grey x

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