Chapter One
Before dawn’s first light, Ethan “Rocky” Rockwell hauled his surfboard atop the ocean blue and white ‘48 Ford Woodie, its custom paint by his brother Caleb glinting as he roared toward the coast, Wayfarer sunglasses perched, humming “Dream a Little Dream” in a husky Southern drawl. The fall waves battered his sun-browned frame, his lean muscles straining, no pro but grinning at the challenge, a sneeze breaking his focus as allergies stung, salt and saffron-and-anise scents clinging to his virile musk—androsterone-heavy, journals said—that turned heads even in the surf. By noon, he trudged through Salty Vines Wine Co.’s rows, sweat dripping from inky brows, stormy grey eyes scanning grapes, barking orders to workers who lingered close, drawn to his earthy pulse, until he grazed a trellis, lost in Zinfandel blends. In the shed, he swirled clove and cinnamon batches, spittin’ into a bucket, refining Brix with a poet’s precision, his open shirt baring a hairy chest, nipples peaking in the breeze. Come evening, Caleb’s truck rumbled up, poker cards and whiskey in hand, the bungalow’s kitchen glowing under cheery porch lights, Ethan’s shy grin warming as he dealt, his truth-seeking heart steady, unbattered, though a dime store novel’s carnal whispers flickered in his lonesome thoughts.
Midday sun scorched Salty Vines Wine Co.’s rows, where Ethan “Rocky” Rockwell, shirtless, hauled crates with corded arms, his chiseled face slick with sweat, drippin’ off inky brows, a sneeze cuttin’ through his husky drawl as allergies flared, his androstanol-laced musk pullin’ workers’ glances. Lost in thoughts of soil pH, he nicked his shin on a vine stake, stormy grey eyes—sworn to blacken when riled—flashing brief frustration, then softening as he knelt to check grape clusters, his vintner’s mind sharp as a blade. In the shed, he hunched over Zinfandel barrels, spicin’ blends with clove and anise, spittin’ into a bucket, once straddlin’ a crate with an old pillow, humpin’ it in a feral rush, ropey spunk spillin’ as muffled moans broke free, a secret kept by the shed’s creaky walls. Evenin’ brought Caleb, his brother’s laugh fillin’ the bungalow’s kitchen, their bond thick as the whiskey they poured, poker cards snappin’ on the Zinfandel-stained island, Ethan’s shy smile bloomin’ under cheery porch lights, his heart, still innocent from life’s bruises, hummin’ with dime store novel fantasies, the loft’s “nightly ritual” waitin’ to unravel his lonesome heat.
After Caleb’s truck rumbled off, leavin’ poker cards and whiskey warmth on Salty Vines Wine Co.’s kitchen island, Ethan “Rocky” Rockwell climbed the creaky ladder to his cluttered loft, a racy dime store novel—dog-eared, lurid—clutched in his callused hand, his stormy grey eyes smolderin’ from a day of vineyard snags, anger coilin’ tight in his lean frame. Strippin’ to tighty-whities, his thick shaft and fuzzy kiwi-sized balls strained the fabric, he sprawled on the quilted bed, Buddy Holly glasses tossed aside, the fall night’s breeze carryin’ Camp Pendleton marines’ distant drills through the loft’s window, their shirtless forms flashin’ in his mind, settin’ his root achin’. Worked up, his “nightly ritual” hit fast—hand tearin’ at his bulge, then grippin’ his shaft, rough and urgent, sweat beadin’ his chiseled face, drippin’ off inky brows, his sensitive nipples taut as he tugged, moans muffled but spillin’, eyes rollin’ back as he growled “Fuck,” ropey spunk blastin’ across his treasure trail, splatterin’ the novel’s pages. Pantin’, his lonesome heart eased, not a perv but a man untouched by life’s harder edges, Ethan’s innocence clung quiet under starlight, the Woodie’s ocean blue glow waitin’ outside for dawn’s escape.
Dusk’s golden haze faded over Salty Vines Wine Co., and Ethan “Rocky” Rockwell, shirtless, sweat and grape must clingin’ to his hairy pecs, strode to the bathhouse, thinkin’, Another day wrestlin’ vines, and some damn worker’s lazy cuts got my blood up. He lathered in the claw-foot tub, scrubbin’ calluses with a pumice stone, a sneeze breakin’ his husky drawl, allergies burnin’, his androstanol musk thick in the steam. Stress from the vineyard’s grind sparked a need, and Ethan’s hand drifted to his thick shaft, the ritual hittin’ fast: fingers rough, teasin’ his sensitive nipples, then strokin’ fast, sweat pourin’, picturin’ Declan—green eyes like jade, Marine-honed body freckled and lean, patchin’ Marines in desert chaos, stories I’d drink up. Nipples taut, Ethan growled, “Fuck,” eyes rollin’ back, ropey spunk splatterin’ his treasure trail, the tub’s edge, a feral release easin’ his lonesome heat. Caleb’s poker-night grin flashed in his mind, their brotherly bond a quiet anchor, and Ethan rinsed off, stormy grey eyes soft, his innocent heart admirin’ Declan’s skill, the Woodie’s blue glow waitin’ outside.
Dusk’s cool fingers brushed Salty Vines Wine Co., and Ethan “Rocky” Rockwell, shirtless, his sun-browned frame—‘cept that lily-white ass Caleb teased—hunched over the ocean blue Woodie’s engine, tinkerin’ with a wrench, my hands clumsy but tryin’, ‘cause Caleb’s the one who fixes her, teachin’ me how to keep her hummin’. A sneeze jolted his husky drawl, allergies flarin’, his androstanol musk mixin’ with grease, sweat beadin’ his chiseled face, inky brows damp under Wayfarers pushed up like a headband. Caleb’s custom paint job—blue and white, like the coast—gleamed under my touch, my brother’s lessons loud in my head, his laugh from poker night a warm pulse. Ethan’s stormy grey eyes drifted, thinkin’ of Declan, that Irishman’s green eyes sharp as tide pools, his Marine-honed body carved from grit, and those medic stories—missions patchin’ up Marines in chaos, tales I’d kill to hear, wonderin’ what makes a man that steady. No ritual tonight, just Ethan’s lonesome heart, curious and unbattered, turnin’ a bolt, the bungalow’s cheery lights glowin’ soft, his innocent soul chasin’ truths in the engine’s hum.
Noon’s fall sun scorched Salty Vines Wine Co., and Ethan “Rocky” Rockwell, shirtless, his sun-browned frame—save the lily-white ass Caleb called “Kiddo’s” curse—strode through vine rows, my well-worn Levi’s saggin’, last button long gone, sewn once then lost, no care for vanity. Sweat dripped off his inky brows, a sneeze breakin’ his husky drawl, allergies flarin’, his androstanol musk pullin’ workers’ glances as he tried explainin’ proper pruning, words trippin’ over their language gap, thinkin’, I ain’t dumb, but this ain’t easy. One worker’s sloppy cuts snapped Ethan’s focus, and he barked, “Do it right, hombre!” stormy grey eyes flashin’, stress coilin’ tight. He bolted the shed door, Levi’s hittin’ the floor, and dove into a ritual, hand rough on his thick shaft, teasin’ his fuzzy kiwi-sized balls, then strokin’ fast, sweat pourin’, picturin’ Declan—green eyes like jade, Marine-honed body freckled and lean, patchin’ Marines in desert chaos, stories I’d drink up. Nipples taut, Ethan growled, “Fuck,” eyes rollin’ back, ropey spunk blastin’ his treasure trail, splatterin’ a crate, stress meltin’ in a feral haze. Caleb’s “Kiddo” grin lingered in his mind, a brotherly tether, and Ethan strode out, neither rich nor poor, his innocent heart steady, the Woodie waitin’ for dusk’s hum.
