CHAPTER 18
ACE
MY CAR IS right there. Twenty feet away. Fifteen. Ten.
Each step lands heavier than the last, like I'm wading through setting concrete.
My heart has forgotten its regular rhythm and just pounds against my ribs, and my hands are shaking like I'm about to defuse a bomb instead of unlock a car door.
And maybe that's not far off, because I'm about to get in a vehicle with a guy who just asked if he could show me his dick in person.
And I said yes.
The key fob's slippery as I thumb the unlock button. The beep slices through the quiet parking lot, way too loud, like it's broadcasting to every person in a three-block radius that Ace Jackson is about to do something he's never done before.
With a man.
We get in simultaneously, doors thumping shut in a way that feels final.
My grip on the steering wheel borders on violent as I stare at the brick wall in front of me. The engine's not running. I should fix that. Turn the key, back out, drive home like a functioning human who isn't having an unprecedented flavor of sexual meltdown.
My hands stay locked on the wheel.
Devon shifts in the passenger seat, and I'm annoyingly aware of every sound: the rustle of his jacket, the shift of denim against leather.
"Ace."
My throat's closed up shop. No words available, sorry for the inconvenience.
"Hey." Something in his voice softens. "If you don't want to—"
I turn my head, and that's where everything goes sideways.
Because Devon's right there, close enough I could count his eyelashes if I had the brain capacity for math right now.
His eyes are dark, pupils swallowing the color, and his lips are parted just slightly, and every rational thought I've ever possessed just packs its bags and leaves.
"Fuck it," I mutter, and then I'm reaching for him.
Except Devon's faster.
He lunges across the center console, and his mouth collides with mine hard enough that my head bounces off the headrest. His fist tangles in my shirt, yanking me forward, and I'm kissing him back before the surprise wears off.
And it's nothing like the bar kiss. That one was performative. It was a question mark, tentative and uncertain, testing the waters.
This is Devon giving me the answer.
His mouth moves against mine with purpose, hunger, like he's been holding back for weeks and just got permission to let go. I match his energy, pulling him closer, my hand sliding up to cup the back of his neck where his hair's fine and soft.
He makes this sound that lands somewhere between a moan and a growl and tries to get closer, but the console's playing defense. He breaks away just long enough to mutter, "This is bullshit," and then he's climbing over.
One knee plants itself on my thigh. The other follows, and suddenly Devon's straddling my lap, his weight settling over me, and…oh fuck.
Oh fuck, indeed.
He's hard. The evidence presses against my stomach through his jeans, unmistakable and scorching, and my dick goes from casually interested to desperate in point-five seconds.
"Better," he announces, and then his mouth's on mine again.
His hands map my body like he's trying to memorize the terrain. Hair, shoulders, chest—he touches everything. My hands find his hips on instinct, gripping maybe too tight, but I can't help it. It's like I'm unable to think past the feeling of him, the weight, the heat.
Devon rocks forward, grinding down, and the groan that tears out of me is borderline pornographic.
"Fuck," he breathes against my lips. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this."
"Pretty sure I have some idea."
He laughs, breathy and close, and does it again. This time he puts intention behind it, deliberate and so damn devastating.
The steering wheel's digging into his back. The gearshift is probably jabbing him somewhere unfortunate. We're in a public parking lot where any random person could walk by and get a show. None of these facts register as important.
My phone buzzes somewhere in my pocket. Then Devon's.
We both pretend they don't exist.
Mine buzzes again. And again. Someone's having a text conversation with themselves, and I couldn't care less. I don't care about anything except Devon's mouth on mine and his body pressing down and the way he moves like he's done this before—another thought I choose to ignore.
Devon's hand slides down, cupping me through my jeans. I simultaneously clench my jaw and gasp.
"Yeah?" His voice has gone rough and low. "This okay?"
Words have abandoned me. I nod instead, probably looking like an overenthusiastic bobblehead, and he grins like he just won something.
"Good."
Devon's phone starts ringing now.
"Ignore it," I manage to force out.
"Oh, I plan to."
His fingers attack my belt buckle with surprising dexterity given the cramped space and the fact that he's still mostly on my lap. I should probably care that my car windows aren't tinted, that this is objectively insane. I don't. I really, really don't.
The belt comes undone. Devon pops the button on my jeans. The zipper comes down tooth by tooth, agonizingly slow, his eyes locked on mine the whole time like he's watching for any sign I want him to stop.
"Still okay?" he asks.
"If you stop now, I will hurt you."
"Dramatic."
"Scientific."
He laughs and shifts back just enough to create working room. His hand slides past denim, under cotton, and when his fingers wrap around my cock, I feel like I'm tripping. Like none of this is real.
"Fuck, you're hard," he says, and he sounds delighted. Thrilled, even. "How long have you been like this?"
"I don't fucking know," I breathe out. "Since I met you?"
Devon's grin turns wicked.
He strokes me once, slow and deliberate from base to tip, and my hips jerk up without permission. The touch is both too much and nowhere near enough, and I'm already tragically close.
"Devon—"
"Yeah?"
"I'm not going to last."
"Don't care."
"I should—" I gesture vaguely in his direction, at the obvious bulge straining against his zipper. "You."
"Later." Another stroke, firmer this time. "Right now I want to watch you fall apart."
Jesus Christ and all the saints.
"I want to taste you," Devon says, casual as fuck, like he's commenting on the weather. "Can I?"
My brain experiences a complete system failure. "W— what?"
"Can I suck your dick, Ace? Yes or no?"
I'm nodding before his mouth closes. "Yes. Fuck. Yes."
Devon shifts his weight, and for one horrible second I think he's going to attempt some kind of impossible contortion in this limited space, but instead he slides off my lap entirely and wedges himself between my legs and the steering wheel.
The space is ridiculous. Cramped doesn't begin to cover it. His shoulders press against the door and the console simultaneously, but he looks completely unbothered by the geometry problem.
He looks up at me, pupils blown so wide there's barely any color left, and hooks his fingers in my waistband. "Lift up."
I do, and he tugs my jeans and boxers down just enough to free my cock.
Cool air hits overheated skin, and I hiss through my teeth.
Devon stares, and I feel exposed in a way that transcends the physical reality of being essentially naked from the waist down in a semi-public location.
"Holy shit," he breathes out. "You're perfect."
"I'm really not—"
"Shut up. You are." He wraps his hand around the base, and I'm already leaking, precum pooling at the tip. Devon's thumb swipes through it, spreading the slickness around the head, and I groan so loud I'm grateful the windows are up. "You're so responsive."
"Yeah, well. Haven't been touched by anyone but myself in forever."
"Their loss." He leans forward, and I stop breathing entirely. "My gain."
His tongue traces the underside of my cock, root to tip, following the vein, and every muscle in my body locks up like I've been electrocuted.
"Relax," Devon says, and then he takes me into his mouth.
Holy fuck.
Holy absolute fuck.
Devon doesn't tease. Doesn't start with kitten licks and gentle exploration. He takes me deep immediately, his throat working around my cock, and I'm pretty sure this is how I die. In a parking lot with Devon's mouth on my dick and no regrets whatsoever.
"Oh my god," I manage, voice strangled and desperate. "Devon—"
He pulls back, lips dragging along my shaft, creating friction that makes my toes curl in my shoes. He looks up at me with those dark eyes. "You taste good."
"How—" My voice cracks. "How are you so good at this?"
"Practice." He grins, wicked and absolutely filthy. "Lots and lots of practice."
Before I can dwell on that horrible fact, Devon takes me deep again, and all thoughts evaporate like they never existed.
His head bobs, finding a steady rhythm, and his hand works what his mouth can't reach. The sounds are obscene, wet and sloppy and so fucking hot I'm lightheaded.
My hands grip the seat so hard I'm probably leaving permanent impressions in the leather.
Devon pulls off with a slick pop, stroking me with his hand. "You can touch me."
"What?"
"Your hands. You look like you're trying not to move them." He takes me back in his mouth, and when he comes up for air again, he adds, "Touch me. Hair. Face. Whatever you want."
I hesitate for maybe half a second before my hand moves to his hair, threading through the messy strands.
Devon makes this satisfied sound and takes me deeper.
There's absolutely no way I'm going to last. He's too good at this, too skilled, and it's been too long, and I've been thinking about so much, and—
"Devon," I warn. "I'm close. I'm really—fuck—really close."
He doesn't pull off. If anything, he speeds up, his mouth working me faster, his hand twisting just right, and—
My orgasm hits like a truck at full speed.
I come with a groan I don't even try to muffle, my hand tightening in Devon's hair, my hips jerking up involuntarily. He takes it all, throat working, not pulling away until I'm completely spent and shaking.
When he finally sits back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he looks insufferably smug. "You good?"
I can't really speak, so I just nod weakly.
"Good." He shifts, trying to get more comfortable in the impossible space between my legs and the steering wheel, and I notice—
"You're still hard."
"Very observant."
"Let me—" I reach for him, but he catches my wrist.
"Give me a second."
Before I can ask what he means, Devon's climbing back onto my lap, and this time there's a frantic quality to his movements that wasn't there before. He straddles me again, and even through his jeans I can feel how hard he is. How desperate.
"Devon."
"Just—" He rocks forward, grinding against my thigh, and his breath catches audibly. "Just need—fuck—"
He's rutting against me, movements desperate and uncoordinated, one hand braced on my shoulder for leverage, the other gripping the headrest behind me.
"God," I breathe out, unable to look away from his face. His eyes are squeezed shut, mouth hanging open, and he's making these small sounds with every thrust of his hips.
It's the hottest thing I've ever witnessed in my entire life.
"That's it," I say, the words appearing without conscious thought. My hands find his hips, helping guide his movements, adding pressure. "Take what you need."
Devon's rhythm falters, his eyes flying open to meet mine. "Fuck, Ace—"
"I've got you."
He grinds down harder, faster, chasing his orgasm with single-minded determination, and I drink in every single second, watching the flush spread across his face, and his lips part, and his whole body tense up.
"Close," he gasps out. "I'm so—fuck."
"Come. Come for me."
That does it.
Devon's whole body goes rigid, his back arching like a bow, and he comes with a broken moan that goes straight to my already-spent dick. His hips jerk erratically, grinding through the aftershocks, and I hold him through all of it.
When he finally stills, he collapses forward like a puppet with cut strings, forehead dropping to my shoulder.
We stay frozen like that for a long moment, both breathing hard, the windows completely fogged up around us, creating our own little world.
"Holy shit," Devon finally says, voice muffled against my shirt.
"Yeah."
He lifts his head, and we're close again, close enough I can see the gold flecks scattered through his irises like treasure.
"So," he says, grinning. "Still straight?"
I laugh, breathless. "Shut up."
"Make me."
I do. I kiss him, and he kisses back, slow and lazy this time, like we have all the time in the world and nowhere else to be.
Then, both our phones erupt at the same time, multiple notifications detonating simultaneously.
We break apart, and Devon groans like he's been mortally wounded. "What now?"
I grab my phone from where it's been staging a protest in my pocket, and—
Fifty-three unread messages in the group chat.
Wall's calling. Again.
"Maybe you should—" Devon starts, pulling out his own phone.
I answer. "What?"
"FINALLY." He sounds frantic, borderline hysterical. "Where the hell have you been?"
"Busy. Where's the fire?"
"Check your damn texts. Now."
He hangs up before I can respond.
Devon and I look at each other, then at my phone as I pull up the messages.
Petrov: EMERGENCY
Wall: everyone get to shelter NOW
Becker: what happened???
Wall: just GET HERE
Groover: on my way
Washington: ETA 30 minutes
MamaPaws: Oh dear
Jinx: WHAT'S HAPPENING
Petrov: roof is gone
I stare at the screen like it's written in ancient Greek, then at Devon.
"We better go, then," he says.
"Yeah."
Neither of us moves immediately. Devon's still on my lap, both of us disheveled and satisfied and very much not ready to deal with…whatever's coming.
"This is the worst timing," Devon says.
"Catastrophically bad timing."
"I'm going to murder Petrov."
"Get in line."
He climbs off my lap—a genuine tragedy—and I tuck myself back into my jeans, trying to make myself look like I wasn't just getting the best blow job of my life in a parking lot.
Devon's doing the same, though there's not much he can do about the obvious wet spot darkening his jeans.
"Everyone's going to know," he says, gesturing at his lap.
I shrug. "Wear your coat tied."
"That's your solution?"
"You have a better one?"
He thinks for a second, face scrunched up. "No."
I start the car, cranking the defroster to maximum to clear the fogged windows.
As I'm pulling out of the parking spot, Devon says, "For the record, that was—"
"Amazing?"
"I was going to say 'a good start.'"
I nearly drive into a light pole.