12. Chapter Eleven
Chapter Eleven
I t said on the label that the lube was called Cookie Dough.
Quentin had vaguely assumed it would smell vaguely like cheap vanilla syrup.
He’d never actually used it, though. The backstory involved his co-pilot, Fred, a hookup that turned out to be a pickpocket, and Quentin ending up with an over-priced Surprise Sex box set that had been living in the glove box since sometime last year.
It turned out he’d been wrong. The oppressive smell of buttery dough, vanilla, and fudge filled the car as Quentin slid his gel-coated hand up the inside of Joe’s thigh, the other man straddling his lap with his jeans shoved down to his knees, and his hard cock nudged against his soft stomach, and into the crease of his cheeks.
A passing thought occurred to him, between soft, lipped kisses over broad, tanned shoulders and working his fingers into the tight ring of Joe’s ass, but Quentin dismissed it as… not the time.
A tug on his hair dragged his head back to look at Joe.
“What?” Joe asked, his voice breathless and ragged. His eyes were darker than normal, the blue shadowy under the shaggy, blond hair that fell over his face, and his face was flushed.
“Nothing,” Quentin said. “Just…your buns are going to smell like buns.”
Joe stared at him. He started to say something, but before he could finish, he had to stop, lower lip folded between his teeth, as Quentin worked another finger inside him.
It was Quentin’s turn to ask, “What was that?”
Joe took a shaky breath, blinked, and admitted. “I forget.”
“Good.”
“It’ll come back to me.”
“We’ll see,” Quentin wrapped his free hand around the back of Joe’s neck and pulled him down for a kiss.
It was hungry and impatient, noses mashed and mouths open.
Desperate for as much tongue and taste and breath as he could suck in.
When he finally broke away, he leaned back in the driver’s seat, back sweaty against the leather seats. “Turn around.”
Joe swallowed and wiped his tongue over his lower lip.
He started to lean in for another kiss, but Quentin hooked a finger inside him and—just about—bumped his prostate.
A ragged sound escaped Joe, half mewl and half gasp, and his hand tightened on Quentin’s arm.
His nails dug down into his biceps hard enough to sting.
It was enough to convince him to do what Quentin asked.
He squirmed around…and nearly ended the night early with a knee that just missed Quentin’s balls.
It dug into Quentin’s thigh instead, the jolt of pain still enough to make him wince.
“Sorry,” Joe said. “Maybe a hotel next time would be a better idea.”
The dull ache of bruised muscle was swept away by the quick, smug recognition of ‘next time’. Quentin let himself grin as he leaned forward and brushed a kiss over Joe’s back, the skin lightly tanned and copiously freckled over his shoulder blades.
“There’s always the Mile High Club,” Quentin teased him.
Joe twisted around to look sceptically over his shoulder. “I don’t think your co-pilot would be happy.”
“The way he’s been sticking his nose into my life, he’d be thrilled,” Quentin snorted. “But I meant the Cessna.”
Joe looked dubious about that for a second, but it was followed by a slow, dawning interest.
“I mean,” he said, “that could work.”
He didn’t ask if he’d be the first.
It would have been OK if he did, since he would have been. Quentin’s exes had always been more interested in deadhead flights to Vegas over a trip to the airfield. Plus, the Cessna would actually probably be less comfortable than the car.
“So this is…” Quentin checked hesitantly as he reached down between them to finish undoing his chinos.
It took a second, and he had to look down to make sure what his numb fingers were up to.
The final button flicked free, and he hitched his hips up off the seat to drag the trousers down to his thighs.
His cock was already hard, and it drifted up to nudge against his stomach, the head of it wet with pre-come and warmer than the rest of him.
“Yeah,” Joe said. He braced his hands on the steering wheel and looked at Quentin’s dim reflection in the glass of the windscreen. “This is. We are, if you still want—”
Quentin’s snort cut off the awkward attempt to hedge his bets. “Yeah,” he said as he grabbed Joe’s hips to pull him back until his cock nestled in the warm crack of Joe’s backside. He felt the intake of Joe’s breath as warm skin pressed against his palms. “I’m the flight risk.”
He felt Joe’s low, warm chuckle as well, the vibration of it against his body making him ache. “You are a pilot.”
That was a hard quip to beat, Quentin supposed.
He didn’t try as he reached down to grab his cock, the pulse of blood eager and fast against his thumb as he gripped the base, and moved it into place.
The head nudged against the puckered resistance of Joe’s asshole, and pleasure-pressure-little bit of pain spilled back down the shaft to tangle together in a hot knot in his balls.
The ache of it pulsed eagerly, spreading into the muscles of his stomach and thighs.
It twinged along the taut line of his taint to tighten his own hole and clench his ass muscles against the now sweaty leather of the seat.
The knowledge that it could have been a while since Joe had last been with someone reined Quentin in. He took a breath and leaned forward to rest his forehead against Joe’s freckled shoulder.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he murmured against salt-sweet skin.
Joe laughed, a ragged hiccup of amusement that bounced against Quentin’s cock, and reached back over his shoulder to curl his fingers around Quentin’s neck.
“The fucking was never what I was worried about,” he said, his voice rough. “I want you, Quentin.”
Quentin had been reasonable, understanding, and more patient than almost anyone who knew him would believe. He’d accepted whatever boundaries Joe had put on their…whatever Joe had wanted it to be…and resisted the urge to alpha male asshole his way into fixing it all.
That, though?
That undid him.
He pushed himself into Joe. Despite the ache to just bury himself balls deep, he tried to be gentle and careful. The problem was Joe, who, head tilted back and jaw clenched, pushed back into the thrust. His ass spread around the thickness of his shaft, the clench of it making Quentin moan raggedly.
It was sweaty and hurried and inconveniently timed. The pedals, steering wheel and seatbelt were in the way of elbows and knees. That didn’t matter. It was perfect.
Quentin dragged Joe back against him, the weight of the other man sprawled over him, and chewed on the curve where shoulder met neck.
Not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough to think about it.
The flex of Joe’s ass around his cock as it was buried inside him tugged on his nerve endings, hard enough that he felt it from his balls to the base of his spine.
He groaned against Joe’s shoulder as he rocked his hips in a rough, impatient rhythm that slapped damp thighs together.
“First time I saw you,” Joe said, his voice ragged and throaty.
He had one hand against the steering wheel, knuckles white as he gripped it, and the other gripped Quentin’s knee.
His long legs were spraddled in the footwell, still hobbled by the jeans around his knees, and the muscles in his lightly furred thighs were clenched in long bands under his skin.
“I thought…you could break my heart, if I let you.”
Quentin slung an arm over Joe’s hip. He spread his hand flat on Joe’s stomach to feel the way the muscle tensed and relaxed with each thrust.
“Don’t let me, then,” he said. A quick kiss brushed over a pattern of four freckles on Joe’s shoulder. “I don’t want you to.”
He slid his hand down to the crease of Joe’s thigh, sweaty and damp, and over to cup the tight dangle of his balls. The twitched in his grip, hot and heavy, and Joe choked out Quentin’s name in a desperate voice. It could have been a warning or a plea.
Quentin went with plea.
He wrapped his hand around Joe’s cock, the shaft hard and hot as he wrapped his fingers around it.
With each thrust that buried him inside Joe, he dragged his hand along the erection in a smooth, slow stroke.
As his hand reached the head, he swiped his thumb over it and spread the slick of precome back down the hard, rigid length of it as he pulled back.
Thin, velvet skin creased and wrinkled under his grip, the pulse of blood quick and eager against his palm.
Joe swore under his breath. He clenched his hand down hard on Quentin’s knee, fingers dug in around the kneecap in a way that was going to hurt later. It didn’t matter.
The hot knot of pressure in Quentin’s groin pulled tighter with each thrust, each ‘fuck’ and ‘god’ that Joe gasped as he squirmed and pushed himself back into…onto…Quentin. He bit the inside of his cheek, focused on the hot, sharp pain in the soft meat of his face as he hung onto control.
He wanted Joe to come first.
After waiting this long, he wanted to see, to feel , that without the dragging come-down of his own orgasm to distract them.
Sweat-darkened curls matted at the base of Joe’s neck as he let his head fall back.
He let go of the grip he had on the steering wheel and reached up to brace his hand against the roof of the car instead.
His fingers splayed flat against the gray, suede-soft fabric of the liner.
His palm left a sweaty print on the fabric.
His ribs stood out in bony slats as he stretched his body out, the muscles laid long and flat over them, and his chest hitched unevenly as he hung on the ragged end of control.