Chapter 8 #2
"Eyes on me," he said. "I want you to watch."
I watched. I watched him wrap his lips around the head and suck, his cheeks hollowing, his tongue doing something under the crown that made my vision blur. I watched him take me deeper until his nose was almost pressed against my stomach and I could see my cock disappearing into his mouth.
He swallowed around me and I made a sound I'd never heard myself make, something broken and desperate that echoed off the windows.
He pulled back slowly, his lips dragging along the shaft, and then sank down again. His hand wrapped around the base, working what he couldn't fit, and his rhythm was steady and relentless and exactly what I needed.
But every time I got close, every time my thighs started to shake and my breath started to catch, he slowed down. He'd pull back until just the head was in his mouth and suck gently, his tongue tracing lazy circles, keeping me right on the edge without letting me fall.
"Joel." My voice cracked. "Please, I can't—"
He pulled off completely, his lips wet and swollen, a string of spit connecting his mouth to my cock. "Can't what?"
"I can't take it. I need to come. Please."
"Not yet." He licked the head gently, and I nearly sobbed. "You'll come when I say you can come."
He took me deep again, faster this time, and the sound of it was obscene in the quiet cab. Wet and sloppy and perfect, and I was making sounds I couldn't control, begging him with words that stopped making sense.
He had me exactly where he wanted me.
So I pulled his hair, hard enough that his head jerked back and his eyes flew to mine, his lips wet and swollen and slightly parted. For a second we just stared at each other, both of us breathing hard.
"Get up here," I said. "I want to get my hands on you."
He crawled up my body and kissed me. I could taste myself on his tongue and I licked into his mouth wanting more of it.
I got my hands on his belt while he was distracted, got it open, got his jeans shoved down enough that I could wrap my hand around him.
He was hard and leaking, his cock hot and heavy in my palm, and when I stroked he hissed and his hips jerked forward into my grip.
My hands were rough from years of stick tape and weight room calluses.
He shuddered when I stroked him, and I wondered when anyone had last touched him without being careful about it.
"Fuck," he breathed against my mouth. "Your hands."
"Yeah?" I twisted my grip on the upstroke and his whole body twitched. "What about them?"
"They're—" He broke off when I thumbed the slit, his cock jerking in my hand. "Rough."
"Too rough?"
"No." The word came out strangled. "Don't stop."
I didn't stop. I stroked him the way I stroked myself, tight grip and steady rhythm, my thumb spreading the pre-cum leaking from the tip. His hand found my cock again, and we jerked each other off in the cramped back seat of my truck, breathing hard into each other's skin.
He was curled over me, around me, his body a cage of long limbs and lean muscle. Every sound he made went straight through me. The catch in his breath when I twisted my wrist. The low groan when I squeezed the base. The way he said fuck against my throat like a prayer.
"Harder," he said, and I gave him harder.
"Faster," I said, and his hand sped up until I couldn't think straight.
We found a rhythm together, our hands moving in sync, and I could feel him getting close in the way his thighs trembled against mine, the way his breath came faster, the way his grip stuttered and lost its precision.
"I want to feel you come," I said against his ear. "I want it all over my hand."
His hips jerked hard, and he made a sound like I'd punched him. "Red—"
"Come on." I twisted my grip and felt his cock pulse. "Give it to me."
His forehead dropped against mine. His breath was coming in short gasps and his hand was barely moving on my cock anymore, too lost in what I was doing to him.
He came with a groan, spilling hot over my fist, his cock pulsing in my grip. I worked him through it, my hand slick with his cum, and the sound he made when I didn't stop was enough to push me over the edge.
I followed him a few seconds later, his name caught somewhere in my throat.
For a few seconds we just breathed. His forehead was still pressed against mine, his weight heavy on top of me, his heart pounding against my chest. Cum was cooling on my stomach, and I didn't care.
Then he was pulling back, sitting up, reaching for something to wipe his hand on.
The shift was so fast it almost gave me whiplash.
One second he was pressed against me, shaking through an orgasm with my name in his mouth.
The next he was on the other end of the bench seat, not looking at me, wiping his hand on an old rag from my floorboard.
His jaw had gone tight. His shoulders had pulled back.
He was reassembling himself piece by piece, putting all the walls back up, and I watched it happen like watching a door swing shut.
I tucked myself back in and zipped my jeans.
"I should go," he said without looking at me.
I'd done this a hundred times, been the one who left before things got awkward. But I'd never been on the other side of it, never been the one sitting there while someone else pretended nothing had happened.
The silence stretched out between us. Joel buttoned his jeans without looking at me, ran his fingers through his hair to fix what I'd done to it, and turned back into the cold, untouchable version of himself in the space of thirty seconds.
My jaw tightened. I climbed into the front seat without saying anything else. After a second, he followed, settling into the passenger seat like we were strangers who happened to be sharing a cab.
I started the truck and pulled back onto the road. The headlights cut through the dark, and the heater kicked on, blowing stale air that smelled like dust and old coffee.
Joel stared out the passenger window. I couldn't see his face.
The main road was maybe ten minutes away. I drove slower than I needed to, taking the curves easy, and I didn't know if I was hoping he'd say something or dreading it.
When I hit the intersection, I pulled over and put the truck in park. The road was empty in both directions, just us and the desert and the distant glow of Albuquerque on the horizon.
"This work?" I asked.
He didn't move to get out. His hand was on the door handle, but he wasn't pulling it, just sitting there staring straight ahead like he was working through something.
"This doesn't have to be a thing," he said finally.
"Robert," I said.
He turned to look at me. "What?"
"My name. It's Robert." I shrugged, trying to make it casual even though my heart was pounding. "Red's just the hair."
I didn't know why I told him. Maybe because he'd just had his mouth on me and it seemed wrong for him to only know my nickname.
Maybe because I wanted to give him something real, something the guys at Alibi never got.
Maybe I just wanted him to have a piece of me that wasn't about hockey or hookups or any of the bullshit we were both pretending this was.
"Robert," he said, like he was trying it out.
"I'll see you Monday," I said. "Five a.m."
"Sure." He opened the door, and the cold rushed in as he got out. He walked a few feet in front of the truck before his phone lit up and he glanced back at me. "Go home, Red."
"I'm making sure you don't get murdered on the side of the road."
"How chivalrous."
"I'm a gentleman."
His mouth twitched, almost a smile.
The Uber showed up a few minutes later. He opened the back door, then looked at me one more time through the windshield.
He didn't say anything. Neither did I.
He got in and the car pulled away. I watched the taillights until they disappeared over the hill, two red dots swallowed up by the dark.
Then I put the truck in drive and headed home. The roads were empty, the desert dark on either side, and I replayed the whole night in my head even though I knew I shouldn't.