27. Lance #2
“Yeah.” I press my heel into the back of his thigh. “You can probably move now…I think.”
He starts with slow, shallow rolls of his hips, letting me feel every thick inch dragging out and pushing back in. Then he switches to deeper, longer strokes, pulling nearly all the way out before sliding home again.
The sensation is overpowering. I have no frame of reference for this.
Every ridge and vein drags along my walls and my brain just fucking blue-screens.
I’m loud as hell—moaning, cursing, saying shit I’m definitely going to regret tomorrow.
George doesn’t miss a beat. One hand braces beside my head on the workbench while the other strokes my cock in perfect sync with his thrusts.
“You feel so fucking good,” he growls against my neck, burying himself deep. “This hole opens up for me like it knows exactly who it belongs to.”
His voice, his hand, and the constant drag against my prostate all hit at once. My body locks up tight. I’m right there, teetering on the edge, when he suddenly withdraws.
I make a truly pathetic sound (not my best moment, I know) and seize his shoulders with both hands.
“Where the fuck are you going?” I practically snarl.
George laughs warmly, containing what I can only describe as my small and fully justified tantrum with one hand on my hip and the patience of a man who has a plan.
He steps back and yanks his shirt over his head.
I forget what I was upset about.
I’ve seen George shirtless a hundred times.
Beach days, hot shop afternoons, random nights when the AC was broken.
But this? This is novelty. The tattoos I’ve caught in pieces connect—the mechanical sleeve running up his left arm, the anchor with rope across his left pec, and Spanish script along his ribs I suddenly want to read with my tongue.
He unbuckles his belt, shoves his jeans down and steps out of them.
I’m lying completely naked on his workbench, having already come twice, staring at my best friend like I’ve never seen a man in my life.
George catches me.
“You’ve got a little drool right here,” he smirks, tapping the corner of his own mouth.
“Oh, I’m a hundred percent drooling,” I laugh. “Can I lick it?”
He gives me that rare, devastating smile and steps in between my legs.
I reach up without thinking and press my palm flat over the anchor on his chest. His skin is burning hot.
I feel his heartbeat, strong and steady under my hand.
He lets me trace the lines with my thumb for a moment, then covers my hand with his own and just stays there, looking down at me in the low light of the shop.
“Do you want more? You okay to try something else?” he asks me with what seems to be a lot more like affection.
“Yes,” I answer without hesitation. “All of it. Whatever you’ve got.”
His expression cinches a bit, then he steps aside and nods toward the next bay.
The two-post lift looms there. Solid metal columns bolted to the concrete, with a thick crossbar running overhead.
George adjusts the height, then turns me to face away from him.
He guides my hands up to grip the bar. The second I wrap my fingers around it and lean forward, I get it.
My weight shifts onto my arms, my back arches hard, and my ass tilts up and opens completely.
My feet stay planted on the floor, but everything that matters is hanging there, yielded up to him.
George steps in close, slicks himself again, and pushes back inside me in one smooth thrust.
“Fuck—” The new angle steals my breath. He’s deeper, hitting something devastating with every stroke. The slap of his hips against my ass echoes off the concrete and metal around us, filthy and loud. His hands grip my hips with bruising force as he drives into me, relentless and divine.
“Oh god,” I gasp on the third thrust.
“Yeah,” he growls, voice rough. “That’s it.”
He adjusts his angle and suddenly every stroke lights me up inside. My arms shake on the bar. “Oh my god—that’s too much, that’s too much but don’t stop—fuck, George, right there—”
“Not stopping,” he says against the back of my neck, fucking me harder. “Been sitting next to this ass for years and had no idea how fucking perfect it feels.”
His hand comes around to my stomach, pressing flat, and the pressure from outside combined with everything happening inside makes me fucking question my capacity to stay in this body.
“You’re so hungry for it,” he breathes against my ear. “I could wreck this hole all night and you’d take every bit of it.”
His hand slides around to press against my stomach, feeling himself moving inside me. The pressure from both sides wrecks me. I’m moaning and cursing, while he fucks me like he’s making up for lost time.
The orgasm hits me from deep in my gut, spreading outward fast. I come for the third time, shaking hard against the bar while my hole clenches around him in long, pulsing waves. George drives through every single one without slowing down until I’m completely spent and still shuddering.
He follows right after, yanks me back onto his cock and buries himself to the hilt. He groans my name against the back of my neck while he pulses hot inside me.
We stay locked together like that, his chest pressed flush against my back, both of us breathing heavily.
He helps me off the bar carefully, one hand steady on my waist, as I stay steady on my feet.
He deals with the condom and then pulls me back against his chest from behind as I register the full accounting of my current state all at once.
I’m completely naked, marked with hickeys across my chest and throat.
My legs unreliable, every muscle filing a formal complaint.
The specific tender ache of having been thoroughly taken apart.
I start laughing, breathless. My forehead finds his shoulder.
“What?” he asks, and I swear I can sense the smile in it.
“Nothing,” I sigh. “You just popped my ass cherry while you look like you just finished an oil change, except you’re naked.”
He huffs a low chuckle and presses his lips to my temple. His skin is warm against my back. All that ink and muscle I spent years knowing existed but never actually seeing. His arms come around me. His chin drops to my shoulder.
My legs are still shaky as we just stand there. My body feels wrecked in the best possible way. And George is holding me like I matter, like this matters.
This man has always been solid as bedrock. The one who shows up, fixes what’s broken, and never asks for anything back. Tonight, he gave me something I didn’t even know how to ask for. It’s George, all in, without hesitation.
I turn in his arms and bury my face against his neck, breathing him in. My throat feels tight.
“G…”
“Yeah?”
I don’t say the rest. That I hope like hell this isn’t a one-time thing. That I want more of this, more of him. That I want him to keep touching me like I’m his.
Instead, I just tighten my arms around his waist and mumble against his skin, “Don’t let go yet.”
His hold readjusts, becomes even firmer. “I’ve got you,” he whispers, mouth brushing my hair.
I close my eyes at that, and maybe it’s stupid how badly I want to believe him.
But for tonight, I do.