Body Work (Straight to Gay MM Romance Stories Bundle)

Body Work

"Fuck me..."

The words didn't come out as a plea, but as a guttural, desperate groan from the back of Elliot’s throat.

His car gave one final, violent shudder before the engine died, the silence of the Nevada desert rushing in to replace the hum of the road.

“Come on,” he muttered. “Don’t do this to me. Not here. Anywhere but here…”

Elliot gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white, and stared across the empty expanse of sun-bleached, cracked asphalt stretching toward a shimmering, heat-distorted horizon of canyons and red sand. It made him feel closer to Mars than to any kind of actual civilization.

He’d passed a sign twenty minutes ago that read: LAS VEGAS — 100 MILES. But now, stranded in the middle of nowhere with his car dying beneath him? The distance might as well have been a million.

He stumbled out of the car, and the heat slammed into him. The temperature hovered around a hundred degrees, and the dry, merciless air felt like the blast from a giant hair dryer.

He popped the hood, more out of habit or expectation than knowledge, and was greeted by a cloud of acrid, white vapor that hissed aggressively at him.

“Shit!” Elliot coughed and waved the steam away, then leaned against the fender, his frustration boiling over just as the radiator apparently had.

He checked his phone again.

Still No Service.

He paced the shoulder, his sneakers kicking up red dust, checking the screen every ten seconds as if the bars might magically spawn out of the dry, unforgiving earth.

Thirty minutes passed.

Then an hour.

Not a single car passed him.

The isolation was absolute, a crushing weight that set his heart hammering against his ribs.

He rummaged through his backpack in the backseat, hoping for a stray water bottle, but found only a stash of half-melted, syrupy energy drinks—useless, sugary garbage that would only make him thirstier.

By the two-hour mark, the heat had drained the last of his composure.

Sweat soaked his t-shirt, turning it into a clammy, second skin.

Desperate and feeling like he was beginning to bake from the inside out, Elliot made a choice.

He stripped off his t-shirt and jeans, tossing them into the passenger seat until he was down to nothing but his white, Calvin Klein briefs.

He was a beautiful, slender nineteen year-old, his skin a soft, honeyed tan, punctuated by a few scattered beauty marks on his cheek and torso. His dark-blonde hair was matted into curls by the sweat, and his brown-hazel eyes were wide with a frantic, pulsing energy that matched his youth.

Under normal circumstances, the sheer vulnerability of standing on the side of a highway in his underwear would have made him burn with shame, but enough time in the desert had stripped him of his dignity.

He was just a thirsty, terrified college boy, bent over the backseat for the second time—only now, his ass was arched and sticking out of the car in nothing but underwear, fully exposed to anyone who might happen along, while he searched for anything remotely hydrating.

He didn’t hear the truck approaching until it pulled up beside him.

He didn't hear the roar of the tires on the asphalt.

He was too busy listening to the frantic thumping of his own heart.

His earbuds blasted a playlist meant to calm his nerves—and doing a terrible job of it—while blocking out the world around him.

Sam wasn’t used to this stretch of highway being this empty, but he was a creature of habit.

He liked patrolling the lonely roads when the shop was slow—the desert was unpredictable, and he preferred to be the guy who showed up before things went south.

When his massive tow-truck rolled around the bend, he wasn't expecting much, maybe a stalled sedan or a flat tire.

He didn't expect the sight that greeted him.

His truck eased to a stop, his gaze catching instantly on the boy bent over and sticking half-way out the backseat of the broken-down car.

Sam’s breath hitched. He saw the tight, round curve of the boy's ass, accentuated by the thin, high-cut white briefs. The way the fabric hugged him, leaving nothing to the imagination, including the faint, unmistakable bulge of balls tucked between firm, skinny thighs.

A sudden rush of hot arousal flooded through Sam. He hadn’t felt a jolt like this in years. Then again, he hadn’t seen a guy like Elliot in years, either—certainly not one this close to naked.

Sam didn’t want to spook him.

He sat there for a second, idling, just watching the way the beautiful college boy shifted.

The raw, desperate hunger for something forbidden stirred in Sam’s gut, but he forced himself to stay professional.

He rolled down the passenger window, waiting for the boy to turn around.

Elliot finally stood up, hearing the rumble of the truck, and his relief was so palpable it was almost a real weight being lifted from his shoulders.

He spun around, and when he saw the massive tow truck, he let out a jagged, breathless laugh.

He scrambled up to the big, rumbling cab, his hands clutching the passenger side door, his eyes wide and bright.

Sam leaned across the cab, taking in the full picture now.

Up close, this boy was even more striking—youthful, fresh, and seemingly untouched by the stress of the real world, despite his current panic.

"Need a hand?" Sam asked, his voice a deep, gravelly rasp that vibrated in the small, stifling cab.

He was a mountain of a man—forty-two, with calloused, grease-stained hands and eyes that seemed to have seen every mile of that highway.

He was six foot three, two hundred twenty pounds of hard, fit muscle—the lingering result of his years playing fullback in college and his determination to stay in shape.

Besides, there wasn’t much else to do after hours in a tiny desert town with no cell reception but pump iron.

"I—yes. Shit, yes," Elliot stammered, breathless and nearly shaking.

"Reception's spotty out here," Sam said, his gaze lingering for a fraction of a second too long on Elliot’s naked skin, where sweat glistened in the sun.

“I patrol this stretch when the shop is slow, since the county won’t do it. I won’t lie—it’s good for business.” He chuckled, gesturing toward the auto-repair sign on his truck door.

"Name's Sam,” he said, and flashed a brief, reassuring smile, though his eyes remained sharp, assessing.

“Elliot,” the blond said, clutching the door like a lifeline, as though he were afraid Sam might drive off without him.

Just as potent was the immediate, magnetic pull Elliot felt toward him—the heavy, confident strength Sam seemed to radiate and the big bulge Elliot couldn’t help noticing in his jeans.

"Alright, Elliot. Hang tight," Sam said, shifting the truck into park.

He stepped out, and Elliot couldn't help but stare, and admit to himself, at how hunky the man was, all broad shoulders and sturdy, assertive movements as he went to work hooking up the car. Every motion Sam made seemed calculated, precise, and entirely in control—a sharp contrast to Elliot’s own spiraling panic and youthful helplessness.

Sam wiped his hands on a rag, the grease streaking his forearms, before looking back at Elliot. "Hooked up and ready to roll. Go ahead and hop in the cab. I'll get you back to my garage and we can take a look under the hood."

A few minutes later and the heavy diesel engine of the tow truck rumbled beneath them, vibrating up through the cracked vinyl seats as they tore down the desolate stretch of highway toward Searchlight, Nevada.

Inside the cab, the air conditioning blasted at full power, but it did little to cool the thick, sudden tension settling between them—or at least the heat building inside Elliot as he sat beside the sexy mechanic.

Sam kept one large, calloused hand draped casually over the steering wheel, his eyes on the road.

But every so often, his gaze would flick over to the passenger seat.

It was hard not to look. Elliot was still wearing absolutely nothing but his white briefs, which had turned slightly transparent with sweat.

His slender, lightly tanned arms were wrapped around himself against the blast of the A/C.

A low, gravelly chuckle rumbled in Sam’s chest as he looked Elliot over. “This’ll be fun to explain if a state trooper pulls us over.” He tipped his chin toward Elliot’s near-naked body.

“Wh—why would they? You’re not, like, a serial killer or something, right? One who drives up and down the highway looking for easy prey?” Elliot said, nervousness in his tone.

The instant the words left his mouth, he regretted them. He hated himself for letting the words slip out.

But Sam laughed from deep in his gut. “That’s not a bad idea. Has there ever been a tow-truck serial killer? You could write for Hollywood.”

You’ve already got that pretty-boy heartthrob look down, Sam thought, wishing he had the nerve to say it aloud. But with the college boy already humiliated and stripped down to his underwear, pointing out what a fine piece of eye candy he made hardly seemed appropriate.

Elliot rolled his eyes and exhaled.

Despite himself, a smile tugged at his lips as the cool air from the vents brushed over his sweaty bangs, slowly drying them where they clung to his forehead.

“I’m not a serial killer. But something tells me you already knew that. And I think you would’ve gotten into the truck even if you thought I was.” Sam shrugged. “Can’t blame you. I’d have done the same. This desert? It kills people. More people than Michael Myers, that’s for damn sure.”

“Who?” Elliot asked.

Now it was Sam’s turn to roll his eyes. “All right, so maybe no Hollywood,” the mechanic said dryly, though a grin tugged at his mouth.