Chapter 19
Chapter nineteen
Christmas Holiday, Denver
Pilot picked Tate up from the airport as promised. He even carried Tate's heavy bag and rolled his smaller one behind him, as he lead Tate into the parking lot and up to his car.
“Woah! Pilot. My God. This is your car?”
“Yeah,” Pilot answered, popping the trunk.
He was slightly worried that Tate's massive bag wouldn't fit.
“Classic 69. Restored her myself with the help of a great mechanic.” He shoved the bag in and shut the trunk.
The smaller bag and Tate's carry on would have to cram into the back seat.
He hadn't expected Tate to have so much luggage. The Mustang was a sports car after all.
He looked up just in time to see Tate running his hand down the top of the front fender.
His obvious appreciation had the corner of Pilot’s mouth quirking up.
His car was a sleek bitch complete with Shaker hood scoop and spoiler wing on the back.
The paint was a shiny black that had cherry red metallic flecks throughout, making it gleam with a red sheen in the sun.
A bad ass V8 hid under the hood. It was still an old car and seemed like it always needed some work or other, but he loved it and couldn’t get a grip on how happy it made him that Tate seemed to love it, too.
“This is the sexiest car ever.” Tate groaned like he'd just had his cock sucked.
“Get in and I'll take you for a ride, Tate.”
“Yes!” he called out and scrambled into the passenger seat. He practically had an orgasm when Pilot finally cranked it up.
“I wasn't sure I'd be able to bring her this morning. It was so cold and she didn't want to start, the old bitch.”
“Don't talk about her like that,” Tate whispered, running his hand over the cracked dashboard. Interior work was more difficult. The torn seats had covers over them until he could get them reupholstered. “He didn’t mean it, sweetheart. You’re the best.”
“I'm glad you like my car, Tate.” Pilot chuckled as he circled out of the parking lot to the booth where he paid for the parking.
Tate bounced in the seat all the way home.
Pilot had to remind himself that he was young.
He was very mature for twenty-one, but he'd never been in combat, never held a real job.
As far as he knew, the only thing Tate had ever done was race dirt bikes.
It made their few years difference more significant.
Yet, most of the time Tate seemed much older.
Seeing Tate all excited and unable to sit still made his heart hurt a little.
Both of them had grown up fast. He set his mind to making sure Tate enjoyed his visit as much as possible.
“When can I drive?”
“When the ice melts.”
“What?” Tate asked, turning quickly to him. “That's like months away, isn't it?”
“Sorry, man. I've seen how you ride that bike of yours.” Pilot shook his head.
He pointed his finger at Pilot. “Nah, that ain’t right,” Tate complained.
They bantered back and forth about racing and cars the rest of the way home.
It felt comfortable, as if they'd known each other forever.
It also settled Pilot's nerves and second thoughts.
He'd worried that it'd been a mistake inviting Tate home, and he worried that they wouldn't have anything to talk about out of the bedroom.
Sex was one thing, but relating on a personal level wasn't always something Pilot was good at. Tate made it easy. Maybe too easy.
Once home, they hung up the coats on the coat rack and hauled the luggage inside.
Pilot had originally intended to give Tate the guest room so he could have some privacy, but that had been a nerve-based excuse and he'd always been more straightforward.
So, he dragged that huge bag all the way to the back bedroom.
They'd already spent a night together and shouldn’t have to dance around the issue.
He dropped the bigger bag on the floor at the foot of the bed and glared at Tate, challenging him.
If he'd been expecting some sort of protest, Tate disappointed him.
He dropped his carry-on bag on the bed and gave Pilot his bright room-lighting smile.
Pilot melted. His heart turned to goo, but his cock hardened.
He closed the distance fast and pounced on Tate.
The kiss in the airport had been a chaste peck as they hurried out of the congested building.
This one was nothing like that. It was juicy, hot and insistent.
Pilot grabbed a handful of Tate's hair and used it to maneuver his head into the position he wanted, as he devoured Tate's mouth. Their tongues slid against each other and made strange things move around in Pilot’s gut.
That simple pleasure swirled through his blood, making him want to take Tate right there were they stood. “Are you tired?”
Tate skimmed his lips down to Pilot's jaw. “No,” he whispered against Pilot's skin.
Pilot's hands found their way under Tate's soft t-shirt, claiming soft, warm skin. He wanted more. He pulled the shirt off and pulled Tate closer. He leaned down to find Tate's throat with his lips.
“You too, bunny,” Tate complained, grabbing at Pilot's button up dress shirt.
Damn, why'd he wear the medieval torture device with all its distracting buttons?
Tate pulled away from him and fumbled with the buttons, but it was taking too long.
Pilot helped, by pulling and yanking and by the time they got the beast off his back, several buttons had skid across the floor, bouncing on the carpet.
Tate laughed. “Easter Bunny! Impatient, much?”
“Yes!” No sense trying to hide it. “I've waited too long to have you here.” Pilot was pretty sure there were innuendos that needed to be made based on that comment, but neither of them were capable of making them.
Their mouths met and their bare chests slid together, tight muscle against hard flesh.
Tate's frame was smaller, but lined with muscles, just as solid as Pilot's.
Pilot knew from his job with Davey, that Supercross racers never stopped working out.
Tate unbuckled Pilot's belt and popped the button of his jeans open. There was only one kind of workout Pilot was interested in doing.
Tate wasn't wearing jeans, but some kind of dressier slacks with a weird side button. “Don't you wear normal pants?”
That got Tate laughing, as he unbuttoned his own pants and slid them down his skinny legs. “They're Todd Snyder and so comfortable.”
“More comfortable off.” Pilot didn't want to comment on the designer or any designer. Levi's or Wranglers were Pilot's thing; he knew nothing about designer brands. “They look better on the floor, too.”
Tate’s pants hit the floor, exposing his shiny gray boxers, tight to his legs with neon yellow lettering across the waist band proclaiming them to be Under Armour. Pilot commented, “Sporty!” He wore just plain tighty-whities. He should have bought nicer underwear.
Tate didn't seem to care. He just smirked and yanked them down, so Pilot followed his example.
He took just a second to look at Tate's lanky body, liking all of it and needing to feel it against him.
He reached out and grabbed Tate around the waist. His long fingers stretched around his back and his thumb rested under his ribs.
Pilot pulled Tate against his body, and then the next moment, pushed him down on his bed.
Tate bent his knees and planted his feet flat on the mattress, then spread his legs, giving Pilot the best view ever.
He could spend hours just looking at Tate's hard cock, all pink and twitchy with that darker head. His balls pulled up tight beneath his shaft. His pubic hair glistened golden and had been neatly trimmed, tight but not waxed. Pilot liked that, too. Waxing seemed to go too far. Pilot loved what he could see, but he couldn’t leave it at just looking—not an option.
His hands flinched, wanting to touch everything and his own cock begged for more contact as well.
He palmed Tate's balls, giving them a little squeeze that made Tate shiver.
He leaned over Tate, between his knees, and looked down at his pretty face.
His mouth hung slightly open, his top lip looking like a perfect little bow, almost the same pink as his shaft, but his plump bottom lip begged to be sucked, and it stood out a darker red, probably from his teeth scraping over them.
Tate did that again, sucking the flesh between his teeth.
Pilot had to taste, so he did. When he licked across that lip, Tate opened wider, giving him more, and Pilot took it greedily.
Tate's cock was silk sliding over steel in his hand, familiar and yet totally different.
He wasn't very big around, but he was long.
He stroked Tate with a firm grip, his tongue fucking into Tate's hot, wet mouth.
The dual sensations had his body demanding more.
His cock bumped against Tate's thigh, and his hand left Tate's cock to travel up that same long thigh, stroking through the light hair.
He held himself up with his other arm, but he wanted both of them around this fine man.
“Shift,” he commanded and flipped Tate over. As Pilot rolled to his back, Tate slid on top, his cock digging into Pilot's stomach, and his tongue sliding across Pilot's collar bone and down to the tattoo on his chest.
Tate gave his eagle plenty of attention, while Pilot grabbed Tate's firm ass.
He remembered it from their last encounter.
Tate's ass was unforgettable whether it was naked or wrapped in race pants or whatever those soft blue things he'd worn were, but hands down, naked was best—pun intended.
He gave them a squeeze and pulled them apart a little. “I want in here, Tate.”
“It’s all yours.”
“I hope you want it because it feels good and not because you feel obligated. That's not why I asked you here.”