41. Chapter 41 #2
Laughing, Colt rutted against Beau’s hand, his suit slipping down to pool at his feet. “If you kept talking to me like that, yeah.”
Beau grabbed Colt by his arm and spun him, pushed his face into the wall of the hauler.
The soft thud of flesh against metal nearly drowned out Colt’s pleased huff.
Then Beau tugged the waistband of Colt’s shorts down to the lower swell of his ass, tucked it underneath and groaned.
Shit. The red lace contrasted gorgeously against Colt’s pale skin, cutting into both cheeks and displaying half of each one.
With the black shorts pushing up underneath, it looked like that ass was being served to Beau on a goddamn platter.
Hand hovering over the lace, Beau stared.
His fingers twitched with the need to touch, to ruin.
Colt had worn this for him. Had spent the entire day squirming in the tightest underwear—no, panties.
Fucking panties. And Colt had known exactly what this would do to Beau.
Because Colt knew exactly which buttons to push, and he was mashing them all at once.
“I appreciate being devoured with eyes as much as the next guy, but—Beau, please—" Colt's hips shifted, seeking friction that wasn't there. "Hands would be nice. More than nice. I'll do anything, just—"
Beau ran his finger along the lace where it disappeared between Colt's cheeks, pulled it tight, and let it snap back.
The noise Colt made—half gasp, half moan—hit Beau like a fist.
Sweat trickled down Beau’s spine as he pushed Colt’s pink compression top up.
He slid his hand down Colt's asscheek and squeezed, then hooked his thumb under the lace and pulled it aside—just enough to see how the fabric had been pressed into Colt's crease, damp with sweat.
Colt pushed himself back into Beau, shameless.
Beau was a strong man.
But he wasn't that strong.
He let go of Colt’s shirt to pull open his own belt, the clink of his buckle audible enough in the space for Colt to hear.
He twisted around, eyes wild, bottom lip swollen like he'd been biting it.
“Shit. Beau. Are you gonna—” His eyes flicked down to Beau's crotch and he whined, the softest thing. “Please tell me you're gonna—”
Beau let go of his belt and forced Colt’s face back around. “No.”
Then he grasped Colt’s hips with both hands and pulled until Colt’s back arched, skin sweat-slick under the afternoon light filtering in from outside. “You spent all day fucking with me, Colt.”
He pushed both hands up Colt’s sides and leaned so he could talk into Colt's ear as he ground himself into Colt's ass. “So,” he murmured, pre soaking into the front of his boxers. He fitted himself between Colt’s perfect cheeks and rolled his hips.
“Now you get to feel me get mine—" Beau ground himself harder so Colt could feel exactly how hard he was.
"—and you don't get to touch yourself. You don't get to come.
You just get to stand there and feel what you've done to me.”
“What?” Colt turned to watch as Beau pulled back and finished undoing his pants. “That's not fair!”
“Never said I was a fair man.” He pushed Colt’s face back around to the sounds of protest. “Now be good and stay there.”
It had been weeks of self-denial. Beau hadn't so much as rubbed one out in the shower, too caught up in his own head about it. As he pulled himself out and stroked it over Colt’s ass, he let out a rough breath.
He hooked his thumb under the lace, pulled it aside, and pushed his cock against Colt's bare skin—the panties framing his shaft, rough fabric dragging with every thrust.
Colt made a broken sound—half sob, half moan—and tried to push back, to get more friction, more contact, something.
Beau pinned him harder against the wall with a hand between his shoulder blades. "Stay. Still.”
It didn't take long. Weeks of denial, days of Colt teasing, and now this—red lace framing that perfect ass, Beau's cock catching on the waistband with every thrust, Colt squirming and making high, wanting noises.
The lace dragged against him, rough and perfect, and Colt was whimpering, saying Beau's name like a prayer he'd forgotten the words to. He groaned as he finished, white streaking across the fabric, dripping off Colt’s lowest tattoos.
Colt shook, forehead pressed against the metal wall. "Beau—please—I need—”
“No.” Beau pulled back and tucked himself away, pressed his thumb into the mess he'd made and smeared it across the lace—deliberate, claiming. Colt shuddered, a broken sound escaping his throat.
Then Beau pulled a clean rag out of the box by their feet and wiped Colt’s back, down his cheek where the cum had slid down below the underwear. “You wanted me to play, Colt. You get what you ask for.”
The strangled noise Colt made as Beau pulled up Colt’s shorts made Beau want to smirk. “You're really gonna make me drive like this?”
“Yep.” Beau stepped back and folded the rag. Tucked it in his pocket and turned Colt around.
Wrecked. Colt was absolutely wrecked, his pupils blown, cheeks pink, sweat dripping down his neck. A goddamn vision. Beau wished he could take a picture.
“You're an asshole.” Said with a grin bordering on manic as Colt ran a hand through his damp hair with a disbelieving bark of laughter. "Sadist."
Beau reached out and zipped Colt's suit back up, slow and deliberate, his knuckles brushing Colt's cock through the fabric just to watch him flinch. "You like it.”
“For the record—” Colt pressed the heel of his hand against his straining length and winced as he followed Beau to the hauler door. “I believe what I asked for was to be fucked to within an inch of my life. Just sayin’.”
Beau stepped aside to let Colt pass and patted his ass twice. “Ten laps, Rourke. Make ‘em count.”
Colt shifted restlessly, but hopped down from the hauler anyway. “Yes, sir.”
Satisfaction curled in Beau’s gut as he watched Colt gather his gear, hard and probably leaking against those panties, but doing as he was told anyway. By the time he was sliding back into the car, Beau was simmering with arousal his body couldn’t do anything with yet.
***
There was cum drying on Colt’s underwear.
Beau’s cum.
Beau had just used Colt like a fucking sex toy and sent him out to drive, and Colt was going to come in his suit with just the right stimulation. Or he could, at least, though he knew Beau didn't want him to. So he wouldn't. And wasn't that just a fucked up motivator to keep a lid on it?
The car rumbled underneath him, the panties pushed relentlessly against his aching cock, and he tried not to squirm.
As he dumped the clutch and screamed out of the pits, he remembered Beau’s hands, that rough shove into the side of the hauler, that moment where he'd thought he was going to get to participate finally.
The walls were nothing but blurs, going by too fast for him to get a proper look at, and all he could hear was the echo of Beau's ragged, panting groans.
He dove into turn one way too late, his car rewarding him with a violent, scrubbing screech as the tires lost their grip and slid across the asphalt.
Shit.
“Boy, what the hell was that?” Beau didn't sound surprised, his voice that lazy drawl that made Colt either want to fuck him or fight him.
Little of both at the moment.
He gritted his teeth, his arms protesting the pull of the wheel as it snapped back, the mess Beau had left itching as it dried against his lower back. “Fuck you.”
“Not if you're gonna drive like that after.”
Oh, that's how they were gonna play, huh? Fine. Fucking fine. Beau wanted to rile Colt up and send him back out and prove something?
Colt’s hands steadied on the wheel, and he took a long breath.
He was still horny, still wanting, still frustrated and low-key getting pissed—but the world narrowed until he could see the cracks in the gray of the walls, like time had slowed even though he was pushing the throttle.
He entered the apex late, braked later, aiming the nose straight at the wall instead of taking the U.
“Colt, what the fuck—”
“Shh. Watch this.”
He snapped the nose toward the infield and was flung hard to the side as the car rotated on a dime, the tires biting. He laid on the throttle inches from the wall, launched himself down the straight like a slingshot, and grinned as he was slammed back against the seat.
“Colt—”
“You watching, baby?” he asked. “‘Cause I'm not done yet.”
“Boy.” Beau's voice was rough, warning.
Colt didn't care.
He took every turn like a knife edge, no brakes and no mercy.
The smell of rubber cooking hit his nose as he burned through a thousand dollars of Goodyear's finest just to hear Beau catch his breath over the comms. The car was like an extension of himself—thrilling, perfect, alive.
The engine didn't scream anymore; it roared in a single, unbroken note.
He wasn't fighting the machine; he was playing it.
“Last lap. Turn four.” Colt’s sides ached from the G-forces repeatedly shoving him into the harness. He was gonna pay for being a shit later. “Jackrabbit.”
“Colt, don't you dare pull that shit again.” Beau was as angry and breathless as Colt, and Colt could just picture him—hard and aching and furious.
Colt was about to piss him off more, and just the thought of it had him twitching in his panties. He was screwed up that way.