49. Lance #3
We both twist around at the same time, staring into the back seat like it might magically expand. It doesn’t. It’s a fucking classic car—beautiful, but not much space.
“Fuck,” George growls.
We collide in a frantic tangle of hands and mouths. Tongues sliding, teeth grazing, breath ragged. We’re tearing at clothes like the world is ending—my jacket hits the floorboard, his suit coat gets shoved halfway off his shoulders.
I kick my shoes off and somehow succeed in getting naked in the passenger seat, banging my elbow twice on the door and my knee on the dash.
George’s massive frame is already half in the back seat. We tumble over the console in a chaotic mess of limbs. I crack my head on the roof. He smacks his shoulder on the headrest. We’re both laughing and groaning and still mauling each other.
“Fuck, I like your truck better for this,” I complain between kisses, breathless, my cock throbs painfully hard. “Why is this car too damn small?!”
George doesn’t waste words. He manhandles me onto my back across the back seat, my legs bent at awkward angles, and spreads me open. The position is ridiculous—my shoulders jammed against one door, one foot braced on the front seat—but then his mouth is on me and any coherent thought evaporates.
He rims me like he’s been dying for it, relentless and so deep, but it’s over too fast. He pulls back, breathing hard, and spits on his hand before stroking his thick cock.
“Lance—”
“Just put it in, G,” I snap, grabbing his shoulders and trying to pull him down. The car rocks with the movement. “Haven’t had sex in months. You ruined me for everything else, even my dildos. This is the longest I’ve gone since I discovered my dick. So hurry the fuck up.”
He still looks hesitant. “I didn’t bring any lube. I only—”
“Trust my ass,” I growl, impatient and aching. “It’s taken worse from you and asked for seconds. Even if it kills me, it’ll be the stupidest, best way to go. Now fuck me.”
George’s eyes darken. He shifts as best he can in the cramped space and hauls me on top of him so we’re facing each other. My knees press into the seat on either side of his hips, my back scrapes the roof. The second I sink down onto him, everything else disappears.
He’s so fucking huge I almost forget how big he is until I make him force his way inside. For one blinding second I think I might actually black out from the stretch. A broken moan tears out of me, loud enough that I’m grateful we’re parked in the middle of nowhere.
George’s hands grip my hips like he’s afraid I’ll disappear, guiding me as I work myself down inch by thick inch.
“First time in this car,” he rasps, voice wrecked.
“First of many. Now move, please, fucker,” I gasp, but it comes out sounding stupidly fond.
We find a desperate, slightly ridiculous rhythm—every thrust makes the car creak and rock, my head keeps bumping the roof, his knees keep hitting the back of the front seats.
But none of it matters. It’s intense, messy, and real.
George fucks up into me in a fast pace, one hand wrapped around my cock, the other holding my ass and lifting me just enough to help.
I ride him hard, sweat slicking our skin in the fogged-up car.
When I come, it’s with his name punched out of my throat. George follows right after, burying himself deep and groaning like it hurts, arms locked around me.
We stay like that for a long minute, tangled and breathing hard, my face pressed into his neck.
Eventually, George shifts beneath me, arms wrapping around my back and pulling me even closer. I’m still straddling his lap, his cock softening inside me, but he holds me like he never wants to let go. His big hand strokes slow circles up my spine while the other cups the back of my head.
“Can I take you to dinner tomorrow night?” he whispers against my ear.
I let out a shaky laugh, still catching my breath. “Okay. I don’t have a shift—I think.”
“I’ve got reservations at seven-thirty,” he says.
I blink at him, snorting softly. “Didn’t know you need reservations just to hang out.”
He shakes his head, still holding me tight, thumbs brushing over my skin like he’s memorizing me. His eyes are shiny in the dim light.
“I’m asking you out on a proper date, smartass,” he murmurs, that rare note of nerves in his voice. “Would you go out with me?”
My throat tightens. I’m grinning like an idiot, but my eyes are stinging too. I nod, pressing my forehead to his.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I’d really like that, G.”
Something breaks open between us. George’s breath catches, and I feel the wetness on his lashes when he blinks.
A tear slips down his cheek. I reach up and wipe it away with my thumb, and he does the same to the one rolling down mine.
We stay like that, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other in.
Both of us a little wrecked in the best possible way.
I wait for that feeling—like something between should finally give. But nothing new snaps into place. It’s like we know who we are to each other without realizing it.
Maybe that’s why it’s always felt this good…and so damn special.