I pull out and slam myself back into him, making him scream. I put my hand over his mouth while the other wraps his leg around my hips. “Quiet, before someone thinks I’m killing you.”
Leander says something muffled by my hand that sounds suspiciously like, “You are killing me.”
“You feel so perfect, Lee.Fuck.” My hips move faster as he loosens for me.
Leander is sobbing now, biting into the flesh of my hand as he makes his filthy little sounds. His hands are tangled in my hair, trying to pull me closer.
I release his mouth, wanting to hear his cries, and start rubbing his dick.
Rough, relentless, but threaded with a care I’ve never offered anyone else. Every time I push him closer, I pull back just enough to make sure he’s still with me, still gasping my name, still clinging instead of retreating.
“Phoenix! It’s too—too much!” He starts to shrink away from me, running from his release.
“You can take it.” I shove his legs over my shoulders to get a better angle.
I should buy a bigger car for future ventures.
I look down at the mess I’ve made of him. Pink cheeks, shirt crumpled on the floor so I can see his sharp abs, large dick swollen and hanging, my borrowed jogger pants and boxers hanging from his ankle. And just like that, I’m bursting just from the sight of him.
My seed makes his hole slick and warm, I pump until he’s fully drained me.
Leander comes shortly after. His cum spraying on his face and chest from the position we are fucking in. And when he finally breaks, when the pleasure rips through him and he cries out, I hold him through it. My mouth on his, my hands steady, grounding him, keeping him tethered while his body shatters.
He collapses against the ruined leather seats, shaking, tired and beautiful. And for the first time in my life, the high isn’t from control, the game, or the chase.
It’s from knowing I gave him something good after so much bad.
The air inside the car is suffocating, thick with sweat and sex, fogging the windows so badly the outside world is just a blur of condensation and neon glow. My back is screaming from the cramped space, but the ache feels distant compared to what’s sitting heavy in my chest.
Leander is slumped against the seat, his cheek pressed to the cold window. His shirt is nowhere near his body, and his chest still bears the red streaks of my fingerprints. My mouth left its own shine across him, and part of me is feral with satisfaction seeing him marked like that. Mine. But underneath the satisfaction, there’s something else, sharper, harder to name.
Because I pushed him. I pressed him until he gave me his truth about his father. About the shit he lived through that left shadows in his voice when he said,He’s not dad.
He gave that to me. And now I’m sitting here with it like it’s a live wire sparking in my hands, trying not to break apart from the rage boiling in my gut.
I don’t deserve to touch him again, not after forcing him there. But I do anyway. I lean over, kiss the side of his throat right where my teeth sank into him earlier. He shivers, a faint tremor, his breath hitching even though his body is limp with exhaustion.
“Easy,” I murmur, my voice gravel. My lips drag lower, softer now, brushing over the bruises like I can smooth them away.
I grab a few napkins from the center console and begin cleaning him up. Gently wiping away the mess I made him make.
He doesn’t fight me when I find his shirt and ease it back over his shoulders. Doesn’t lift his arms much, just lets me guide the fabric onto his body like he’s too wrung out to care. My chest burns with something I can’t name—something that feels too much like worship.
“Lift for me.” My tone softens without me meaning it to. He does, obedient even now, letting me pull his joggers up over his hips. My hands linger too long, smoothing the waistband against his skin before I cover him properly.
I kiss each bruise I left as I go—his shoulder, his ribs, the inside of his wrist where I held him down. Press my lips to each one like penance, like apology, like I’m claiming him all over again.
When I finish, his breathing is slower, steadier. His eyes blink open, hazy but watchful. For a second, I think he’s going to pull away, tell me to fuck off, that I went too far. Instead, his voice comes out shredded, soft.
“You’re not gonna use it against me?”
The question slices me open.
I cup his jaw, force his gaze to lock on mine. “What the fuck kind of person do you think I am?” The words snap out harsher than I mean. I soften my grip, thumb brushing his cheekbone. “No, baby. I’m not gonna use it. I’m gonna protect you from it. From him. Even if he’s not around anymore.”
His throat works, like he wants to say more but can’t. Instead, his fingers clutch weakly at my shirt when I lean in. That’s enough.
I kiss his temple once, then pull back and run a hand through my hair. The car smells like us, like him, and if I stay here too long, I’ll climb on top of him again. But his body is trembling faintly now, and I know he’s fragile, raw from what he shared. He needs grounding, not another round of me ripping him open.
