Karter’s chest hitched. He didn’t try to shove my hand away, but his fingers clamped onto the plastic armrest between us, his knuckles turning white.
“Are you insane?” he whispered, his composure cracking. “Seriously?”
“You cornered me in the parking lot,” I muttered, leaning in just enough so my voice wouldn’t carry over the rumble of the diesel engine. Under the coat, I tightened my grip, the heel of my hand pressing firmly against his growing erection. “You told me to show you what this is. Well, this is it. It’s not some private, safe room in the Ice House. It’s right here. Under a jacket, with your brother sleeping three rows away.”
Karter swallowed hard. I could actually feel the tremor starting in his thighs. “Aleksey, someone will see,” he whispered, though his body betrayed the panic in his voice. His hips shifted, tilting a fraction of an inch deeper into my hand.
“Then tell me to stop.”
I kept my eyes locked straight ahead on the dark aisle, my profile completely unbothered, but my heart was hammering against my ribs.
“Give me the word,” I challenged him, my tone dead flat. “Say you don’t want it. Tell me no, and I’ll take my hand back. You go to sleep, and we never talk about it again.”
I waited. The heat of the bus suddenly felt suffocating. If he said no, I’d pull away. I’d respect the boundary, but it would prove I was right—he was just a tourist playing with fire.
Karter let out a shaky, uneven breath. His teeth sank hard into his bottom lip, a dead giveaway of his anxiety. But he didn’tsay the word. Instead, with a stubbornness that threw me off balance, his legs parted just slightly, giving me better access.
Karter dropped his head closer to my shoulder. “This is a bad idea,” he muttered.
“Yeah,” I agreed. My fingers found the metal tab of his zipper. “Stay quiet.”
I pulled the zipper down. The metal teeth parted with a slow, harsh rasp. It sounded loud enough to wake the whole damn team, but the constant drone of the bus engine buried the noise.
I slipped my hand out from under the heavy coat for two seconds—just long enough to spit onto my palm—before shoving it right back into the dark. I pushed down past his waistband, my slick fingers sliding under the elastic of his underwear and wrapping directly around his bare cock.
Karter was already rock hard.
I worked my hand over his dick, keeping the rhythm unforgiving. Being gentle meant taking time we didn’t have.
I was risking my scholarship. My only way out of Detroit. One wrong move and I was done.
But feeling a Johnston lose his perfect, untouched composure brought out something ugly in me. Having Karter at my mercy, making him drop all that easy, old-money confidence for a broke kid from the city, thrilled me.
Especially as I could feel him shaking apart in my fist.
I felt his pre-cum leaking hot over my fingers. I used my thumb to smear the slick wetness over the blunt head, then locked my grip back down tight, pulling a bit harder with every pass.
“Shit,” he gasped, too loudly.
“Keep your voice down,” I warned, leaning in closer. My mouth brushed his ear. “Or I take my hand back and we’re done.”
His jaw snapped shut. The rapid rise and fall of his chest slowed, each breath pulled in and released like he was counting them. Like I’d handed him a command, and he was trying to follow it.
“Good boy,” I whispered.
He nodded quickly, but his body betrayed him. His hips shifted again, pushing into my hand without holding back. “Slower,” he whispered. “Please.”
“No,” I didn’t slow down. If anything, I sped up, keeping my grip tight and the friction rough. It was suffocating under the winter coat, and the heat radiating off our bodies made the cramped seat feel dangerously small.
Karter bit down hard on his lip as a low, choked sound escaped his throat. It was a desperate, broken noise that sent a dark, twisted hit of satisfaction straight down to my groin.
“You’re too damn loud,” I said. My free hand flattened against his chest, feeling the frantic, ragged heave of his ribs. “Bite down on something. I don’t care what, just shut up.”
Karter turned his face toward me. He looked terrified, but he tilted his hips deeper into my grip anyway. “I don’t care,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “Just finish it.”
“Impatient,” I said. I twisted my wrist on the next stroke, making him jerk. His eyes squeezed shut as sweat beaded on his forehead, catching the faint glow from a passing streetlight.
He was close to exploding. I could see it in the way he tensed, the way his fingers dug into the seat.
