Page 69 of Line Change

“Want to get out of here?” Pope’s voice is low against my ear, rough enough that I feel it down my spine.

I keep facing the crowd. “I thought you had plans.”

“I did.”

“Then go back to them.”

His fingers touch me again, this time settling at my waist. In the dark, we could pass for two teammates leaning close because the music is loud, even with his thumb slipping under the hem of my shirt.

“Come with me,” he says.

I turn enough to look at him. “Maybe I want to stay.”

Pope glances toward the place where Nadia disappeared. His jaw tightens, then his hand slides around my side and pulls me half an inch closer.

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

My cock takes that seriously even if I don’t want to.

I order the Uber while Pope watches the crowd behind me. Neither of us goes back to tell anyone we’re leaving.

The car is waiting at the curb when we get outside. Pope puts a hand at my back to steer me toward it, then drops it as soon as we reach the line of people by the door.

We get into the back seat without touching.

The driver’s music is low, and the rearview mirror is tilted high enough to catch our faces. Everything below our waists is hidden by the front seats. The back seat is dark enough that Pope is mostly a warm shape beside me, and as soon as we pull away, his hand lands on my knee.

I could close my legs or move toward the door. I let my knee fall toward him.

His palm drags up the inside of my thigh, slow enough that every inch of denim catches. When he reaches my crotch, he covers the shape of my cock with his whole hand and squeezes.

My breath sticks. I turn toward the window and fix my eyes on the traffic, trying to get my expression under control.

Pope rubs the heel of his hand from the base to the head, then back again, working me through my jeans as if we aren’t sitting three feet behind a stranger. The fabric is rough and too tight now. Each pass pulls it harder across the head of my cock.

At the next light, the driver’s eyes lift to the mirror. I manage a bored half smile while Pope’s fingers curl around me through the denim. He squeezes hard enough that my thigh jumps under his wrist.

Pope leans close, his breath warm against my ear. “Keep still.”

Fuck him.

I plant both feet and grip the edge of the seat. Pope’s thumb finds the ridge of the head through my zipper and circles it until my hips try to follow. He presses down harder, making the seam drag over exactly the right place, and I swallow the sound climbing my throat.

“I didn’t want to watch you draped all over some woman,” he says.

The words go straight to my cock. His hand closes around me again, pumping slowly through my jeans, and I clench my teeth because I’m furious with him.

I spent half the locker room imagining him with whoever kept texting. He doesn’t get to be pissed because Nadia was real enough for him to see.

Pope keeps his eyes on me as he strokes me. I can feel him doing it even when I refuse to look at him. Another streetlight washes over us, bright enough that I make myself unclench my jaw. The driver can see that much.

It’s none of my business. I’ve been telling myself that all night.

His hand speeds up. I curl my fingers harder under the seat, trying to keep my breathing even while he works me against the stiff denim. The car takes a corner and his shoulder knocks mine, but his grip doesn’t slip. He uses the turn to lean closer and drag his thumb over the head again.

My balls draw tight. I stare at the taillights ahead of us and try to look like a man who isn’t one good stroke from coming in his jeans.

The hotel’s awning appears at the end of the block. Pope slows as soon as my thighs tense, holding me there with his palm cupped firmly over my cock. The turn signal ticks through the car. I want to grab his wrist and force him to finish it; instead, I stare through the windshield and breathe slowly through my nose while the driver follows the hotel signs.