Jericho chuckled, even though he sounded winded. “Say you want me to fuck you, make you come, make you scream right here in your father’s garage.”
“Fuck me, make me come, make me scream, I need it,” he panted without hesitation. “Need you to fuck me full of your cum.”
“God, you’re such a fucking slut for me. I love how filthy your mouth is getting, Freckles.”
One arm slid across Atticus’s waist, holding him in place so he could drive up into him with a low growl.
Atticus gripped the seats in front of him, his husband’s noises sending jolts of electricity straight to his cock, making him ache to touch himself. Still, he waited.
Jericho groaned against his back. “God, your hole is just milking my dick. You’re so fucking needy. I can’t get enough of you. I love you so fucking much,” His whole body flushed at his confession, a choking sound escaping as Jericho’s hand appeared in front of him. “Spit.”
Atticus didn’t hesitate, letting saliva drip into his palm, crying out as Jericho's fist closed around him. Atticus would have fucked up into it if Jericho wasn’t holding his waist in a death grip, his cock pummeling his prostate until his eyes were rolling back, sparks crackling behind his lids.
“I’m not gonna last.”
“Oh, I know, Princess. I can feel how close you are.”
Atticus couldn’t even answer, his own euphoria keeping him in a chokehold. Jericho knew just how he liked it, knew just how to touch him, how to fuck him, how to work him in his hand just so.
“Do it, Freckles. Come for me. I wanna feel it.”
Atticus cried out, pleasure crashing over him as he came, clenching down on Jericho’s cock still driving into him. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
“There it is,” Jericho groaned, releasing inside him, grinding his hips up against him like he needed to come as deeply inside as possible.
As they both sat there, coming down from their highs, reality slowly crept back in. The car was too warm, the windows fogged, the air thick with the scent of sex and leather and cold sneaking in through the cracks. Atticus leaned back against Jericho, forcing him to take the full brunt of his weight, a deliberate choice—anchoring himself, letting his spine rest where Jericho was solid and familiar. Jericho kissed his cheek, then his neck, his breath heavy and warm against his skin, lingering like he wasn’t quite ready to let go of the moment either.
Jericho held out his sticky hand with a crooked look until Atticus leaned forward and pulled the wet wipes from the pocket in the back of the driver’s seat, cleaning him up with practiced ease. It was a domestic little thing, intimate in a way that had nothing to do with what they’d just done. When it was clean enough, Jericho grimaced as Atticus pulled off of his husband’s softening cock, begrudgingly letting him finish cleaning up the mess he’d made. Jericho huffed a quiet laugh under his breath, the sound vibrating against Atticus’s shoulder.
They had just finished righting their clothes—shirts tugged straight, belts fastened, dignity mostly restored—when the garage door began to rise.
“Shit,” Jericho muttered.
There was no time to scramble into the front seats and pretend they’d been having a very normal, very innocent conversation, so they exited the car instead, standing awkwardly beside it with the kind of posture that screamed guilty to anyone paying attention.
Atticus frowned as he watched a familiar Mercedes pull into an empty space. The headlights cut through the dim garage lighting, illuminating drifting snow still clinging to the undercarriage. He and Jericho exchanged puzzled glances.
“She’s supposed to be with August and Lucas,” Jericho murmured.
Weird.
They walked toward the car together, Atticus’s unease growing with every step. He expected Cricket to hop out with some sarcastic remark already loaded, but instead she stayed put—white-knuckling the steering wheel, teeth bared, sweat slicking her hairline.
“What the fuck,” Atticus muttered, breaking into a jog toward the driver’s side.
He wrenched the door open, earning a wan, exhausted smile from a pale Cricket.
“Hey,” she said, blinking sweat from her eyes like it was no big deal.
“Hey?” Jericho echoed. “What are you doing here alone?”
“So,” Cricket said, voice thin but steady, “funny story. I went into labor at Callie and Lola’s. They were off rescuing Arlo and Dimitri so I just… drove myself here.”
“You drove yourself all the way here in active labor?” Atticus asked, already reaching for her, hands careful but firm as he helped her from the car. “Are you insane?”
“That seems to be the common consensus,” she said, managing a weak smirk.
They only made it two steps before she doubled over, a sound escaping her that was somewhere between a whimper and a grunt. She grabbed fistfuls of Atticus’s shirt, twisting the fabric as she panted hard through the contraction.
