His mouth moves against mine with purpose, hunger, like he's been holding back for weeks and just got permission to let go. I match his energy, pulling him closer, my hand sliding up to cup the back of his neck where his hair's fine and soft.
He makes this sound that lands somewhere between a moan and a growl and tries to get closer, but the console's playing defense. He breaks away just long enough to mutter, "This is bullshit," and then he's climbing over.
One knee plants itself on my thigh. The other follows, and suddenly Devon's straddling my lap, his weight settling over me, and…oh fuck.
Oh fuck, indeed.
He's hard. The evidence presses against my stomach through his jeans, unmistakable and scorching, and my dick goes from casually interested to desperate in point-five seconds.
"Better," he announces, and then his mouth's on mine again.
His hands map my body like he's trying to memorize the terrain. Hair, shoulders, chest—he touches everything. My hands find his hips on instinct, gripping maybe too tight, but I can't help it. It's like I'm unable to think past the feeling of him, the weight, the heat.
Devon rocks forward, grinding down, and the groan that tears out of me is borderline pornographic.
"Fuck," he breathes against my lips. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this."
"Pretty sure I have some idea."
He laughs, breathy and close, and does it again. This time he puts intention behind it, deliberate and so damn devastating.
The steering wheel's digging into his back. The gearshift is probably jabbing him somewhere unfortunate. We're in a public parking lot where any random person could walk by and get a show. None of these facts register as important.
My phone buzzes somewhere in my pocket. Then Devon's.
We both pretend they don't exist.
Mine buzzes again. And again. Someone's having a text conversation with themselves, and I couldn't care less. I don't care about anything except Devon's mouth on mine and his body pressing down and the way he moves like he's done this before—another thought I choose to ignore.
Devon's hand slides down, cupping me through my jeans. I simultaneously clench my jaw and gasp.
"Yeah?" His voice has gone rough and low. "This okay?"
Words have abandoned me. I nod instead, probably looking like an overenthusiastic bobblehead, and he grins like he just won something.
"Good."
Devon's phone starts ringing now.
"Ignore it," I manage to force out.
"Oh, I plan to."
His fingers attack my belt buckle with surprising dexterity given the cramped space and the fact that he's still mostly on my lap. I should probably care that my car windows aren't tinted, that this is objectively insane. I don't. I really, really don't.
The belt comes undone. Devon pops the button on my jeans. The zipper comes down tooth by tooth, agonizingly slow, his eyes locked on mine the whole time like he's watching for any sign I want him to stop.
"Still okay?" he asks.
"If you stop now, I will hurt you."
"Dramatic."
"Scientific."
He laughs and shifts back just enough to create working room. His hand slides past denim, under cotton, and when his fingers wrap around my cock, I feel like I'm tripping. Like none of this is real.
"Fuck, you're hard," he says, and he sounds delighted. Thrilled, even. "How long have you been like this?"
