"Oh my god," I manage, voice strangled and desperate. "Devon—"
He pulls back, lips dragging along my shaft, creating friction that makes my toes curl in my shoes. He looks up at me with those dark eyes. "You taste good."
"How—" My voice cracks. "How are you so good at this?"
"Practice." He grins, wicked and absolutely filthy. "Lots and lots of practice."
Before I can dwell on that horrible fact, Devon takes me deep again, and all thoughts evaporate like they never existed.
His head bobs, finding a steady rhythm, and his hand works what his mouth can't reach. The sounds are obscene, wet and sloppy and so fucking hot I'm lightheaded.
My hands grip the seat so hard I'm probably leaving permanent impressions in the leather.
Devon pulls off with a slick pop, stroking me with his hand. "You can touch me."
"What?"
"Your hands. You look like you're trying not to move them." He takes me back in his mouth, and when he comes up for air again, he adds, "Touch me. Hair. Face. Whatever you want."
I hesitate for maybe half a second before my hand moves to his hair, threading through the messy strands.
Devon makes this satisfied sound and takes me deeper.
There's absolutely no way I'm going to last. He's too good at this, too skilled, and it's been too long, and I've been thinking about so much, and—
"Devon," I warn. "I'm close. I'm really—fuck—really close."
He doesn't pull off. If anything, he speeds up, his mouth working me faster, his hand twisting just right, and—
My orgasm hits like a truck at full speed.
I come with a groan I don't even try to muffle, my hand tightening in Devon's hair, my hips jerking up involuntarily. He takes it all, throat working, not pulling away until I'm completely spent and shaking.
When he finally sits back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he looks insufferably smug. "You good?"
I can't really speak, so I just nod weakly.
"Good." He shifts, trying to get more comfortable in the impossible space between my legs and the steering wheel, and I notice—
"You're still hard."
"Very observant."
"Let me—" I reach for him, but he catches my wrist.
"Give me a second."
Before I can ask what he means, Devon's climbing back onto my lap, and this time there's a frantic quality to his movements that wasn't there before. He straddles me again, and even through his jeans I can feel how hard he is. How desperate.
"Devon."
"Just—" He rocks forward, grinding against my thigh, and his breath catches audibly. "Just need—fuck—"
He's rutting against me, movements desperate and uncoordinated, one hand braced on my shoulder for leverage, the other gripping the headrest behind me.
"God," I breathe out, unable to look away from his face. His eyes are squeezed shut, mouth hanging open, and he's making these small sounds with every thrust of his hips.
It's the hottest thing I've ever witnessed in my entire life.
