The weight of him pressed down against me. I was already hard, had been since he put his hand on my thigh, and there was no way he didn't know it.
His hips shifted in a slow roll that dragged his ass across my cock. "Fuck."
"That's the idea." He did it again, slower, watching my face the whole time. "You're easy."
"I'm not—"
He ground down harder, and the words died in my throat. My hands found his hips and tried to pull him down, but he wasn't having it. His fingers wrapped around my wrists and pinned them to the headrest behind me.
"I didn't say you could touch."
"Too bad." I twisted my wrists in his grip and got one hand free, got it up under his jacket and shirt to the skin underneath. He sucked in a breath when my calluses scraped across his ribs.
His eyes went dark. For a second I thought he was going to shut me down again, pin me back in place. Instead his mouth found my throat and his teeth scraped against my pulse and I stopped thinking about anything except the pressure building at the base of my spine.
"Back seat," I managed.
He pulled back just enough to look at me. His lips were red, and his hair was a mess from my hands, and he looked like something I'd made up. "Ask nicely."
"Get in the back seat. Please."
"That’s more like it."
He climbed off me and was out the door before I could blink. The cold rushed in for a second before he opened the back door, and then I was following him, my hip screaming at me when I twisted to get through the gap between the seats.
The back of my truck wasn't big. Joel was already sprawled across the bench seat, and when I climbed in after him there was barely room for both of us. He grabbed my jacket and pulled me down on top of him, and then we were kissing again, his legs wrapping around my hips, all of him pressed against me.
This was better. The hard line of his cock rubbed against mine through too many layers, and when I rolled my hips, he made a sound that went straight to my head.
"Take your shirt off," I said against his mouth.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because I said no." His hand found my jaw and held it, his thumb pressing into the hinge until it almost hurt. "You don't get to make demands."
I could have fought him. I was stronger than I looked. But his hand was on my face, and his eyes were fixed on mine, and something in me went loose, some tension I'd been holding without knowing it.
I stopped fighting.
"Good," he said, and his free hand went to my belt.
He got my jeans open and shoved them down far enough to get his hand on me, skin to skin. His grip was tight, almost too tight, and when he stroked I arched off the seat hard enough that I nearly headbutted him.
"Joel. Fuck."
"Again." His thumb dragged over the head of my cock, smearing the wetness there, and my breath stuttered out of me. "Say my name again."
I said it. I said it mixed with profanity and things that might have been pleas. He worked me like he was proving a point, his grip relentless, his thumb circling the head on every upstroke until my thighs were shaking.
Then he stopped.
I made a sound I wasn't proud of, something between a groan and a whine. My hips jerked up into nothing, chasing the friction he'd taken away, and he watched me do it with that same sharp, almost-smile.
"Joel, come on—"
"Patience." His hand wrapped around the base of my cock and squeezed, not stroking, just holding me there while I tried to remember how to breathe. "You'll get what you want."
