"I want—"
"I know what you want." He started stroking again, slow, too slow, his grip loose enough that I couldn't get enough friction to do anything but make it worse. "You want to come. You've been thinking about it since I got in your truck."
I couldn't deny it. My cock was leaking all over his fingers and I was already so close it hurt.
"Please," I said, and I barely recognized my own voice. "Joel, please."
He rewarded me with a tighter grip, a faster stroke, and I was right there, right on the edge, my balls drawing up tight—
And he stopped again.
"Fuck." The word came out broken. "You're an asshole."
"Yeah." He twisted his wrist, and my whole body jerked. "You like it, though."
I did. That was the problem. I liked it too much, liked being held right at the breaking point by someone who knew exactly where that point was and kept pushing me back from it. I'd spent years looking for this in bathroom stalls and back rooms, and I'd never found it.
"I want your mouth," I said.
He stilled. His hand stayed on my cock but stopped moving, and the sudden lack of friction was worse than anything.
"What did I say about demands?"
I swallowed. "Please."
"Please what?"
"Please, will you suck my cock?"
He didn't answer. He just slid down my body, his breath hot against my stomach, then lower, his lips brushing against my cock like a tease.
"Look at me," he said.
His face was inches from my cock, his lips parted, his eyes locked on mine.
Then he licked a slow stripe up the underside, base to tip.
My head hit the back of the seat. I was shaking already, my hands fisting in the upholstery, and he'd barely touched me.
"Eyes on me," he said. "I want you to watch."
I watched. I watched him wrap his lips around the head and suck, his cheeks hollowing, his tongue doing something under the crown that made my vision blur. I watched him take me deeper until his nose was almost pressed against my stomach and I could see my cock disappearing into his mouth.
He swallowed around me and I made a sound I'd never heard myself make, something broken and desperate that echoed off the windows.
He pulled back slowly, his lips dragging along the shaft, and then sank down again. His hand wrapped around the base,working what he couldn't fit, and his rhythm was steady and relentless and exactly what I needed.
But every time I got close, every time my thighs started to shake and my breath started to catch, he slowed down. He'd pull back until just the head was in his mouth and suck gently, his tongue tracing lazy circles, keeping me right on the edge without letting me fall.
"Joel." My voice cracked. "Please, I can't—"
He pulled off completely, his lips wet and swollen, a string of spit connecting his mouth to my cock. "Can't what?"
"I can't take it. I need to come. Please."
"Not yet." He licked the head gently, and I nearly sobbed. "You'll come when I say you can come."
He took me deep again, faster this time, and the sound of it was obscene in the quiet cab. Wet and sloppy and perfect, and I was making sounds I couldn't control, begging him with words that stopped making sense.
