I continue to stroke his slick cock as I shift my body forward. He opens his eyes to see me hovering over him. And I don’t even have to wonder what he’s thinking as he pulls me down to meet his lips. He kisses me with a hunger typically reserved for ravishing me. Laps up every bit of his own precum that’s smeared over my lips. Wonder if he tastes himself when he’s tasting me.
I try to break away from him, to get back to the assignment at hand, but he holds me in place. Chewing at my lips. Brushing his tongue against mine. Wetter and wetter until there’s a storm brewing between us—the winds of our breaths howling as thunder ripples through our bodies. His entire body tenses. His throat cracks as his moans echo into my mouth. As he shoots hot spunk from his throbbing cock, spilling over my fist and inbetween my fingers.
I continue stroking him through his release until he can’t take it anymore. His chest shudders, his foot kicks outwards, landing with a thud against the hood.
And then I break too, massaging my cock through my jeans.
In the silence that follows, an epiphany washes over me. “You’re right. Daddy gives me the ick too. Can I just call you something else?”
“Sure,” he whispers, fingers circling through my hair. “What do you have in mind?”
“How about…” I’m almost too nervous to even say it. “Can I call you, babe?”
My question is met with silence in return. The kind of stillness that suffocates the mind of someone who’s inner monologue never shuts up.
And then his voice cracks through the silence, soft and tender, but echoing like thunder in the distance. “Sure, punk. Whatever you want to.”
For three and a half weeks, I’ve been on the road with Noah. He sates every ounce of the hunger I hold inside me, and yet I can’t help but to notice other men. It’s a bad habit I actively try to break, but there’s a hollowness between Noah and I. Sometimes, when we’re together, it’s like the world’s on fire. Other times, we sit in silence, and I find myself plagued by familiar ghostsof loneliness.
I always fancied myself a hopeless romantic. I waited in that god-forsaken compound, dreaming of the day I’d find my prince and ride off into the sunset. Some days, I think I’ve found him. Other days, not so much. He lets me in for only moments at a time. All-too-brief moments when he allows himself to be vulnerable. In those moments, I feel like I am his and he is mine, but he’d never say it.
If only he’d say it, then maybe I could stop looking.
Stop dreaming.
Stop wondering.
He bucks his hips and his knees wobble, the belt of his jeans rattling against the tiled floor.
“I’m… coming,” he pants between ragged breaths, his grip tightening on the back of my head as he hammers his cock against the back of my throat.
I welcome every thrust, every brush of his trimmed pubic hair scratching against my upper lip, every drop of precum that leaks down the back of my throat. And when he explodes, stilling himself in the back of my mouth, I swallow every salty drop.
He makes quick work of pulling his pants back up and washing his hands in the bathroom sink. I wipe my lips clean as I stand and meet his gaze in the cracked mirror hanging over the sink.
A knock on the door steals our collective attention.
Noah opens the door and steps out. I follow suit, walking right past a tall, skinny blond boy. Looks to be about the same age as me but youngerthan Noah. The boy cocks his head, watching the two of us as we make our way down the hall of the truck stop.
“That guy is watching us,” I whisper to Noah.
“Since when does that bother you?”
I cock my head over my shoulder to catch the boy just as he shifts his gaze. It’s a look I’ve seen before. A look of intrigue, of longing. The eyes of someone dreaming of a life in the sun, far from the dark confines of a closet.
I elbow Noah in the side playfully. “Maybe he could join us?”
He stops dead in his tracks.
Looks me dead in the eyes.
I think I die a little inside.
“I don’t share,” he scowls.
CHAPTER 13
NOAH
