He broke away first, breathless. “Cab’s more private,” he said, voice shaky but sure.
“Not if you scream,” I shot back, and he laughed, short and wild.
He opened the door, climbed in, and I followed, the cab instantly thick with the scent of us—salt and heat and that unmistakable undercurrent of his arousal. Carter fumbled with his sweatpants, yanked them low enough for me to see the curve of his ass. He sprawled across the bench, legs spread, thighs quivering with anticipation.
“Close the door,” he said, “unless you want to be arrested for public indecency.”
I grinned, shut it, and slid in beside him. The windows immediately fogged, turning the world outside to white noise.
He climbed onto my lap, careful with his belly, and ground down until our cocks aligned, both already leaking. I palmed his ass, feeling the give of his flesh, the way he shivered under my touch.
“You sure?” I said, one last chance to slow it down.
“Stop asking,” he growled, and bit my lip.
I slicked my fingers with spit, found his hole, and worked him open with slow, careful strokes. He bucked against me, greedy, needing more. When I was sure he could take it, I lined up and pushed in, the stretch making his mouth go slack, eyes half-lidded and shining.
I started to move, slow at first, then faster as he adjusted, the rhythm building until he was riding me in hard, frantic thrusts.The baby pressed between us, a warm, constant presence, and I anchored my hands on his hips, holding him steady.
He kissed me, open-mouthed and wet, tongue tracing the seam of my teeth. The cab rocked with our motion, suspension creaking in time with his moans.
“Fuck, Macon,” he gasped, nails digging crescents into my shoulders. “Harder.”
I obliged, hips snapping up, cock buried to the root. He came first, a shudder rolling through his body, come splattering my shirt and his own belly. His hole clamped down, and that was it for me—I shot deep inside him, the orgasm so strong I saw stars.
He sagged against me, chest heaving, sweat gluing us together in the cold. I held him, not moving, for as long as he’d let me.
Eventually, he slid off, settling beside me. I cleaned him up with the napkins from the glove-box, then helped him back into his sweatpants.
“You’re a mess,” he said, voice softer now, but more alive than I’d ever heard it.
I grinned. “You love it.”
He rested his head on my shoulder, eyes closed, a smile flickering on his lips. “Yeah,” he said. “I really do.”
We sat in silence, letting the world creep back in. When the windows cleared, the river was still there, but the sun had risen higher, burning away the last of the mist.
Carter’s phone buzzed again. He didn’t look at it this time, just turned to me. “Let’s go,” he said. “I want to get this over with.”
We buckled in, and I started the truck, the engine rumbling back to life. He fiddled with the radio, skipping stations until he landed on one playing old country, the kind his father would have mocked him for.
Halfway back to town, Carter startled me. “Can you hand me your phone?” he asked.
I did, one-handed, eyes on the road.
He thumbed through the contacts with that same focus, then dialed a number. I heard him say, “Hi, this is Carter Steele. I’d like to book a consult for a rural build—yes, with full sustainable options. Next week? Perfect.”
I caught his reflection in the rearview mirror. He looked proud, maybe even a little defiant.
When he hung up, he grinned at me, sheepish. “I figured we should get ahead of it. The house, I mean.”
My heart did something funny, something that felt too big for my ribcage.
“Good call,” I said. “We’ll build it right.”
He nodded, satisfied, and rolled down the window, letting the wind whip his hair.
We hit the outskirts of Black Butte ten minutes early. The diner was already busy, pickup trucks and two old Suburbans crowding the lot. I pulled into the spot near the door and killed the engine.
