“I’m sorry, that’s what now?”
George’s mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. “Baby,” he says, running his warm palm up my stomach. “You’ve been practicing, remember? You can take it all. And you’re going to love it.”
Baby? I’m either going to come so hard I see God or die trying. Possibly both.
I groan, partly in protest and mostly not, as he presses further. My whole body bends to it, stretching farther than I thought possible. He keeps pushing until his hips are flush against me, bottoming out completely, every thick inch buried deep inside. A sound escapes me that’s completely different from anything I’ve made before tonight.
“There it is,” he says, deep and satisfied. He leans down without pulling out and gets his mouth on my throat and chest, sucking fresh marks across my pecs while I adjust. I lie there in his auto shop feeling completely and utterly owned.
“Okay now?”
“Yeah.” I press my heel into the back of his thigh. “You can probably move now…I think.”
He starts with slow, shallow rolls of his hips, letting me feel every thick inch dragging out and pushing back in. Then he switches to deeper, longer strokes, pulling nearly all the way out before sliding home again.
The sensation is overpowering. I have no frame of reference for this. Every ridge and vein drags along my walls and my brain just fucking blue-screens. I’m loud as hell—moaning, cursing, saying shit I’m definitely going to regret tomorrow. George doesn’t miss a beat. One hand braces beside my head on the workbench while the other strokes my cock in perfect sync with his thrusts.
“You feel so fucking good,” he growls against my neck, burying himself deep. “This hole opens up for me like it knows exactly who it belongs to.”
His voice, his hand, and the constant drag against my prostate all hit at once. My body locks up tight. I’m right there, teetering on the edge, when he suddenly withdraws.
I make a truly pathetic sound (not my best moment, I know) and seize his shoulders with both hands.
“Where the fuck are you going?” I practically snarl.
George laughs warmly, containing what I can only describe as my small and fully justified tantrum with one hand on my hip and the patience of a man who has a plan.
He steps back and yanks his shirt over his head.
I forget what I was upset about.
I’ve seen George shirtless a hundred times. Beach days, hot shop afternoons, random nights when the AC was broken. But this? This is novelty. The tattoos I’ve caught in pieces connect—the mechanical sleeve running up his left arm, the anchor with rope across his left pec, and Spanish script along his ribs I suddenly want to read with my tongue.
He unbuckles his belt, shoves his jeans down and steps out of them.
I’m lying completely naked on his workbench, having already come twice, staring at my best friend like I’ve never seen a man in my life.
George catches me.
“You’ve got a little drool right here,” he smirks, tapping the corner of his own mouth.
“Oh, I’m a hundred percent drooling,” I laugh. “Can I lick it?”
He gives me that rare, devastating smile and steps in between my legs. I reach up without thinking and press my palm flat over the anchor on his chest. His skin is burning hot. I feel his heartbeat, strong and steady under my hand. He lets me trace the lines with my thumb for a moment, then covers my hand with his own and just stays there, looking down at me in the low light of the shop.
“Do you want more? You okay to try something else?” he asks me with what seems to be a lot more like affection.
“Yes,” I answer without hesitation. “All of it. Whatever you’ve got.”
His expression cinches a bit, then he steps aside and nods toward the next bay.
The two-post lift looms there. Solid metal columns bolted to the concrete, with a thick crossbar running overhead. George adjusts the height, then turns me to face away from him. He guides my hands up to grip the bar. The second I wrap my fingers around it and lean forward, I get it. My weight shifts onto my arms, my back arches hard, and my ass tilts up and opens completely. My feet stay planted on the floor, but everything that matters is hanging there, yielded up to him.
George steps in close, slicks himself again, and pushes back inside me in one smooth thrust.
“Fuck—” The new angle steals my breath. He’s deeper, hitting something devastating with every stroke. The slap of his hipsagainst my ass echoes off the concrete and metal around us, filthy and loud. His hands grip my hips with bruising force as he drives into me, relentless and divine.
“Oh god,” I gasp on the third thrust.
