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The mask drags down my throat. Hard enough for me to feel. The glove on my cock does not stop. I tilt my head back against the seat and let it have my neck.

“There. Fuck. Teeth if you want. I don’t give a shit. Bite me. I have wanted a mark from you that I could not explain in the morning, so fucking give me one.”

Something thinner than a glove follows the same path the mask just took. Cold. Sharp. It feels like a nail. Then the cold turns hot and a line opens along my throat. It is deep. The blood does not stay in the cut. It runs under my collar at once, warm and fast, and I feel air in it. I feel it pulse.

“Ah—” It comes out sexual. I laugh once, my breath shaky. “You really did come to play, didn’t you? All right. I can take it. Keep your hand on my cock if you are going to cut me. I asked for teeth. That was close enough but don’t you dare stop stroking me.”

The blood keeps coming. It soaks the collar. It finds my chest. I am still hard in the glove and harder, if I’m being completely honest. But it’s what I want.

“Chest,” I say. “Open my shirt. I want those lips on my chest. I want you to bite a nipple and then cut me if that is the game we’re playing tonight. I have a scar at my mouth. Give me one I got from you. I want to look at it tomorrow and know you finally touched me.”

The gloved hand leaves my cock, long enough to pull my shirt apart. Buttons go and instant cold hits my skin. Then the hand is back where I want it, tight, stroking, and that cold line draws down my chest, slow, like a mouth with a blade in it.

It opens deep.

Heat. A sharp sting and the blood doesn’t sit there. It runs and finds my stomach in a thick line and goes down into my thighs and onto the seat.

I jerk in the fist and curse, telling him not to stop.

“Rhys. Fuck. Don’t stop, don’t take your fucking hand off my cock. I have waited too long for this.”

The mask comes back to my mouth. I kiss the white slit again. I can taste metal. I can taste myself.

“Thigh,” I say. “Inside. High. I want your mouth there like you are about to suck me off. I have thought about your head in my lap in this car since that first week and the sight of the back of your neck. My hand in your hair, pulling it tight as you devour me, and you looking up at me for once. Do that. Please, I’m begging. I never get to ask you for anything. Please.”

The figure shifts. The gloved hand leaves my cock and I almost complain. Then it is on the inside of my right thigh.

“Yes, high,” I tell it. “I want you close enough that your mouth has to touch my cock when you breathe. Then do it. Suck me, Rhys, like your life fucking depends on it and I promise to stay quiet. I know how to be quiet in this car.”

No glove. A blade follows instead.

A deep cut, high on the inside of the thigh, close enough to my cock that I feel it there. This one is worse than the throat. Blood runs into my pubic hair and over the seat, hot and fast. The glove wraps me again, wet now, slick with me and with what just opened.

I groan into the mask while the hand works me. It is the cut. It is Rhys in that seat after a year of waiting that has me groaning. My pants are open. I am telling him where to put his hands because he is finally here. Finally mine.

“Yes. Right there. Closer to the top of me but not my cock. We’re going to need that fully functional. I want to come in your hand. Above it. Cut me there if that is what you want. Then put your mouth on me. I will be good. I will be so fucking good for you, Rhys.”

The seat belt moves.

I did not do that.

The strap comes across my chest, over the open cut, and clicks in at my hip, hard. Locked. I am in the seat I always sit in, and now I cannot sit up properly. The strap presses the wound on my chest and the blood comes faster.

“Kinky,” I say, and my voice is not as steady as I want. “All right. Strap me in. You lock me in every night from the other side. Might as well do it from this one.”

Then a tap. Close. On the mask.

Then the voice.

It is not the voice I am used to, not the one I drive home every night. Soft, like a mouth on my ear.

“Don’t scream. Kiss me,” the voice whispers.

I kiss the mask because that is what I was already doing and I’m shaking. I am still hard and the glove strokes me through the blood on my thigh.

“Top of the groin,” I whisper. “Please. Then your mouth, and keep fisting my cock. I will take whatever else you want if you stay.”

The blade rests where I said. The line of hair. The top of my groin, close enough that my cock jumps against the glove.