The first time Dean saw Vince, the brightly lit Walmart hummed with the monotonous noise of people, a stark contrast to the sudden jolt of awareness that shot through him. Vince was maneuvering a pallet jack, its wheels rumbling softly against the polished concrete floor. He moved with an easy, fluid strength, the kind that comes from hard work, not a gym. Dean, pushing his cart, instinctively veered down the adjacent aisle, a polite courtesy. But he’d misjudged the trajectory, stopping his cart right in the tight corner where Vince needed to angle the jack. A sheepish grin spread across Dean’s face as he quickly backed up. Vince’s laugh was a low, warm rumble, and his smile crinkled the corners of his dark eyes. They shared a look, a brief, spark-filled moment of amusement, before Vince expertly navigated the pallet into its place and moved on.
Dean shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips, and continued his shopping. Ten minutes later, rounding the corner by the refrigerated wall of milk cartons, there he was again. Vince, with another pallet, this one stacked high with heavy crates of eggs. The cold air billowed out, carrying the faint, clean scent of milk and cardboard. Dean steered his cart to the side, giving him a wide berth. Their eyes met again, and this time, Dean really looked. He noticed the way the store’s harsh light caught in the stubble on Vince’s jaw, the full curve of his lips, and the confident set of his shoulders. The handsome part wasn’t just a passing thought; it was a physical observation, a fact that settled in Dean’s gut like a warm stone. Vince’s smile was a little slower this time, a little more knowing, and Dean felt a corresponding heat climb his neck.
The third time felt like fate, or a very persistent stock boy. Dean was contemplating the vast array of sugary cereals when the rhythmic clatter of the pallet jack approached. Vince dropped off a pallet at the very end of the aisle and, instead of turning back, he walked the empty jack right into Dean’s path, stopping it with a soft nudge against the front wheel of Dean’s cart. He didn’t say anything at first, just stood there, one hand resting on the handle of the jack, the other hooked in the pocket of his work apron. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken questions and the distant beep of a checkout scanner.
Dean let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Sorry about that. I seem to keep getting in your way.”
Vince grinned. “I’m beginning to wonder whether it’s intentional.”
“Maybe I should take you out to dinner so you’ll stop following me,” Dean said, the words coming out smoother than he expected, laced with a flirtatious challenge he didn’t know he had in him.
“Me, following you?” Vince’s laugh was genuine this time, a bright, open sound that made Dean’s own smile widen. “I could get in trouble for that. But I am getting hungry.” Vince looked down at Dean’s feet and slowly studied him as he moved his eyes up until their gazes locked. “I get off in thirty minutes,” he replied, his voice a low, pleasant timbre that vibrated right through Dean. “And I love that Chinese place right around the corner.”
The Golden Dragon. Dean knew it. He’d driven past it a hundred times. With their eyes still locked, the bustling store with its endless aisles, the hum of the freezers, all of it faded into a dull roar. In Dean’s mind, a crystal-clear image formed: he was cupping Vince’s jaw, his thumb brushing over that stubble, and leaning in to taste that smile. The fantasy was so vivid, so immediate, it felt like a memory.
“Well?” asked Vince.
“I’ll wait in front on the grocery side,” Dean said, his voice a little huskier than before.
Vince just nodded, a simple, decisive movement. As he turned to walk away, Dean watched him go, the way his worn jeans fit perfectly across his ass, the easy swing of his stride. The anticipation that had been simmering in Dean’s stomach now came to a full, rolling boil. He felt something inside, something different. This felt different from guys looking for a hookup. Dean felt sure he would say yes this time, that is, if Vince asked.
Thirty minutes later, two men walked from the front doors at Walmart to their vehicles. The white pickup with Dean at the wheel left first and located a space near the front door of the Golden Dragon. The black truck followed a minute later.
The heavy glass door of The Golden Dragon swung open, and Dean stepped inside. The air was a fragrant, chaotic mix of ginger, garlic, frying oil, and sweet-and-sour sauce. Red paper lanterns hung from the ceiling, casting a warm, rosy glow over the dark wood tables and vinyl-upholstered booths. A large, gilded fish tank bubbled quietly in the corner, its colorful inhabitants swimming in lazy circles. Dean slid into a booth, the vinyl cool and slightly sticky beneath his palms. He’d just been handed a laminated menu when the bell above the door chimed again.
Vince stood there for a moment, his eyes scanning the room. He’d changed out of his work apron, but he was still in the same dark t-shirt and jeans, his hair slightly damp, as if he’d quickly splashed water on his hands and run them through his hair. When he saw Dean, his entire face lit up. He moved toward the booth with a purposeful stride that made Dean’s heart thump against his ribs.
“Sorry if I kept you waiting,” Vince said, sliding into the booth opposite him. He knew he hadn’t; he’d seen Dean enter the restaurant. The space suddenly felt smaller, more intimate. The air crackled with an energy that had nothing to do with the restaurant’s kitchen.
“Not at all,” Dean replied, his gaze fixed on Vince. “It gave me time to catch my breath. I’m trying to decide between the Kung Pao Chicken and the Kung Pao Shrimp.”
“Good choices,” Vince said, leaning forward on his elbows. “Get the chicken. If you’re in the mood for shrimp, there’s a place close to Matagorda Bay.”
“That’s almost two hours away.”
“LIke many things,” said Vince as he moved his head forward, “it’s worth the time investment.” The movement brought him closer, and Dean could see the faint, darker blue of his irises ringed with a lighter, almost startling sapphire. “But you can’t go wrong with the house special fried rice. It’s a work of art.”
Their conversation started easily, flowing from food to jobs to the frustratingly simple act of trying to find decent parking downtown. They discovered a shared love for old action movies and a mutual disdain for cilantro. With every laugh, every shared observation, the initial, sharp edge of lust began to soften, blurring into something warmer, more curious. Dean found himself watching Vince’s hands as he talked, the way they moved as he described a particularly ridiculous movie plot, the long, capable fingers, the neatly trimmed nails. He imagined those hands on his skin, and a shiver traced a path down his spine.
When the food arrived, the aromas intensified, filling the small space between them. They ate with a comfortable hunger, occasionally reaching for the same pot sticker, their fingers brushing. The contact was fleeting, electric. Each time it happened, their eyes would meet, and the conversation would pause for a beat, the unspoken attraction hanging in the air, thick and sweet as the hoisin sauce.
“So, Dean,” Vince said, setting down his fork and leaning back against the booth, his gaze direct and unwavering. “Besides saving me from a life of stalking you in the cereal aisle, what do you do?”
Dean swallowed his mouthful of beef, suddenly feeling the weight of the question, the shift from casual banter to genuine interest. “I’m a data analyst,” he said. “I work for a company that builds boats. It’s funny because the office isn’t anywhere near the shipyards. It’s quiet, keeps my brain occupied, and I love it.”
Vince’s smile was appreciative. “A man who works with his brains. I should have guessed; you do strike me as an erudite individual.”
“That’s not a common word for the master of the pallet jack. Or is it?”
“Jacking is my second job.” Vince chuckled. “I’m saving up for a house. I just passed the bar last year, and I work in corporate law. It’s a 9 to 5 job. I still live at home with my parents, and Walmart has an easy schedule for extra cash that I put straight into savings. I want a place with a workshop. I’ve always liked making furniture, and I’d like to get into restoring pieces that people think aren’t worth saving.” He held up his hands. I like using my hands. He held Dean’s gaze, and the double meaning in his words was unmistakable. The air grew thick, charged. The clatter of plates and the chatter of other diners faded away until all Dean could hear was the frantic beating of his own heart.
“Check, please?” Vince called out to a passing waitress, his eyes never leaving Dean’s.
“I asked you,” Dean reminded him.
“Dutch?”
“No. I pay. You pay the next time.”
Vince smiled. “When we check out the place on the bay.”
The night air was cool against their flushed faces as they stepped outside. A mild rain had fallen while they were inside, and the city lights painted the wet pavement in streaks of neon and gold. Vince’s truck was a massive, crew-cab F-250, black and gleaming under the streetlights. It looked solid, dependable, and powerful. Vince clicked the fob, and the interior lights cast a welcoming glow.
Dean’s truck was parked a few spaces down. He walked Vince to his door, the moment stretching between them, heavy with possibility. They stood there for a second, the city’s hum a distant soundtrack to the pounding in Dean’s ears.
“I had a really good time, Vince,” Dean said, his voice low.
“Me too,” Vince replied. He took a half-step closer, his body heat radiating toward Dean. “More than a really good time.”
That was all the invitation Dean needed. He closed the remaining distance, his hand coming up to rest on Vince’s chest, feeling the steady, strong beat of his heart through the thin cotton of his shirt. He leaned in, and Vince met him halfway.
The first kiss was nothing like the fantasy in the cereal aisle. It was better. It was hesitant at first, a soft, exploring press of lips. Vince’s mouth was warm, tasting faintly of soy sauce and spearmint. Dean’s fingers curled into the fabric of Vince’s shirt, pulling him closer. A low groan rumbled in Vince’s chest, and the kiss deepened, all hesitation melting away into a raw, urgent need. Vince’s hands framed Dean’s face, his thumbs stroking his jawline as he angled his head, slanting their mouths together for a deeper, more thorough exploration. It was a kiss of discovery and confirmation, a kiss that said, yes, this is happening.
When they finally broke apart, they were both breathing heavily. Dean’s lips felt swollen and tingling. He rested his forehead against Vince’s, his eyes closed.
“Get in,” Vince murmured, his voice a gravelly command that sent a jolt straight to Dean’s groin.
Dean didn’t need to be told twice. He fumbled with the handle of the crew cab’s back door, his fingers clumsy with adrenaline. The door swung open with a satisfyingly solid thunk, revealing the spacious, dimly lit interior. It was clean, smelling of leather and that faint, sharp scent of Vince’s cologne mingled with the cool night air. Vince was right behind him, a hand resting low on Dean’s back to guide him in, a touch that was both proprietary and impossibly hot.
Dean slid onto the wide back seat, the leather cool against his jeans. Vince followed, crowding in after him and pulling the door shut with a decisive click. The sudden silence of the sealed cab was absolute, a private world enclosed in steel and glass. The only light came from the distant streetlamps, casting long shadows that made the space feel intimate and secret.
Vince was on him instantly, turning to face him, one knee wedged on the seat between Dean’s thighs. He didn’t kiss him again right away. Instead, he brought his hand up, his fingers tracing the line of Dean’s jaw, his thumb stroking over the pulse point hammering in his neck. His eyes, dark and intense in the low light, roamed over Dean’s face as if committing it to memory.
“I’ve been wanting to do this since you tried to get out of my way but headed right for where I was headed,” Vince breathed, his voice a low rasp.
“Me too,” Dean managed to say, his own voice thick with wanting. The truth was, he wanted to do this since seeing his first porn video back in eighth grade. He’d just never met a guy the felt quite right. But Vince was that guy; now was the right time.
Then Vince’s mouth was on his, and this time there was no hesitation. It was a hungry, demanding kiss, all teeth and tongue and desperate need. Vince’s hand moved from Dean’s jaw to the back of his neck, his fingers combing through the hair there, holding him in place as he plundered his mouth. Dean moaned, a raw, guttural sound he couldn’t contain, and his hands flew to Vince’s shoulders, gripping the hard muscle through his t-shirt. He could feel the heat of Vince’s skin, the solid strength of his body, and he wanted more. He wanted to feel all of it.
Vince’s other hand was busy, sliding down Dean’s chest, his palm flat and firm, before dipping lower to cup the hard ridge straining against the denim of his jeans. Dean bucked his hips up into the touch, a desperate, involuntary movement, and Vince swallowed the gasp that escaped his lips. He squeezed gently, his thumb rubbing over the head of Dean’s cock through the fabric, and the pleasure was so sharp, so intense, it was almost painful.
“Vince… please, don’t stop now.” Dean panted, breaking the kiss to drag in air. He didn’t even know what he was begging for. More. Everything.
Vince seemed to understand. With a fluid, economical movement, he shifted, pulling his own shirt over his head and tossing it into the front seat. The dim light carved his torso into a landscape of hard planes and shifting shadows. He wasn’t bulky, but he was solid, defined by the kind of lean, wiry muscle that spoke of constant, hard work. A dusting of dark hair spread across his pecs and narrowed down his stomach, disappearing into the waistband of his jeans.
Dean’s hands were on him instantly, exploring the warm, smooth skin, the dip of his collarbone, the hard curve of his bicep. Vince’s hands went to the hem of Dean’s shirt, and he tugged it over his head, his knuckles brushing against Dean’s chest as he did. The sensation of their bare skin pressing together, chest to chest, was electric. Dean could feel the frantic, uneven beat of Vince’s heart against his own, a frantic rhythm that mirrored his own.
They kissed again, a mess of tongues and lips and roaming hands. Vince’s mouth left his and trailed a hot, wet path down his neck, across his collarbone, stopping to worry a nipple into a tight, sensitive peak. Dean arched his back, a hiss escaping his teeth as pleasure shot through him. He felt Vince’s hands at the button of his jeans, the sound of the zipper lowering impossibly loud in the quiet cab.
Vince didn’t waste any time. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of Dean’s jeans and his briefs, tugging them down his hips. Dean lifted his ass off the seat to help, kicking his shoes off frantically so Vince could pull the clothes all the way off. The cool air hit his overheated skin, and his cock, freed from its confines, slapped against his stomach, hard and leaking.
Vince knelt back for a moment, his gaze sweeping over Dean’s naked body. The look in his eyes was pure, unadulterated lust, a primal hunger that made Dean’s own ache intensify. He reached into the glove box, retrieving a small bottle of lube and a foil packet, his movements practiced and sure. He tore the foil with his teeth, rolling the condom onto his own impressive length, his eyes never leaving Dean’s.
He slicked his fingers with lube, and Dean’s breath hitched in anticipation. Vince leaned over him, bracing one hand on the back of the seat beside Dean’s head. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmured, his voice serious despite the raw desire in his eyes.
Dean just shook his head, reaching down to grip his own cock, stroking it slowly. “Don’t you dare stop.”
The first touch of Vince’s finger against his entrance made him gasp. Vince was slow, deliberate, circling the tight ring of muscle before pressing inside. Dean’s head fell back against the cool leather of the seat, his eyes fluttering shut. It had been a while, and the burn was sharp, but it was a good burn, a herald of the pleasure to come. Vince worked him open patiently, first one finger, then a second, scissoring them, stretching him, brushing against that spot inside him that made stars explode behind his eyelids.
“Vince… now… I’m ready,” Dean pleaded, his voice ragged.
Vince withdrew his fingers, and Dean felt the loss acutely. He watched as Vince slicked his own cock, the sight making his mouth water. Then Vince was positioning himself, the blunt head of his cock pressing against Dean’s hole. He pushed in slowly, giving Dean time to adjust to the thick, relentless pressure. Dean’s hands gripped Vince’s biceps, his knuckles white, his breath held in his chest as his body yielded to the intrusion.
The feeling of being completely filled, of Vince sinking into him, inch by incredible inch, was overwhelming. It was a possession, a claim, and Dean surrendered to it willingly. When Vince was finally fully sheathed, he paused, his forehead resting against Dean’s, their bodies together in the cramped space.
“You okay?” Vince whispered, his voice strained with the effort of holding still.
Dean couldn’t speak. He just wrapped his legs around Vince’s waist, pulling him in deeper, and nodded.
That was all the encouragement Vince needed. He began to move, pulling out almost all the way before sliding back home, setting a deep, powerful rhythm that rocked the entire truck. The windows began to steam up, blurring the outside world into an indistinct smear of light and color. All that existed was this: the creak of the leather seats, the slap of skin on skin, their harsh, synchronized breathing, and the incredible, mind-blowing pleasure building inside Dean.
Vince’s thrusts were precise, hitting Dean’s prostate with every stroke, sending waves of ecstasy crashing through him. He angled his hips, changing the tempo, driving into Dean harder, faster. The pleasure was so intense it was almost agonizing, a coiling spring of tension in Dean’s gut, winding tighter and tighter.
“Look at me,” Vince commanded, his voice rough.
Dean forced his eyes open, meeting Vince’s intense, burning gaze. The connection was visceral, a live wire of raw emotion and pure physical need. Vince’s hand wrapped around Dean’s cock, stroking him in time with his powerful thrusts.
That was it. That was the final push. Dean’s orgasm tore through him like a tidal wave, a blinding, all-consuming rush of pleasure. He cried out, his body arching off the seat as he came, spilling hot and thick over Vince’s hand and his own stomach. The clenching of his muscles around Vince’s cock was enough to send him over the edge, too. Vince drove into him one last time, a deep, guttural groan tearing from his throat as he found his own release.
They collapsed against each other, a sweaty, breathless, sated tangle of limbs. The only sounds were their ragged gasps for air and the faint hum of the city outside their steamy cocoon. Vince peppered Dean’s face with soft, lazy kisses, his weight a comforting, grounding presence. Dean felt boneless, replete, utterly and completely fucked in the best possible way.
After a long moment, Vince pushed himself up, his expression soft and sated. He gently cleaned Dean off with a discarded napkin, his touch tender. They dressed in silence, the air between them thick with a new, profound intimacy.
Dean was the first to break the quiet. “Wow,” he said, a small, incredulous laugh escaping him. “Just… wow.”
Vince smiled, a genuine, happy smile that reached his eyes. He leaned in and gave Dean one last, lingering kiss. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Wow. I haven’t had a lot of experience, but that was the best. Far better than anything else.”
“That was my first time, Vince, and it was…” He looked into Vince’s eyes.
“Yeah. I know.” He walked Dean to his own truck, the cool night air a welcome shock to their overheated skin. Before Dean could get in, Vince caught his arm, turning him to face him.
“We’re going out again, right?” he said, his voice earnest, the raw edge of desire replaced by a quiet confidence. “Properly this time. No stalking required.”
Dean felt a grin spread across his face, wide and unguarded. He felt spent, loose-limbed, and incredibly happy. “Of course.”
“Friday? Pick you up early, so we’ve got time to get there.” Vince suggested, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin on the inside of Dean’s wrist.
“I finish early on Fridays. Put your number in my phone.” He leaned in and gave Vince a quick, soft kiss, a promise of what was to come. “Friday.”
He got into his truck, the engine roaring to life with a turn of the key. As he pulled away, he glanced in his rear-view mirror. Vince was still standing there, watching him go, a solitary figure under the orange glow of the streetlight. Dean didn’t look away until the black truck was just a speck in his mirror, the promise of Friday already warming him from the inside out.
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