The pizza was already going cold by the time I made it out of my room. Jeff had kicked the box open on the coffee table, a couple slices gone, a folded napkin under his beer. He was lounging back on the couch, legs spread, shirt still off, like nothing had happened. Like I hadn’t just had him in my mouth 15 minutes ago.
"You gonna eat or just hover?" he asked without looking up from his phone screen.
I moved slower than I needed to. My legs still felt shaky, and my skin carried the kind of heat that didn’t come from the shower. I dropped onto the opposite end of the couch and grabbed a slice, more for something to do than because I was hungry. My throat was still raw from the sounds I’d swallowed.
Jeff glanced over. Not long. Just enough.
"You good?"
I nodded, chewing too fast.
"That wasn’t... weird for you?" I asked. The words scraped coming out, not because I didn’t mean them—but because I did.
He tilted his head, taking another pull from his beer. "Was it for you?"
I swallowed. "No."
"Then why try to make it that way?"
There was a quiet between us. Not tense. Just... wide. Open.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the glow of his phone screen. "Look. We don’t have to label it, and we don’t have to drag it into something it’s not. But I’m not pretending it didn’t happen."
I stared at the back of his neck, at the curve where his traps met his shoulders. Strong lines. Familiar. Suddenly I wanted to press my hand there. Just to see if he’d flinch.
"Okay," I said, voice soft.
He turned his head slightly. "Okay?"
"Yeah. I’m not pretending either."
He smiled then. Just a little. Then he reached over and took my plate, set it on the table, and let his hand rest on my knee.
"You’re still hard," he said.
I didn’t deny it. Couldn’t.
His thumb made a slow circle above my kneecap.
"Wanna do something about it?"
I exhaled like I’d been holding my breath for days.
"Yeah."
He leaned in—slow, steady, sure.
And I didn’t stop him.
TWO DAYS LATER
I’d hardly slept the past two nights. After pizza, we didn’t just fool around—we lingered. Touched. Teased. Jeff had a way of keeping his voice low, his hands firm, his mouth everywhere except where I wanted it most. He jerked me off on the couch like it was nothing—like it was routine—and when I came, my whole body gave out. I laid there after, chest heaving, limbs useless, with his hand still wrapped around me like he owned the moment.
And maybe he did. That night rewrote something in my body I hadn’t realized was still blank.
Now it was two days later and I still hadn’t stopped thinking about it.
The shop was loud with the sound of air compressors and classic rock bleeding from an old speaker rigged above the office. My hands were deep in the wheel well of a Toyota Tacoma, sweat sticking the collar of my shirt to my neck. The sun baked through the garage door and the whole place smelled like oil, metal, and heat.
Jeff was working two bays over, sleeves rolled, grease on his forearms, bent over the engine of a wrecked Impala. He looked good like that—focused, capable, silent. Every now and then, he’d glance over. Just a flash of his eyes, then back to work. Like a current passing between us.
"You torque that brake line yet?" he asked, voice carrying just enough to make it sound casual.
"Almost there," I called back.
"Shouldn’t take more than a minute."
I wiped sweat from my brow and tightened the last bolt. My hands were shaking a little. Not from the work. From the way he moved. The way my body still remembered what he did to me on that couch.
Jeff crossed behind me to grab something from the parts shelf, and his arm brushed mine—barely there, but enough to light a fuse. He didn’t apologize. Didn’t flinch.
He crouched beside the truck, checked my work with one glance, then looked up at me.
"You keep looking at me like that," he said low, "and we’re not gonna get shit done."
"I’m not looking."
"Sure you’re not. And I’m the fucking Pope."
I smirked, ducking my head.
He stood, handed me a socket wrench, fingers grazing mine. "You free after shift?"
"Yeah."
"Then finish up. We’ll talk later."
He walked back toward his bay without waiting for an answer.
But he already had one.
By the time the sun started slipping behind the roofline, the shop was quiet. The last customer had picked up their car. The roll-up doors were pulled halfway down, letting in just enough of the gold light to keep things from feeling closed. I wiped my hands on a rag and tossed it in the bin.
Jeff was still under the Impala’s hood, muttering to himself as he torqued something down.
“You heading out?” he asked without looking up.
“Yeah. Trey’s waiting on me.”
He glanced over, brow raised. “Trey?”
“Yeah. Old friend. We both bailed on school around the same time. Figured we’d grab a drink, catch up.”
Jeff gave a short nod. “You drinking or driving?”
“Both. I’ll be fine. Just a couple.”
He looked like he might say more, then just grunted and went back to the engine. “Alright. I’ll be here a while.”
“You staying late?”
“Got a carburetor to clean out and some paperwork I’ve been putting off. Might as well get it done while the place is quiet.”
I hesitated at the door. “You need anything before I go?”
He didn’t look up. “Nope. Have fun.”
I turned to leave, but his voice stopped me halfway through the threshold.
“Text me when you’re on your way back.”
It wasn’t a command. But it wasn’t really a question either.
I nodded. “Yeah. I will.”
Then I stepped out into the evening heat, still feeling the weight of his eyes on my back.
LUCKY'S
Trey was already two beers in and halfway through a greasy basket of fried pickles when I found him at the back booth. The place smelled like spilled lager, burnt fryer oil, and too much cologne on the wrong guy. The lights were low, the music too loud, and nothing had been deep-cleaned since the Bush administration.
“Jesus,” Trey said with a grin, pushing the basket toward me. “You look like you crawled out of an oil drum.”
“Close,” I muttered, sliding into the seat across from him.
“Pickle?” he offered, holding one out between two fingers like it was some gourmet delicacy.
I wrinkled my nose. “Hard pass. I don’t eat shit that’s supposed to be cooked but comes out of a microwave.”
He snorted. “It’s fried, man.”
“In theory.”
He popped it into his mouth anyway, chewing like it proved something.
“So how’s the shop?” he asked through the crunch. “Still playing grease monkey for Daddy Jeff?”
I gave him a look.
“What?” he said, mouth full. “You always call him that when you’re mad.”
“Yeah, well. I’m not mad.”
Trey’s eyebrows went up, but he let it go. He grabbed another beer and slid it across to me. “Then drink up. We’ve got catching up to do.”
We talked. About dumb shit. About work. About the people we used to know. He told me his cousin got arrested again—this time for tagging “fuck the pigs” on a patrol cop whilst the cop was still in the car—the arresting officer, his own uncle, that he’s thinking about moving out of his mom’s place for real this time, that he’s been sleeping with a bartender who says she’s into astrology but can’t name her own rising sign.
I laughed, relaxed into it. Until the silence crept back in and I remembered why I came.
I took out my phone.
Me: You still at the shop?
Jeff: Yeah. Still here.
It was almost 8.
Trey clocked the screen lighting up. “Everything good?”
“Yeah,” I said. “He’s still at the shop. Think I’m gonna swing back, help him close up.”
Trey gave me a long look, but all he said was, “Drive safe. And tell Daddy Jeff I said hi.”
I rolled my eyes, grabbed the last sip of beer, and stood.
“I’ll text you tomorrow,” I said.
“You better.”
And I left. Headed back to the place I said I’d left for the night. But never really had.
Jeff was sitting at the workbench cleaning out a carburetor, parts laid out in neat rows like he was prepping for surgery. He didn’t look up when I walked in, but I could tell he wasn’t surprised.
“Didn’t expect you back,” he said, voice even, hands steady.
“Yeah, well,” I said, setting my keys on the counter. “Figured you could use the company.”
He glanced over his shoulder, eyes catching mine. “You bring beer?”
“No, but I brought my charming personality.”
Jeff huffed a laugh, shook his head, and scooted over on the stool without saying more. Just like that, there was room for me.
“So how was your date with Trey?”
“He says what we’re doing is morally questionable at best and we should probably avoid lightning storms unless we want to get smote mid-orgasm.”
Jeff stopped what he was doing and gave me a flat look.
I held up a hand. “I’m kidding—he said we’re definitely on the first thing smoking to hell, but he’ll save me a seat and bring snacks.”
Jeff relented with a quiet shake of his head, the edge of his mouth quirking like he was trying not to smile.
I stretched, rolled my shoulders, and stood up. “I’m gonna hit the shower. I can’t take one more minute of feeling this grody.”
“Back one’s clean,” Jeff said. “Fresh towels are on the shelf.”
I nodded. “I won’t be long.”
But we both knew I was stalling for something neither of us had said out loud yet.
I turned the knob and let the water run until the steam started to curl upward in lazy swirls. The tile under my feet was cold, the air heavy with the smells of oil and soap and the faint echo of Jeff’s cologne—like he’d showered here recently too. I tested the water with my forearm, heat biting just enough to chase off the grime clinging to my skin. Then I peeled off my shirt, sticky with sweat, kicked off my boots, and stepped out of the rest. No hesitation. No shame. Just the need to feel clean again, inside and out. The spray hit my shoulders hard, and I tilted my head back, letting it soak me through, eyes closed against the sting. It didn’t rinse anything real away. But it helped me pretend—for a minute—that I wasn’t still carrying him in my mouth, my hands, my breath.
I imagine Jeff’s arms wrapped around me—solid, immovable, like scaffolding holding up something sacred. I’ve never seen him set foot in a gym, but he’s built like a house that’s weathered storms. Meanwhile, I can’t pack on ten pounds no matter how hard I try. It’s like standing next to a steel-framed cathedral while I’m still fumbling with blueprints drawn in pencil—unfinished, untested, and half-erased.
I don’t have to imagine for long. Five minutes in, the door creaks open—slow, deliberate, unmistakable. I freeze, water cascading down my back, and then I feel it: arms sliding around my waist, firm and sure, like they belong there. Like they’ve always belonged there. Jeff’s chest presses to my back, hot even through the steam, and he exhales once, low and steady, right against my neck. Every nerve I have lights up like it’s been waiting just for this.
I feel his cock start to swell against the crease of my ass—slow, thick, undeniable—and it takes everything I have not to melt into the tile and beg for more. My breath catches, mouth parting, the heat of him anchoring me in place like a promise I’m not ready to speak but already believe.
“You like that?” he murmurs, his voice like gravel wrapped in velvet, dragging slow across my skin. It’s not just a question—it’s a test, a challenge, a knowing smirk curled into sound, and I feel it everywhere, like it echoes inside my ribs.
He presses his lips to my shoulder—slow, deliberate—then trails a kiss to the bend of my neck, letting it linger. His stubble grazes my skin, a friction that feels more like a promise than a tease. Another breath lands there, hot and quiet, and then his mouth moves again, this time with more purpose, like he’s tasting the part of me I didn’t even know I’d offered.
“I asked you a question.”
Whatever the right answer is, I don’t know it—because every part of me is short-circuited by the fact that he’s here, that this is happening, that it feels this good. So I just breathe through the pulse thudding behind my teeth and say, “Yeah. I like it. I like all of it.”
My voice barely made it out, scraped raw with wanting. He hummed behind me, approving and quiet, and his hands slid lower, palms flattening against my hips. There was no space left between us now—just heat, breath, the rush of water masking the sounds that still managed to feel too loud, too hungry.
“I can feel how much you do,” he muttered, cock pressing harder, thicker, grinding once with intention. “Been thinking about this since you left.”
I push back into him, slow and deliberate, until I feel him pulse against me. My hips roll, matching his rhythm, coaxing another low moan from the back of his throat—thick and involuntary, like it caught him by surprise. His fingers dig into my waist, holding me there, like if he let go, we’d both come undone.
“Jeff—”
He cuts me off with a growl that rumbles against my spine, his mouth close enough to catch the edge of my jaw.
“Call me daddy,” he says, not like he’s asking—but like he’s already claimed it. Like it’s a name I’ve said a hundred times in my head and only now have permission to say out loud.
My breath shudders, caught between resistance and need. And then I give it to him.
“Tell me what you want.”
I want to beg him to fuck me. To bury himself so deep I forget every name but his. I want to tell him to take me—hard, rough, like he owns every inch of me and always has. But if I ask for that—if I give voice to that need—then we’re past the point of no return. This thing between us won’t be a one-off or a mistake. It’ll be real. And I’ll never be able to close that door again.
He shifts his hips again, deliberately this time, sliding the length of his cock between my legs—slow, thick friction grazing across my taint and nudging the heat of my hole. My whole body clenches in response, a wave of raw want rising so fast it drowns out thought. I can’t even pretend to think straight.
I turn, needing to see him—needing more. Water glides down the planes of his chest, highlighting every muscle, every line. His shoulders are massive, his chest rising and falling like he’s holding back a growl.
I press my hand flat to his sternum. Solid. Hot. A wall of strength that doesn’t yield an inch. My fingers drift to his nipple—I squeeze, hard enough to earn a sharp breath from him—then lean in and take the other into my mouth. He tastes like salt and steam and something I’ve been starving for. His hands find my hips again, pulling me closer, until I’m pressed against him, flushed, gasping, and completely his.
He reaches over my back, his hand finding the curve of my ass with practiced ease, and squeezes—hard, possessive, like he’s staking his claim. The pressure sends a jolt through my spine, half pain, all pleasure, and I let out a startled yelp that turns into a breathless moan before I can stop it.
I straighten up, locking eyes with him, and for a second everything stills—the water, the heat, the pounding of my pulse. I want to kiss him. I want to lean in and taste the way his mouth matches the weight of his hands. But something in me flinches, not from fear, but from knowing how much it would mean.
So instead, I reach between us and wrap my hand around his cock. He’s thick, hot, already slick with the spill of want. I stroke him slow, deliberate, each pull a silent confession. His eyes stay on mine the whole time, and the way he watches me—it’s not just lust. It’s ownership. It’s awe. Like he can’t believe I’m real. Like he’s been waiting for this just as long.
“I want you to cum for me. That’s what I want.”
For a second, the heat between us stills, suspended in that bold, bare ask. But Jeff doesn’t look disappointed—if anything, something flashes in his eyes. Darker. Hungrier. Like my answer lit a fuse he’d been holding between his teeth. He doesn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth twitches, and his hand tightens just enough on my hip to let me know: that was the right answer.
My own cock was throbbing, desperate for attention, and I couldn’t ignore it any longer. I wrapped my free hand around myself and started stroking in rhythm with the slow, steady pulls I was giving Jeff. His cock was slick with so much precum it almost slipped from my grip—thick and leaking like he was already halfway to cumming.
I shifted my stance and brought our cocks together, the heat of him against me almost unbearable. With both hands, I wrapped around us, stroking them in tandem, the friction a perfect storm of pressure and need. We slid against each other, skin to skin, the rhythm building, matching the breathless tension curling in my gut. I couldn’t dream up a hotter sight—his eyes locked on mine, jaw tight, chest heaving as we moved together, chasing that sharp edge of release.
He wasn’t holding back his moans anymore. Each one was raw and unfiltered, torn from his throat like he couldn’t keep them in if he tried. That sound—low, gravelly, aching—tore through me, dragging something primal to the surface. It wasn’t just arousal; it was need, aching and molten, rising from some place I didn’t know had a voice until it answered back in kind.
“Fuck, kid,” he groaned, breath ragged. “You’re gonna make me blow just from this.”
My grip tightened involuntarily, his words coiling through my gut like a live wire.
“Then do it,” I breathed. “I want you to. I want to feel it.”
Jeff was a man in every sense of the word—broad, commanding, unapologetically physical—and standing against him, I felt like I was being forged in that same heat. It wasn’t just about his body or the way he moved. It was the gravity of him, the steadiness, the unspoken permission to feel powerful in wanting and being wanted.
“You feel that?” he rasped, grinding into me. “That’s what you do to me.”
I felt myself spiraling—tight, breathless, my orgasm rising from somewhere deep and electric, like it was wound into the base of my spine.
“Jeff—daddy—I’m gonna cum,” I gasped, barely getting the words out before they dissolved into a moan.
I started to twist away, instinct taking over, but he caught my chin with firm fingers and guided me back toward him, eyes locked on mine.
“Look at me,” he growled. “Give that seed to daddy.”
That broke me. My whole body jerked as the climax hit, hard and fast. I came with a choked cry, ropes of cum painting his cock, his stomach, the space between us. My legs nearly gave out, trembling so hard I had to brace against his chest, but he held me steady, strong hands anchoring me while each wave crashed through me like it meant something. Like it changed something. And maybe it did.
He gripped his cock and started jerking with purpose now—fast, tight strokes that made every muscle in his body tense. His jaw was clenched, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile, and his eyes locked on mine with that same dark, feral hunger.
“You want daddy’s cum?” he growled, breath ragged.
“Yes, sir,” I said, the words coming out before I could even think. They didn’t feel like mine—but they fit.
“On your knees. Now.”
I dropped without hesitation, the tile cold and slick beneath me. I looked up at him—his hand pumping, jaw clenched, every muscle carved tight with need—and that was all it took. A sound tore from his chest, rough and guttural, like he was coming apart at the seams. Watching him from this angle, flushed and towering and undone, I thought: fuck, this is what a man looks like. Not some idea. Not some performance. Just him, raw and real and right here.
“Fuck!”
He came with a force that made my breath catch. Thick ropes of cum shot from his cock, splattering across my face, my lips, my chest. One after another—hot, heavy, endless. His hand stayed wrapped around the base, guiding each pulse like he was branding me with it. When the last of it leaked from the tip, he let go with a shaky exhale, then reached down to smear what was left across my cheek with his thumb.
“Good fuckin’ boy,” he muttered, voice like thunder after the strike.
He pulled me to my feet, hands firm on my arms like he was grounding me after a storm. I stood there, pressed to his chest, the steam curling around us like smoke from something sacred. Wrapped up in him, in us, I felt the closest thing to what it meant to be a man—no posturing, no shame—just the charge of bodies knowing exactly what they are and what they’re meant for. Being men together.
TO BE CONTINUED…
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