Bent Over Cold Steel in Bay Four

The rain had quit by the time I killed the lights in the front office, but the fabrication yard on the east side of San Antonio still smelled like wet steel and creosote. I was thirty-four, thick through the shoulders from a decade under a welding hood, and I should have been halfway to my apartment off Nogalitos. Instead the grinder was still screaming in bay four.

Mateo had his back to me when I stepped into the bay. He was thirty, arms like cable, the kind of back you get from rigging I-beams all day and then still hitting a gym because he liked how it sat on him. Sweat tracked the deep groove of his spine. His lats flared every time he leaned into the cut. Dust silvered his shoulders. I stood in the doorway longer than I meant to, my cock already shifting against my thigh in my jeans.

He killed the tool and the bay went quiet except for the tick of cooling metal. He turned. Grind dust on his jaw, eyes moving from my chest to my mouth and staying there.
- You gonna stand there or hand me the clamps.
- Shop's closed. Storm took the west feed. We're done.
- I'm not done.

His voice was low, Texas with a border edge I had been hearing in my head since he started on Monday. He wiped his hands on a rag and did not look away. I felt it low in my gut, the same pull I had been swallowing since he asked me to spot him on an overhead beam and his thigh pressed the full length of mine like he knew exactly what he was doing.

- Your motel's ten minutes if the ditch did not flood.
- I do not want the motel. He crossed the concrete slow, boots quiet, close enough that I smelled soap under the grind dust and the heat rolling off his bare chest. My cock was heavy now, obvious. He saw it. A small smile, not cocky, just sure of the night.
- Lock the roll-up, Brooks.

I hauled the chain until the door met the floor and the bay went dim except for the work light over the bench. When I turned he was already out of his boots, thumbs in his waistband, watching me like the only job left was my body. He shoved the Carhartts down and stepped free. No underwear. His cock was thick, flushed dark at the head, lifting as I looked at it. I got my shirt off. He was on me before the cotton hit the mat, mouth hot on my neck, hands rough over my pecs, thumbs dragging my nipples until a sound broke out of me. We kissed hard, teeth and tongue, coffee and salt. His chest crushed mine. I felt every ridge of his stomach and the wet drag of his cock along my hip.

I dropped to my knees on the rubber mat. Cold came up through it from the slab. I took him in my mouth slow, lips stretched around the head, tongue flat underneath, then deeper until my nose met the short hair at his base and my throat opened for him. He made a rough sound and his hand settled on the back of my skull, heavy, not forcing, just there. I sucked him steady. Spit slicked my chin. One hand worked what I could not swallow. The other gripped his ass, thick and hard, and I pulled him in. He rocked, careful at first, then less careful. His quads shook against my palms when I hollowed my cheeks and held him deep. I wanted the weight. I wanted the salt and the way he filled my mouth until my eyes watered and I still did not pull off.

He pulled me up by the arms and turned me toward the steel bench. My belt clinked. Jeans and briefs caught at my ankles and I kicked them clear. His palm spread between my shoulder blades and pushed until my chest met cold metal and my ass was up, cock hanging heavy, already wet at the tip. I heard him spit. Then the wet heat of his fingers, one, then two, working me open with a patience that made me push back and curse into my forearm. He curled them and white flashed behind my eyes. I spread my feet wider on the mat and took it, the burn turning sweet, my hole clenching and opening around his knuckles while he breathed hard against my lower back.

He lined up. The blunt head of his cock pressed, paused, then pushed. The stretch was wide and hot and I breathed through it, forehead on my arm, until he sank in inch by inch and his hips sat flush to my ass. I was full in a way that knocked the air out of me. He held still. I felt his pulse inside me, thick and deep. Then he moved, long strokes, the drag of him over that spot that made my knees want to quit. The bench creaked under us. His hands locked on my hips, thumbs dug into the dimples above my ass, and he fucked me harder, skin slapping, sweat dripping off his chest onto my spine. Every thrust shoved me forward. I met him coming back, greedy, hole gripping him, cock slapping my stomach.

I reached under and stroked myself in time with him. He leaned over me, chest sealed to my back, rhythm meaner and deeper until I could not tell his hips from mine. My balls drew up. I came hard, striping the bench, clenching so tight he lost his pace and drove in to the root. He pulsed there, filling me, hips jerking while I shook and took every throb. He eased out slow. I felt him leak down my thigh and stayed bent over the cold steel, breathing, wrecked, not ready to stand.