Muscle and Grease After Closing

I had the bay door half down and the radio low when headlights cut across the lot. Past ten in Phoenix, the asphalt still throwing the day's heat. A white truck limped in on a shredded rear tire, and the man who climbed out filled the doorway before he said a word.

He was built like a summer of hauling stone. Chest broad, arms thick enough that the sleeves of his damp gray tee had quit. Dust on his neck, cap turned backward over short black hair. Early thirties, same as me. He looked at me the way a man looks when he is sizing the room and the guy standing in it.

- You still open?
- For a tire, yeah. Pull it in. The cab smelled like cut grass and hot metal. He climbed out and I got the rest of him: work boots, cargos low on a narrow waist, that shirt stuck to the slabs of his pecs. Sweat had drawn a dark line down his stomach. A thin chain sat in the hollow of his throat.

- Diego. Crew out in Mesa. Blew it on the 60.
- Ryan. Twenty minutes if the spare's good. It was. I jacked the truck and he didn't go sit in the office. He stayed close enough that I felt the heat off his skin. Every time I looked up his eyes were on my shoulders, my hands, the shirt I'd yanked untucked under a Chevy all afternoon. Grease striped my forearms. I knew what he was doing with his eyes.

- You lift.
- Some. You?
- Every morning before the crew. After, if my back lets me. I torqued the last lug and stood. He had an inch on me. I had the wider back. Neither of us moved.
- Spare's on.
- I don't want to leave yet. I killed the radio and dropped the bay door the rest of the way. The air went thick. Diego hauled his shirt off. His chest was heavy, dark hair across it, nipples tight in the AC. A yellow bruise marked one rib. I put my hand there, then lower, and he made a rough sound and got my shirt off too.

His mouth hit mine hard, salt and the metal taste of a long day. I shoved him against the fender and felt him already thick against my hip through those cargos. I got them open. He was bare under them, heavy and hot in my fist, the head slick when I thumbed it. He groaned into my neck and shoved my jeans to my boots. Concrete cold under my feet. His hands were rough from dirt and handles, one spreading me, the other stroking slow until my knees went loose.

I turned him over the hood, paint still warm from the drive. The lotion I kept by the sink for cracked hands did the job. I slicked him, then myself, worked two fingers in until he pushed back and his thighs shook. Tight. Greedy. When I pressed in, the heat of him closed around me and I had to stop, forehead between his shoulder blades, breathing like a heavy set. He reached back, gripped my hip, pulled me deeper. I fucked him there in the bay, long strokes that slapped and rang off the tool chests, one hand in his hair, the other braced on that massive back. Sweat ran off my chest onto his. He took every inch and met me, cock dripping on the hood.

I pulled out before I finished. I wanted more than a bend over steel. I walked him through the side door into the bathroom off the office, the stall shower I'd put in so I could stop going home filthy. Water hot. We stood under it and grease and dust ran off us in gray streams. Up close he was unreal, shoulders rounding into arms that could have cracked me, stomach cut but honest from real work, cock thick and flushed against his abs. I went to my knees on the wet tile and took him in my mouth. Clean skin, last of the salt. I worked him deep, fist at the base, tongue under the head, until his fingers locked in my hair and his hips stuttered. He hauled me off before he came.

He spun me to the tile and gave it back. His tongue was blunt and hungry, opening me, then his cock, slick with soap and what was left of the lotion. He fucked me standing, one arm barred across my chest so I felt every thrust in my ribs, the other hand jerking me in the same rhythm. Water beat my shoulders. My palms slipped. He was thicker than the outside of him had promised and he used it, slow, then harder when I shoved back and took him deeper. The little room filled with the wet sound of us. He still didn't let it end. He bit my shoulder, killed the water, and nodded at the rear door.

We went out naked into the dark behind the shop, where the lot ended and the desert started past the chain-link. Night air hit my wet skin and raised every hair. His truck bed was clear. He dropped the tailgate and I climbed in after him, ridged metal still warm from the day. City glow on the horizon. Tires somewhere on the 10. He lay back and pulled me over him. I sank down on his cock in one long drop, hands planted on that broad chest, and rode him under the stars. His grip bruised my hips. I ground down, felt him deep, felt my own cock slap his stomach every time I rose. He sat up, mouth on my chest, teeth on a nipple, and I lost the rhythm and just fucked myself on him, the truck rocking on its shocks.

I came hard, striping his chest and throat, my whole body locking around him. He flipped me onto my back, hooked my knees up, and drove in until he broke too, pulsing deep, face in my neck, a groan I felt more than heard. We stayed stuck together. The metal cooled under my spine. His weight was a good heavy thing.

After a while he laughed once against my jaw.
- Tire's still on, right?
- It's on. You're not going anywhere fast.
- Good. He kissed me slower then, thumb on my cheek, both of us still hard enough to feel it. The desert night sat on the empty lot like it had been waiting.