Sweat and Steel in Bay Three

The bay door was half down and the air in the shop still felt like a furnace. At thirty-four I had grease on my forearm and sweat running into the waistband of my jeans when the delivery truck backed up outside. Dane climbed out in a tight gray tee that clung to his chest and shoulders. He was thirty-one and built like he still hit the weights after every route, thick neck, hard arms, a beard that made his mouth look mean in the best way. He set a brake kit on the bench and looked me over the same way I was looking at him.

"You Vince?" he asked. "Yeah. You got the rotors too, or just the pads?" "Both." He didn't move to the clipboard. His eyes stayed on my chest, on the way my shirt stuck to me. "Hot as hell in here." "AC's been dead since June." I wiped my hands and stepped closer than I needed to. He smelled like sun and clean cotton and a little diesel. "You in a rush?" "Route's done." His voice dropped. "Shop's empty?" "Till morning."

I hit the switch and the bay door groaned the rest of the way down. The light went orange and close. He didn't wait. He caught the front of my shirt and pulled me in, and his mouth was hot and rough against mine. I opened for him. His tongue pushed in slow, then harder, and I felt his cock already thick against my hip through his work pants. "Fuck," I said against his beard. "Been watching you come through here for a month." "Same." He bit my lower lip. "Turn around."

I braced my hands on the warm hood of the Civic I'd been working on. Dane shoved my jeans and briefs down to my boots. The shop air hit my ass, then his big hands did, spreading me, thumbs digging into muscle. He spat, and I heard it, then felt two wet fingers press at my hole. I pushed back. He worked me open with short, steady strokes, knuckle-deep, curling until my cock jumped and leaked onto the paint. "You want it here?" he asked. "Yeah. Don't make me wait."

He unzipped. I looked back and saw him, heavy and flushed, stroking himself once with the same hand that had been in me. He lined up and pushed. The stretch burned sweet and deep. I groaned and dropped my head. He held my hips and fed me the rest until his thighs hit mine and I was full, stuffed, shaking a little on my boots. He fucked me slow at first, long strokes that dragged over that spot until my knees wanted to give. Then he got greedy. The hood rocked under my palms. Skin slapped. His balls swung up against me. Sweat dripped off his chest onto my back. I reached under and jerked myself in time with him, fist tight, precome slicking my grip.

"God, you're thick," I said. "Take it." His hand came around and covered mine, helping me stroke. "Come on this car. I want to feel you squeeze me." I did. It hit hard, white streaks over the hood, my hole clenching around him in pulses. He cursed, drove in deep, and stayed there, grinding, until he pulled out and came hot across my lower back, thick ropes I felt run down into the crack of my ass. We stood there breathing like we'd run sprints. Outside, a car passed on Indian School Road and kept going. "My truck's out back," Dane said, voice rough. "I got wipes. And I want your mouth before I let you put those jeans back on."

I followed him into the cab of the pickup, the vinyl seats scalding, windows cracked just enough. I got him cleaned, then I went down on him while he sat with his boots on the floor mat and his hand in my hair. He was still half hard and got all the way there again fast, salty and heavy on my tongue. I sucked him deep, nose in the trimmed hair at his base, and he talked the whole time, low and filthy, telling me how good my throat felt, how he was going to bend me over his bed later and not be gentle. I worked my tongue under the head and he came a second time with a choked sound, hips jerking, filling my mouth. I swallowed and licked him clean while he watched, chest heaving, that gray shirt rucked up over his abs.

"Come over," he said. "North of the canal. I'll feed you. Then I'm not done." His apartment was a second-floor walk-up with a box fan in the window and the smell of the desert cooling off. We barely got the door shut. He kissed me harder than he had in the shop, walking me backward into the bedroom, stripping my shirt, mouth on my chest, teeth on a nipple until I swore. He shoved me onto the bed on my back and got between my legs. This time he used lube from the nightstand, slicking himself and me, two fingers, then three, watching my face. "Look at me," he said.

I did. He pushed in while we stared at each other, and it was deeper this way, my knees up by his ribs, his thick cock opening me again. He fucked me steady, the bed frame knocking the wall, one hand braced by my head and the other around my cock. I was loud. I didn't care. He kissed me through it, messy, and when I told him I was close he sped up, hips snapping, sweat shining on his shoulders in the fan's stuttering light.

I came between us, striping his stomach and mine. He kept going until his rhythm broke, then buried himself and came inside me, pulsing, groaning my name into my neck. We stayed locked like that until the fan clicked and the room went quiet except for our breath. "Stay," he said. "Yeah," I said. "I'm not going anywhere."