Angel let out a rough, scratchy chuckle, his forehead dropping to rest against Miko's as he just took a second to exist in the same space. "Holy fuck, you're gonna be the death of me, niño," he muttered, the thick warmth throughout his voice carrying all of that lovely, melted affection for his one and only princess. He stole one more deep, searing kiss, the kind that tasted like a wedding vow, before he finally, with a staggering amount of effort, peeled himself away from the heat of the boy's body. Even though they'd scrubbed the slick evidence of their bathtub tryst from their skin, the bed was already a wreck of rumpled sheets again, smelling of Angel's black licorice soap and the still buzzing, electric fever of their closeness. Angel felt a sharp pang of pride seeing Miko so thoroughly spent, looking soft and cherished against the pillows. He stood up, his muscular frame unabashedly naked, scarred from years of landing jumps and taking spills as a pro, yet still powerful and steady. He snagged a pair of well-worn gray sweatpants from the floor, stepping into them commando. The soft fabric hung low on his hips, doing absolutely nothing to hide the lingering weight of his desire or the thickly pulsating size of his girth. He leaned over, planting a final kiss on Miko's temple, his hand trailing possessively down the boy's flank. "Rest those legs, mi cielo. I'm gonna go see just how bad you thrashed that bike again. Don't take too long coming down, or I might come back up here and finish what you started."
The garage was a place of cold steel and the scent of oil, but today his mind was a chaotic riot of Miko. He knelt beside the mangled motocross bike, his large, grease-stained hands moving with expertise and ease over the bent handlebars and the cracked fairings. It was a mess, forks slightly misaligned, the subframe taking a nasty hit, but he knew these machines better than he knew himself. As he torqued bolts and bled brake lines, he wasn't seeing the metal. He was planning. He wanted to do this right, to give Miko the kind of romance a boy like that deserved. Maybe that little bistro downtown with the pretty soft lights? No, too stuffy. He thought about taking him to the coast----------- letting the salt breeze whip through Miko's hair whilst they ate greasy takeout on the hood of his truck, or maybe finding a quiet spot under the stars where the only sound was the wind and the rhythmic thrum of their hearts. Every time he tightened a nut, he imagined Miko's hand in his; every time he wiped grease from a chrome pipe, he pictured the way Miko's eyes crinkled when he laughed. He was a goner, a man who had spent his life chasing adrenaline and fixing broken things, finally realizing that the only thing he'd ever truly needed to bridge was the distance between him and this boy.
The sound of footsteps on the stairs had Angel's head snapping up instantly, his heart doing a stupid, youthful somersault in his chest. When Miko appeared, looking soft and slightly dazed in the garage light, Angel felt a wave of possessive heat wash over him that nearly buckled his knees. He didn't say a word; he just stood, wiping his hands on a rag and tossing it aside as he crossed the concrete floor in three long, aggressively brisk strides. He reached out, his large hands hooking under Miko's thighs and hoisting him up as if he weighed nothing at all. He marched him over to the wooden workbench, clearing a space with one sweep of his arm before seating Miko on the edge. Angel crowded in between the boy's knees, his calloused palms framing Miko's face, smearing a faint, accidental streak of oil across a pale cheek. "Couldn't stay away, huh?" Angel growled, voice dropping into that darkly honeyed register that signaled the end of his self-control. He pressed his lips against Miko's, a demanding meeting that tasted of desperation and devouring need. It wasn't a gentle kiss; it was a hostile takeover, his tongue sweeping deep into Miko's mouth whilst his hands wandered down to grip the boy's waist, pulling him flush against his chest so Miko could feel exactly what those sweatpants were struggling to contain.