Tara

You drag your hand through your hair and step into the living room with a smile that’s more polite than genuine, and then you see him.

He’s sitting on the far end of the couch like he’s always belonged there, one leg stretched out, the other bent, thick forearm draped over his knee. Big, rough hands. Broad shoulders. Faded tee clinging a little too nicely to a chest that wasn’t built in a gym but came from years of lifting real things - wood, engines, furniture, probably your dad once or twice just for the hell of it.

Brown shaggy hair, barely hiding the signs of time. Strong jaw with stubble, peppered with some sneaky shiny grays. Sharp grin, easy, lazy, tooth gap right in the middle like the universe left a little crack in him just so you’d have a place to fall through.

“You must be the college girl,” he says, and fuck, that voice - low, warm, a Southern lilt curling around the vowels like syrup. “Heard a whole lot about you.”

You don’t realize you’re staring until your dad chuckles. “This here’s Brian. Met him out fishin’, man knows his way around a bass boat and a six pack.”

“Pleasure,” you manage, stepping forward to shake his hand. His grip is firm, slow to let go.

He looks you over, but not like a creep, no - it’s measured, casual, like he’s taking stock. You can tell he’s done it before. You can also tell he knows exactly what he's doing when he smiles at you like that. Friendly, but just the wrong side of innocent.

You sit down in the armchair, knees together, posture neat. Not because your dad would notice anything, but because Brian might.

Brian leans back, drinks his beer, and keeps his eyes on the game. But you feel that pull, the weight of his attention even when it's not on you. The game plays on. Your dad yells at the screen. Brian laughs. And you cross your legs a little slower than necessary, just in case he’s watching.

You'd forgotten how fast the house gets small in the summer. How the heat clings to the drywall and your clothes, how time sticks between your shoulder blades. You wake late, wander barefoot, drink from cold glasses that fog up the moment they leave the fridge. You scroll too much, sleep too little; you try to pretend it’s just summer being summer.

But it's not. Because now Brian is always fucking here now.

You don't even bother to ask why. You don’t need to. It’s just one of those things that happens when middle aged men form inexplicable friendships: they latch on like blood brothers and suddenly they’re inseparable. Watching games, fixing things, drinking in comfortable silence like they’ve known each other for decades instead of a few months. Your dad talks like Brian’s some lost cousin of yours now. “He’s comin’ by later,” “Brian brought over some tools,” “Brian helped me tune up the truck.”

And every time he’s here, you’re a mess.

At first, it’s harmless. He's just around. Helps your dad set up the new grill, shows him something on the TV, brings over a cooler full of beer like he lives down the street. The two of them laugh about some ex girlfriend they never liked. Apparently he’s been through a divorce. Or two.

The first time you walk through the kitchen in shorts, Brian doesn't say a word. But you feel that flick of his eyes, the shift in his posture, the slow stretch of that killer smile when your dad says something stupid and he half laughs behind his beer. That little tooth gap flashing at you like an invitation.

You don't even like older guys. You swear you don't.

But he’s solid. He’s got arms like scaffolding and a voice like molasses and something low and dangerous simmering under all that Southern charm. You start lingering a little more, maybe just for a second or two longer than you need to. Just enough to catch his eye. Just enough to hope he looks.

It’s the way he fucking sits, thighs spread, arms resting over his knees, fingers tapping absently against cold glass. It’s the way he says your name when your dad tells you to grab something from the kitchen. The way he smiles at you, slow and a little crooked, like it’s a secret just between the two of you.

You feel it deep. Not even in your stomach. No, directly in your cunt. Hot and ridiculous and humiliating. Your thighs press together like it’s involuntary, because sometimes it is.

One afternoon, you're passing through the hallway while they talk about car maintenance - or football or fishing or whatever man noise they've settled on that day - and you hear your dad laugh through the open door.

“You don’t ever get tired of goin’ home to an empty house, man?”

Brian huffs a low, amused breath. “Nah... Ain't nothin' better than getting home to the sound of silence.”

It’s said so casually, barely a pause between sentences. But you feel it. A twitch, a prickle at the base of your spine. You don’t stop walking, don’t let yourself even slow down, but your eyes flick up for a second as you pass. He’s already looking at you.

No smile this time. Just a look - knowing and amused. Maybe even a little curious.

You barely sleep that night. You lay on top of the covers, flushed and sweating, thighs aching, fingers between your legs and his voice thick in your ears like a broken record.

It gets worse the first time you see him smoking.

You’re just getting home from a walk - just seeing what changed since you moved away for college - and there he is. Leaning against the porch railing, half in shadow, lighting up like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Burning Marlboro between two thick fingers, zippo clink-snapping, a slow inhale with his head tipped back.

You’ve never found smoking hot. You’ve even told people that. Sworn up and down that it’s gross.

But the way he does it - lazy, practiced, like he’s got nowhere to be and all the time in the world to ruin you - it sparks something in your stomach. You stand there for half a second too long, staring at the curve of his mouth around the filter, the wrinkle at the bridge of his nose when he exhales slow through it.

“Hey, college girl,” he drawls, voice rougher than usual, like smoke got tangled in it.

You don’t even remember what you say back.

The next time he comes over, you barely make it through lunch.

Your dad's out back spraying down the patio. Brian’s in the kitchen, elbow leaning on the counter while he drinks something cold from a sweating glass. You wander in with the pretense of rinsing out a mug, keeping it casual. Normal. But when he glances up, he gives you that lazy smile again, like he’s not even trying to kill you.

“You settlin’ back in okay?” he asks, voice a slow drawl that makes your knees itch. “Gotta be different from campus life.”

You nod, too quickly. “It’s quieter, for sure.”

He grins. “Bet you don’t miss the tests, though.”

“No,” you say, and then, before you can stop yourself: “I might miss the distractions, though.”

It hangs there. Quiet. Heavy.

His gaze drops barely. Not subtle, not obscene either - just enough to make your breath stutter.

He lifts his glass again, watching you over the rim as he drinks.

“How old are you now?” he asks, voice casual, like he’s asking what major you picked instead of checking if he’s stepping over a line.

You smile. “Old enough to know better.”

And fuck, you almost regret saying it the moment it leaves your mouth. Almost. But you hold the look. You don’t back down.

He smiles slower this time. Like he’s tucking that little answer away somewhere warm and private.

From the backyard, the hissing of the hose cuts off. Your dad’s coming back.

You rinse your mug, heart pounding, thighs pressed tight together, mouth too dry.

Brian leans back against the counter, watching you like he’s just figuring out what kind of game you’re playing.

You think that’s the end of it, you really do. Just a casual little moment that you’ll squirrel away for later, up in your room, alone with your fingers. You’re still humming with it, flustered and hot under the skin, about to make your quiet escape upstairs, when-

“Brian,” your dad calls from the open back door. “You mind running to the store? I forgot to pick up the meat for the grill.”

Brian groans, real dramatic. “Sir, yes sir,” he drawls, mock saluting with two fingers, beer still in hand. Your dad snorts and waves him off.

Your mouth moves before your brain does. “I’ll come too.”

Both men look over at you. You lean casually against the wall like you haven’t just been thinking about Brian’s hands around your throat for the past fifteen minutes.

“I wanna see if anything’s changed around town,” you add, breezy, like you haven't been doing just that for the past week since being back. “I’ve been gone a while. Might grab something for myself.”

Your dad shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

Brian tips his head in a loose nod, mouth twitching like he knows.

You follow him out to the truck, a beat up rusty red thing that rumbles low when he starts it. He moves around it like he’s been driving it for decades. Like he is the truck. And when you climb into the passenger seat and close the door, you realize two things:

One - it smells like him.

Not just sweat and smoke, but something sharp and masculine underneath, like old cologne that should be called "Panty Soaker", and pine sap and a trace of grease. Something faintly woodsy, faintly wrong. The kind of scent that shouldn't make your cunt throb but does anyway. You squirm a little, heart doing stupid things in your chest.

And two - you forgot your seatbelt.

You reach for it, fumbling with the buckle, and then Brian’s hand is there instead. Steady and calm and deadly.

“Here,” he murmurs, already leaning over.

You freeze. His chest brushes your arm, warm through his t-shirt. His breath ghosts past your jaw, hand coming across your lap slow and certain, and the back of it - rough, callused by work - presses up against your tit as he clicks the buckle into place.

The touch is brief and accidental. Totally innocuous.

But your nipple still goes hard under the fabric, and you think he feels it, because his eyes flick to yours for just a second before he pulls back.

“Safety first,” he says, amused.

You force out a breathy laugh. “Right. Of course.”

The drive should be short. You’ve done this run a thousand times. But today it feels like an entire road trip. The engine hums low, the summer heat warping the world outside, and you keep shifting in your seat, thighs pressed tight, because fuck. The windows are down but it’s not enough.

At the first red light, he lights a cigarette, and you almost lose your mind.

It’s slow like everything else he does. One hand on the wheel, the other flicking his lighter, cig perched lazy between two fingers. He draws it in, deep and idle, and your eyes follow the movement like it’s choreographed, like he’s doing it just for you.

You hate the smell, the diseases that come with it. But this is sex in motion. This is your legs twitching, breath skipping, hands digging into the hem of your shorts like they might save you from yourself.

Brian glances at you out of the corner of his eye. “You alright over there, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart.

You nod too quickly. “Yeah. Just… warm.”

He blows smoke out the window, lips curled. “Yeah. Summer here’ll do that.”

You press your thighs together harder.

He says nothing else, just drives with that one hand on the wheel and the other resting casually on his thigh, cigarette dangling, ash drifting, windows down and the wind tugging at the collar of his shirt. You sneak a glance when you think he’s not looking - at his jaw, the stubble there, the vein in his forearm flexing when he turns the wheel. At his mouth, parted slightly around the filter.

He knows. You're sure he knows. It’s in the smirk that threatens every time you look away too fast. In the silence that stretches, thicker and heavier with each passing second.

You’re already wet by the time the store comes into view. The same sad little building it’s always been, with weather worn siding, a rusted sign, flickering neon in the window that hasn’t changed since you were in middle school.

The parking lot’s quiet when he pulls in, just a few scattered cars and the heavy buzz of cicadas droning from the trees beyond. The truck rumbles low, rocking gently as he throws it into park.

He stretches his arms overhead, shirt riding up just enough to expose a sliver of his lower stomach, the dark trail of hair disappearing into his jeans. The motherfucker.

“Be right back,” he mutters, tapping the dash with two fingers. “Don’t run off.”

Like you could.

The second the door closes, the heat inside the cab spikes tenfold. You exhale like you’ve been holding your breath the whole time - which, you might have with the way you're panting now.

It’s not even a minute before your hand’s pressing between your thighs, subtle but needy, trying to ease the pulse that’s been throbbing since he touched your seatbelt. You can’t stop shifting, thighs rubbing for any relief, underwear clinging to your cunt like a second skin. It does nothing. Not when your brain’s replaying the brush of his fingers against your nipple in crisp HD detail and his smell is all around you.

You don’t even remember what the hell you said you needed from the store. That thought left your body the moment Brian leaned over you like he owned the air you breathed.

He’s quick. Barely five minutes pass before he comes back, two plastic bags swinging from one hand. There’s a heat to him when he opens the door, a fresh blast of sun and sweat and man, and you scramble to sit like you weren’t just about to hump the seat.

“Only had ribs left,” he grunts, tossing the bags onto your lap. “Hope your dad ain’t picky.”

You practically snatch them. “I’ll hold ‘em.”

The weight of the meat gives you something to hide behind. A barrier. A fucking prop to mask the frantic, desperate squirm of your thighs as he settles back in beside you.

Brian raises a brow, but doesn’t comment.

The truck growls to life again, and you start the drive back. Or, he does. You’re just trying to stay sane. It’s quiet for a few minutes, windows rolled partway down, the wind kissing your skin just enough to sting where you’re hot and aching.

Then, he fucking says it.

"Y'know," he begins, slow and easy, flicking ash out the window with one hand on the wheel, "you keep rubbin' your legs together like that baby, you're gonna start a fire."

Your whole body locks up then melts. The heat between your legs pulses, sharp and greedy, and your head turns fast enough to give you whiplash.

You want to die. Or melt. Or crawl into his lap and grind until the ache goes away. Anything but this excruciating limbo.

Your voice comes out smaller than you intend, but still laced with heat. “Well. You’re the one who lit the match.”

Silence.

Brian turns his head just enough to cut you a look. Eyes dragging over your face, down your chest, lingering on the way your thighs twitch under the grocery bags.

The corner of his mouth lifts. Not a smile. A threat.

“Girl,” he says, warning low, “I’m twice your damn age.”

“Not quite,” you murmur.

“Your daddy’d skin me alive.”

“Not if he doesn't find out.”

It rings in the truck. The kind of pause that leaves you exposed and vibrating with nerves, unsure if you’ve crossed a line or stepped straight into a fire you can’t put out.

You almost laugh. You can’t believe yourself. Can’t believe him. Can’t believe this is real and not some dirty late night fantasy you cooked up during finals week.

Another beat of silence, then he exhales sharply through his nose. Something like a laugh, something like a curse. A hand comes up, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Shit.”

He doesn’t say anything else.

Just swerves onto a side road. A forgotten little access road behind an abandoned building, tucked into the trees, the kind of place teenagers go to smoke weed or fuck in secret. Gravel crunches under the tires as he pulls around to the back of the building and slides the truck into the shade.

He puts it in park then leans back, crosses his arms, and lets out one of those low, rough throated dad sighs. The kind that comes from somewhere deep in the chest, worn and exasperated and loaded.

You stay still, breathing hard. The ribs are heavy in your lap, but not heavy enough to weigh down the full body ache that’s curling low and hot in your belly.

He doesn’t look at you. He just waits like he’s giving you the floor. Like he’s giving you a choice.

And you take your pick real quick.

You move real slow, real careful, like you’re trying not to spook a wild animal. Your hands slide the bag of ribs off your lap, set it gently on the dashboard. It thuds against the plastic, soft and weighted - nothing compared to the pounding of your heart in your ears, in your throat, in your fucking clit.

Brian still hasn’t looked at you, but he hasn’t stopped you either.

You shift closer. Inching, crawling into his space like a heat seeking missile. The cab’s not big, and the heat in it is oppressive, stifling. You can smell him again - dust, pine, skin, man. Every molecule is sticking to you, soaking in through your pores like gasoline.

And then, finally, finally, he turns. Meets you halfway. Leans in so slow your breath catches on your tongue, your mouth already parting in anticipation. His hand comes up, not to stop you, but to brush his knuckles along your jaw just once, featherlight.

And his voice, when it hits you, is a wrecking ball in the chest.

“That thirsty, huh?” he murmurs, lips brushing yours but not giving in. “Big enough of a slut to crawl into some grown ass man’s lap just ‘cause he smiled at you?”

Your whole body shivers. Your clit throbs, your thighs tighten like a vice. You can't even breathe, let alone speak.

Because before you can answer, Brian takes your mouth. Devours it. The kiss is messy in an instant. Tongue and teeth and breath and heat. He groans low into your mouth, not soft, not sweet, just hungry, like he’s tasting something so sweet it chokes in his throat. But he’s not sloppy, not needy. You’re the one chasing his tongue, you’re the one moaning, melting, clawing at his chest with shaking hands.

He’s calm and controlled. Because this isn't his first time making some wide eyed needy thing lose their mind in the front seat of a truck.

His hand stays on your jaw, firm now, fingers threading into your hair as he angles your head, deepens the kiss like he owns your mouth, and you let him. Beg him. Your hips squirm without permission, and that’s when his other hand moves, right up your chest.

Fingers find your tits through your shirt and he pinches one of your nipples, lazy and practiced. Like he’s barely thinking about it, like he knows what it’ll do to you and doesn’t need to try.

You fucking whimper. Whimper.

And that smug, amused breath of laughter he huffs into your mouth makes you want to cry and cum at the same time.

“Oh, sugar,” he coos mockingly, slow and smoky between kisses and laughter, “look at you. You’re gonna make a mess in my seat, huh?”

Your hand scrambles down to his lap without thinking. Palm pressed hard against his crotch, finding the thick line of his cock through his jeans and gripping tight. Messy and desperate. You rock into him with your wrist, just enough friction to make your thighs quake.

He laughs again, a deep, warm, drawl of a laugh, fond and filthy and just the right kind of mean.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, eyes half lidded and wild with heat. “Desperate, huh? Like I ain’t even gotta touch you and you’ll cum on the spot.”

You want to argue, to say something smart and sassy. Instead, your hips jerk again and he just grins.

“Go on then,” he drawls, tapping two fingers against the denim over his thigh like he’s giving you a fucking command. “Show me how wet, baby. Maybe I’ll think about lettin’ you ride it.”

Your throat goes dry. Your panties are ruined.

You move fast, too fast, and he chuckles low when your knee bangs the glove compartment. But you’re already slipping a hand down the front of your shorts, past the waistband of your panties - drenched.

Fingers slide right in with no resistance, and yu gasp, legs twitching, the obscene squelch echoing in the tight cab. Brian groans.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, watching you like you’re something obscene. “You finger yourself that fast all the time or is it just ‘cause you want my cock?”

You moan - shaky, humiliated, needy.

“‘Course it is,” he answers for you, reaching over, taking your wrist. Pulls your hand out and shoves two of your fingers in his mouth. Sucks them with that slow swirl of his tongue like he’s tasting dessert. Like he likes it.

And then, before you can breathe, his own hand is in your shorts. Thick, rough fingers, way bigger than yours, pushing inside you like they belong there. The stretch makes your eyes roll, and he’s so lazy with it it's bordering on disrespectful. Slow pumps, no buildup. Just fucking you with a knuckle deep pressure that makes your thighs snap shut around his wrist.

“Oh my god-”

“Yeah, that's right,” he breathes against your jaw, voice a low rumble. “So fuckin’ tight. You ain’t had a real man in you, huh? Been lettin’ some soft lil’ college boy rub your clit and call it sex?”

You’re soaked. Soaked. Your thighs are clenched, hips rocking against the seat, trying to get friction from air while two thick fingers drag along the top wall of your cunt with this casual rhythm that wrecks you.

Squish, squelch, squick - so fucking loud it fills the cab, slick coating his fingers and seeping through the denim of your shorts. He pushes them further down with his knuckles, thumb brushing your clit every now and then, just enough to make your legs twitch.

You’re panting.

He snorts. “That all it takes? Two fingers and some sweet talkin’? Fuck, you're a mess.”

Then, just to prove it, he picks up the pace. Fucking you deeper, harder, and you clamp a hand over your mouth but it’s too late. A high, messy sob rips out anyway. Your cunt clenches around his fingers and you cum like a fucking earthquake - loud and sudden. Shaking. So fast it’s almost pathetic. Almost. Brian thinks it’s adorable.

It hits so hard your hips jump off the seat, and he just laughs. Not cruel, just amused - pleased.

“Shit,” he grins, dragging his fingers out slow, soaked in you. He holds them up, watches a string of slick stretch between them like a web. “You really are a fuckin' slut.”

You whimper, but you’re already unbuckling his jeans. You can’t help it. You need him in your mouth. He shifts just enough, pulls his cock out - flushed and thicker than you had time to imagine. Your mouth waters instantly.

“C’mon,” he mutters, tone lazy like he’s asking you to pass the remote. “You gonna suck it or just stare?”

You don't even ease into it. Mouth stretching around the head, tongue dragging hot and slow along the underside. You spit, let it drip from your tongue to his shaft and stroke him with your fist, spreading it all messy, coating him, strings of spit breaking when you pull back to breathe.

Then you take him in again, deeper and sloppy. The tip of his cock bumps your soft palate and your throat flutters.

“Fuuuck,” he groans, head falling back against the seat. One hand finds your head, not pushing, just resting, while the other fishes in his shirt pocket for a cig. “This the shit you learn in college, baby?”

You moan around him. Spit gurgling, drooling past your lips and down to your chest, soaking your shirt. It’s dripping onto the seat, pooling between his legs. Your nose is pressed to his pelvis, throat flexing around him, thighs pressing together when the clink of his lighter hits your ears.

“Get the balls too,” he murmurs, smoke hissing out around his words. “C’mon. You wanna be a good girl, don’t you?”

You dip lower, drool stringing down between your tits, and take one of his balls into your mouth, tongue swirling wet around the heat where all that spit pooled down where your hand wasn't quick enough to catch it. His breath stutters. You look up, barely able to see him through tears you couldn't stop, and the sight makes your whole body clench.

He looks like a fucking dream. Hair pushed back off his face, brow furrowed, cigarette tucked in the corner of his mouth like he forgot it was there, ash curling long at the end, barely hanging on. His nostrils flare as he exhales smoke slow through his nose, cock heavy on your cheek, his hand keeping your head just close enough.

“Yeah?” he mutters, barely above a whisper. Smirking like he’s watching the goddamn sunrise. “You like that?” he rumbles, one hand dropping heavy to your hair. His fingers card through slow at first, gentle. But then they twist, and he’s guiding your mouth back on his cock with slow pulls and pushes, easing you into a rhythm that’s got your throat straining and your jaw burning.

You choke when he nudges deeper, and his hand tightens - not mean, just firm, controlling the pace like he’s shifting gears. He groans deep and rough, like thunder rolling in his chest, and you feel him swell on your tongue.

And just when you think he’s about to lose it, Brian tugs you back by the hair, slow and deliberate, like pulling you out of a dream. His cock leaves your mouth with a wet pop, drenched by your throat. He leans forward, ashes his cigarette out the window, and gives your swollen lips a once-over.  Spit strings between them and his shaft, connecting like glue, trailing across your chin and cheek as you pant for breath.

“C’mere.”

He reaches for the lever on the side of his seat and yanks it back with a few clicks and a thunk until he’s laid almost flat, pants shoved down, cock standing up and twitching against his stomach.

“Turn ‘round.”

You blink, breathless and dazed.

“Ass to me, baby,” he says, patting his lap. “Wanna see what all that bouncin’ looks like. Hold the wheel if you need to.”

You’re already climbing. Clumsy, fevered, losing your clothes in a daze. Shorts shoved down, panties a lost cause. You face the dash, plant your hands on the steering wheel for balance, spreading yourself on your haunches above him, wide enough to hear an approving hum behind you.

The stretch is criminal once you sink down. Your cunt flutters around the thick push of him as he sinks in inch by inch, cock parting you wide and deep.

He groans. Hands gripping your hips. Head dropped back against the seat.

“Shit,” he grits out. “Tight as fuck. Feels like you're gonna break my dick.”

You’re already bouncing, rhythm messy and desperate, thighs trembling as you fuck yourself on his cock like it’s the only thing keeping you alive, steering wheel creaking in your grip, the whole cab rocking with every slap of your ass against his hips.

His hands slam down on your ass, spreading you, guiding you, thumbs digging in to see the way his cock disappears into your slick, clenching cunt, watching the helpless flutter around him every time you lift and drop. Slapping the curve and lifting you just enough to slam you back down.

“Shit,” you gasp, hair stuck to your cheeks, sweat dripping down your back. “Fuck- fuck, Brian-”

You look back, mouth open, eyes glazed. He’s watching you like you’re something divine. Smoke curls from his nose, half lidded eyes fixed on the way your ass sways and ripples every time you slam down on him. The sight alone is enough to make your knees buckle above him.

He takes one last drag, lip curled, then flicks the cigarette out the cracked window.

“Look at you,” he mutters, voice honeyed and thick with awe and smoke. “Look at this fuckin’ show. This what you wanted, baby?"

You whine, nodding frantically, rolling your hips harder, sloppier. It's so much better than your mind conjured up in the privacy of your room. The way he talks alone is enough to make your eyes roll back into your skull, but the way he thrusts up to meet your movements, cock hitting so deep you feel it in your stomach, is enough to get you clenching again.

Brian lets go of one cheek and grabs a fistful of your hair instead, wrapping it around his wrist and yanking your head back, keeping your spine arched while you grind on him.

“C’mon, baby, ride this shit,” he grunts, low and ragged. “You gonna cum f'me again?”

You sob - that’s how close you are. And you do. It feels like something detonating in your pelvis, your walls clenching so hard it's a wonder they're not snapping his cock in half, thighs twitching, whole body shuddering with the force of it. You cry out, damn near screaming, chest heaving, tears spilling from your eyes as you writhe on his cock.

But he doesn’t let you stop.

“Uh-uh,” he growls, voice thick. “Keep movin’. You want me to cum too? Keep movin’, sweetheart.”

You do your best riding through the aftershocks, overstimulated, breathless, using every last bit of strength you’ve got to keep bouncing - but you're barely keeping up with him chasing his own high, pounding up into you so hard it knocks you forward every time.

Brian groans loud, grip tightening. You feel him swell inside you, feel the twitch of his cock, the sharpness of his breath.

But right before he cums, he smacks your ass.

“Off. Get off it.”

You scramble forward, barely catching yourself on the steering wheel. Chest pressed against it and the top of your head brushing the windshield, panting, trembling. You don’t even fully register what’s happening until you feel his cock slide out, slick and shiny with your cum, the cool air hitting your soaked pussy.

And then his moan.

You look back, dazed, and see him fisting himself fast, cock flushed and soaked, abs flexing as he stares at your swollen cunt and the twitch of your thighs, ass arched up like an offering.

“Jesus fuck, baby-” he growls, and then he cums, thick ribbons of it painting up his stomach and down his hand, dripping off the hair on his belly.

He pants through it, watching your body shake as you stay bent over the wheel, your thighs glistening and your cunt fluttering with every little aftershock.

Silence.

Just the sound of your heavy breathing and the creak of the car riding out your desperate bounces.

You don’t move.

Neither does he.

And behind you, Brian finally lets out a hoarse laugh, low and breathless.

"Y'better pray your daddy ain't asking for a ride anytime soon sweetheart. Whole damn car smells like we fucked in every seat now."

The air inside the truck’s thick with sex and heat and smoke. The windows fogged up, your thighs still twitching, your cunt swollen and sticky and throbbing with every bump in the road since Brian pulled back into the main road.

You’re slouched in the passenger seat, half dressed and still boneless, one leg propped up like you’re trying to breathe. Your shorts are around your thighs - inside out and crusted with slick - and your fingers fumble uselessly at the button as he lights a cigarette with one hand and drives with the other.

“Fuck,” you whisper, dragging a shaking hand over your face. “Fuck.”

He glances over at you with a little laugh, smoke curling out his nose.

“You good, sweetheart?”

You shoot him a look, loose limbed and dazed, then huff as you yank your shorts up high enough to cover your mess. The zipper’s stuck. Of course it is.

Brian pulls the cig from his mouth and holds it out to you without thinking, all casual.

You just blink at it, then scoff breathlessly. “I don’t smoke.”

He smirks around the cigarette as he puts it back between his lips. “Shit. Coulda fooled me,” he mutters around a grin. “You been eyein’ my smokes all damn day. I figured you just didn’t wanna light up in front of your daddy.”

You snort. Almost choke on it. Bite back the urge to tell him you've been eyeing his mouth around the smokes instead.

The rest of the drive is quiet, save for the radio fuzz and the occasional drag from his cig. Your heartbeat’s finally slowing down by the time he pulls back into your driveway.

The engine cuts and the quiet is loud. The ribs had gotten warm in the bag and you’re walking a little funny, but he doesn’t say a word as he follows you to the front door - clearing his throat like he's trying to shake the taste of your slick off his tongue.

You swing the door open and step inside, trying to school your face into normal.

Your dad’s in the kitchen, leaning on the counter with a beer in hand, and he glances up when the door shuts behind you.

“Took you long enough,” he mutters, eyes drifting lazily to the bag in your hand. Squints. “Ribs? Thought I said pork chops." He groans, loud and grating, running a hand over his face like this is the real inconvenience of the day.

And you stand there behind your dad, tugging the hem of your shirt down to hide the open zipper of your shorts - and your shame, mostly - and when you look up, you catch Brian's eye.