#....yeah....

the seat jerks back, giving you more room to work, and his thighs spread farther apart, eyes shut and throat bared as he leans back into the headrest. your half-eaten takeout is abandoned in the backseat. the local radio is a low buzz in your ears as you pull his jeans down his hips, fingers toying with the waistband of his underwear.

giddy nerves at how new this is mingle with the blood pumping through your veins. you rub your thighs together as best as you can with the contortion of your body kneeling in the passenger seat. he's pinched your chin between his fingers and left a peck on your lips more times than either of you can count. each time the heel of your hand presses into the underside of his covered erection, he hides a groan beneath his breath.

good thing the parking lot is a ghost town. the sun is still ablaze despite the way it's slowly descending, peachy hues illuminating the trail of hair on his stomach from how his shirt rides up and his green, abysmal eyes. when you glance up at him, they're staring at your glowing face. he would never say that you look like an angel, but that's the only thought his sappy mind can muster when he combs his hands through your hair, aroused and smitten.

he doesn't think to warn you until you go to tug his final layer of clothing down his thighs. his eyes widen, maybe the only time he's ever seemed unsure since you met him. "shit, wait—"

a gasp escapes you. his cock hits his tummy, solid and erect. the sun turns silver jewelry into a beacon of golden light. it's delicate and shiny and sticky; the tiny metal beads are drooled on with thick liquid, a long (pathetic, is what he'd call it), clear string of arousal connecting the coarse strands of his pubes to the piercing. the piercing—he has a real piercing jutting through the head of his cock.

you lean farther over the center console, eyes like saucers, your hand clutching his base. he moans weakly. this strong, gruff man—who's a professional corner store beer drinker that always has rough, busted hands—is flushing with embarassment and panting unevenly. he squirms under the assessment like he's about to fail your inspection, his nails awkwardly digging into the leather seat.

"what," you breathe, experimentally stroking him, watching the piercing disappear under his foreskin, "is this?"

he hisses between his teeth. you blink up at him. his face is pink.

"it's, ah, mmh" —you stroke him again, watching his swollen, ruddy skin glide— "a mistake i made a couple decades ago. listen, uh—"

"does it feel good?" you push. he tracks your movements like it pains him to see you so close to where he's begging for your mouth, one pulse at a time. "does it, like, enhance anything?"

your eyes are glazed, lips twisted into a smile. you can't help it—he's painfully pretty like this and full of interesting secrets like barbells on his cock. his hair is a moppy mess atop his head, ruffled from how nervously he's been dragging his fingers through it. he's just cute, and before he can answer, you lean in and offer a flat lick across the pierced flesh.

"fuck." he bodily shivers and collapses from his tense form into a liquid sprawl, palm cupping your head. "shit, please don't tease."

please? he's putty for you—for this, for the feeling of your inquisitive tongue tracing the tangy metal, for the way your warm, wet mouth envelopes the head of his dick like you're hugging him. he's lucky he isn't a kid anymore; at twenty, you wouldn't have been able to even put your lips near him before he'd be shooting into your hand, grunting and bucking against the solid grip.

your dominant hand steadies yourself on his fuzzy thigh as you shallowly bob your head, your other hand sneaking between your legs. the sight of him, all dishevelled and eager, burns a pit of arousal in your stomach—one that's making a mess of your underwear. his length muffles your own groan as you sink deeper on him and nudge your hand into your panties.

his hand tightens in your hair. "shit, baby—you touching yourself?" when you nod around him, he groans, low and growled. "fuck, yes."

the lewd sounds are exacerbated by the tight, warm confines of the car. your wrist rolls as you jerk off what you can't reach, his dick solid and leaking in your mouth as you take more of him. you can't quite reach his balls, but when you get close enough, he nearly whimpers a pained "fuck me" and grips your hair. your tongue continues to tease his piercing, curious and mindful.

he loves it—of course he loves it. you're playing with him like a shiny new toy he just gifted you and it's killing him to keep his hands to himself, to not force you to take the rest of him down your throat in a rough shove of your head. when you pull up and suck hard on his dripping tip, he moans.

"'m gonna cum if y'keep doin' that," he warns, like you don't want him to spill into your mouth, salty and warm—to hear him break because of your ministrations. "baby, baby."

he loves pet names. old school ones, like sweetheart, and baby, and darling. loves calling you them when he's swigging your cheap wine and holding you in his lap. he calls you those things when he picks up the phone or takes you out on dates, when he thanks you for watching his kids when he's busy.

he calls you those things when he's unloading into your mouth in impatient juts and broken cries, pulling at your scalp and thumbing your cheek.

"gonna come, sweetheart—"

that piercing he forgot about—the one that he doesn't particularly care for, the one he just puts up with? the one that's been in the background of his mind for who knows how long? your tongue pushing into it is what sends him reeling over the edge.

he thrusts with a vigorous search for his orgasm, the first one he's gotten by a mouth in too many years. it's evident in the way he freezes as the first rope of cum hits the roof of your mouth. god—he might love you. he might do marriages again, even. might give it another go with you, if you want. why not? you're heaven-sent, with the way you make him feel. you're perfect.

"f-fuck."

satiated tremors ripple the muscles of his biceps, thick gasps escaping his heaving chest, and he's just staring at you. his sore lips are parted, and it's like the wheels in his brain are turning as he watches the spit roll down your chin. he's half-present when you wipe it off with your hand and squeeze his thigh. he licks his lips—your clit has a mind of it's own.

he looks like he's picturing folding you in half and fucking you slow and deep—maybe he's considering how difficult it would be to give you head in the backseat? his eyes flicker with want, jumping between your doe-eyed countenance and your circling fingers.