Fucked Slow in a Grants Garage

I had the bay door half down when his headlights cut across the wet asphalt and died in my lot. I was thirty-six and had owned the only garage still open past supper on the west edge of Grants for eight years. The truck was a dented silver Tacoma, New Mexico plates, steam lifting off the hood. He killed the engine, sat a second like he was losing an argument, then jogged through the downpour. Thirty, easy, maybe a year under. Wet flannel stuck to a broad chest. A white scar cut one eyebrow. He stopped under the eave and shook water out of his hair, and the want hit me low before he spoke.

- You open?
- Twenty more minutes. What'd she do to you?
- Belt. Started screaming ten miles back. I nursed her in on hope and bad language.
- I'm Eli. You got a name, or just a smoking truck?
- Cole. Cole Harlan. I can push her in if the battery's still got a pulse.
- Leave it. I'll roll her. I can look, but the parts house locked up at six. Nothing till morning.

He smelled like rain, hot metal, and a cedar soap that didn't belong on a breakdown. I got the Tacoma onto the lift, found the belt chewed to threads, and told him straight. The motel by the interstate was full for a wedding. My office had a cot, a space heater that clicked, and a shower I'd plumbed behind the parts shelves because I slept over the garage more nights than not. He looked at the cot, then at my mouth, and the careful thing in his face tipped into hunger.

- I can pay you for the floor.
- Pay me for the belt when the truck gets here. Shower's through that door if you want the highway off your skin.
- You planning to stand in the doorway the whole time?
- Only if you tell me to stay.

He held my eyes. Rain ticked on the metal roof like somebody drumming a slow song. Then he nodded once, the way a man nods before he jumps a fence he already wants on the other side of. He peeled the flannel in the bathroom doorway and the cloth fought him, sucking at his shoulders, his ribs, the dark trail of hair under his navel. I followed because he glanced back and did not tell me to quit. The stall was loud and small, water slamming hot enough to pink his skin. He tipped his face into it. I watched the road wash off his throat and gather in the notch above his collarbone, then run down the center of his chest.

When I stripped he looked without pretending, eyes dragging from my chest to my stomach to my cock, which hung heavy and then thickened under the stare. His was thicker than the wet flannel had suggested, flushed dark at the head, lifting as the heat found him, a vein standing along the shaft. I stepped in. Chest to chest, slick and shocking. His mouth opened on the side of my neck and stayed there, wet and breathing, teeth grazing, until I turned and took his mouth. He bit my lower lip and soothed the sting with the flat of his tongue. I got a hand around both of us. The drag of his shaft against mine, water turning every stroke filthy-smooth, pulled a sound out of his chest that vibrated straight into my teeth.

I worked us until his hips chased my fist, the head of him smearing slick on my belly. His hands were rough from a wheel and a fence, and they learned me fast, one thick finger pressing between my cheeks, asking without a word. I bent, forearms on the tile, ass tipped into the spray, and he slicked us from the bottle on the shelf. One finger, then two, twisting me open while his other hand stayed fisted at the base of my cock. My forehead hit the tile. When he lined up and pushed, the stretch burned sweet and wide, and I took him until his hips seated flush and his breath broke against my shoulder.

He fucked me standing, short strokes that lengthened until the wet slap of us was louder than the shower. Every thrust knocked a grunt out of me. He found the spot inside and stayed on it, grinding deep, one forearm barred across my chest so I couldn't fold forward and hide. He pulled out slow, turned me by the hip, and walked me dripping across the concrete to the cot without letting go. I went down on my back on the thin mattress. He shoved my knees up, slicked himself again with a rough palm, and sank in deeper, watching my face the whole way, jaw tight, eyes black in the bad office light.

I locked my ankles behind him. The cot squeaked like it had a personal grievance. He set a pace that was all weight and intent, balls snug against me on every stroke, his stomach dragging over my cock until I was leaking between us in a slick stripe. I got a hand on myself. He knocked it away and took over, rough palm, perfect pressure, fucking me and stroking me on the same ruthless beat. Heat climbed my spine and broke. I came hard across my stomach and his wrist, clenching around him so tight his rhythm shattered. Three more thrusts and he buried himself to the root, pulsing, filling me in thick hot rushes I felt more than heard, his whole body shaking against mine.

He stayed inside me while we came down, forehead pressed to mine, neither of us rushing to make it ordinary. His hand stayed spread on my chest, thumb lazy over a nipple. Rain kept hammering the bay door. In the morning there would be a belt and a bill. Right then I didn't ask him to move.