Under His Hands in an East Austin Storm

The rain hit the second I locked the back door of the taqueria, a mean Austin storm that turned the alley to a river. I was thirty-one, wrung out after a double, shirt stuck to my back. Across the street under a sagging awning stood the man who had sat at my bar all night. Broad through the chest, sunburned neck, work boots pale with drywall dust. He had watched my hands. I had watched his mouth.

"You walking?" he called over the rain. "Trying," I said. "Weather's got opinions." He nodded at a dusty white truck. "Wade. I meant to ask your name inside, but you never stopped moving. Get in." I crossed the street. Rain soaked me through. "Eli," I told him, and climbed up. The cab smelled like cedar, sweat, and orange job-site soap. His thigh sat close to mine on the bench, heavy and warm through damp denim.

"East side," I said. "But I'm not in a hurry." He looked at me, really looked, and his mouth went crooked. "Good. I'm thirty-four, and I'm not in a hurry either." We rode quiet. His scarred hand rested on the shifter, and every gear change dragged his forearm along mine. At a red light on Chicon he let that hand fall open between us. I put mine in it. His palm was rough and hot. He squeezed once, hard enough that I felt it low in my gut.

"My place is two blocks," he said, voice dropped. "Rental off Holly. Porch light's busted. Nobody's waiting." "Then drive." The bungalow was small and yellow, paint peeling at the eaves. A lamp and a box fan pushed wet air around a nearly empty room. He shut the door and I was on him, mouth on his, tasting beer and salt and rain. He walked me into the wall. One big hand spread over my chest. The other slid under my shirt, found a nipple, and pinched. I gasped into the kiss.

"Wanted this since you set that plate down," he said against my jaw. "You kept staring at my mouth." "I decided," I said, and yanked his shirt up. His stomach was soft over hard muscle, a dark line of hair vanishing into his jeans. I palmed him through the denim. He was thick already, straining the seam. He cursed and ground into my hand, breath hot on my ear. "Bedroom's that way. Or here. I don't care, long as I get you naked."

We stripped in the hall, clumsy and greedy. His boot stuck. We laughed, short and shaky, and then he was naked in the lamplight and the laugh died in me. Wide shoulders. A chest dusted with hair. His cock heavy and flushed, curving up, the head already slick. He looked at me the same way, and mine jumped against my stomach. I wanted my mouth on him and my hands everywhere. "Here," I said.

He dropped to his knees on the cool wood like he'd been waiting all night. No tease. He licked a slow stripe up the underside of my cock, then took me in, hot and wet, cheeks hollowing. My hand found his hair. The heat of his mouth and the drag of his tongue. He sucked me deep, one fist around what he couldn't take, the other gripping my ass and pulling me forward until I had to brace on the wall. "Wade. Don't stop." He pulled off, lips shiny, and looked up. "I won't. But I want inside you. You want that?" "Yes. You got anything?"

He kissed the head of my cock, filthy and sweet, and came back with a condom and a bottle. On the rug he turned me onto my hands and knees. Slick fingers pressed between my cheeks, circling, then one pushed in. I groaned and dropped my head. He opened me slow, two fingers, then three, curling until heat shot up my spine and I pushed back and swore. "Ready?" "Now. Please."

He rolled the condom on. I felt the blunt press of him, and then he was pushing in. The stretch burned wide and sweet. I breathed through it, fists knotted in the rug, and he waited, a rough hand stroking my spine, telling me I was taking him so good. When I nodded he sank the rest of the way, thick and deep, and held until my head went blank with how full I was. Then he moved. Long strokes first, dragging over that spot until my arms shook. Then harder. The slap of his hips, the wet sound, his hand under me fisting my cock in the same rhythm. I shoved back to meet him. Sweat ran down my ribs. The fan ticked. Thunder rolled over the east side and all I knew was the way he filled me, his teeth at my shoulder, his voice gone rough in my ear.

"I'm close," I got out. "Good." His fist tightened, thumb sliding over the head. "Come on. I wanna feel you." I came hard, spilling over his fingers and the rug, clenching around him so tight he lost his rhythm and groaned my name. He fucked me through it, three rough thrusts, then he was coming too, buried deep, chest stuck to my back, mouth open on my shoulder. We stayed locked until the shaking eased.

He pulled out careful and dealt with the condom. We stayed on the rug, his arm under my neck, both of us breathing like we'd sprinted. Rain tapped the glass. My knees would bruise. I didn't mind. "Stay," he said. Not a question. His thumb moved slow on my hip. "I'll make coffee when we wake up. It'll be bad. I'll make it anyway." I turned my face into the heat of his chest and laughed once, wrecked, already wanting his mouth again. "Yeah," I said. "I'll stay."