You follow Aaron across the gravel, your boots crunching too loud in the quiet night. The need to touch him is overwhelming, your fingers twitching at your sides before you give in, brushing against the small of his back. His skin is hot through the thin fabric of his shirt, his muscles tensing under your touch. You let your hand slide lower, over the curve of his hip, then down to his ass, squeezing just enough to feel the firm muscle beneath your palm.
Aaron doesn’t stop you. Not at first.
Your fingers hook into the belt loop of his jeans, tugging just slightly, testing. He walks slower now, his stride deliberate, like he’s giving you time to take what you want. You pull just a little, and his jeans sag lower, the waistband of his jockstrap peeking out again, the cleft of his ass shadowed and tempting. You can see the dark trail of hair disappearing beneath the fabric, the way his muscles flex as he moves.
Then he stops.
Your hand is still on his belt loop, your fingers curled into the denim. Aaron reaches back. His grip closes around your wrist, firm but not painful.
“Easy,” he says, his voice a low rumble.
He turns to face you, not releasing your wrist. His other hand cups himself through his jeans, adjusting the growing bulge with a slow, deliberate motion. His cock is thick beneath the denim, the outline impossible to miss.
“We do this my way,” he murmurs, his thumb pressing against your pulse point. His gaze is dark, his expression unreadable, but there’s something there, something like heat, something like challenge.
He releases you, but not before you feel the weight of his warning. Then he turns and keeps walking toward the trailer, leaving you to follow. Or not.
Aaron unlocks the door, the key turning with a sharp click. He pushes it open, stepping inside, but pauses in the doorway. The dim light from inside spills out, casting his face in shadows. He looks back at you, his gaze dark and steady.
“Coming?”
The question hangs between you, simple but loaded. The trailer is warm, the air thick with the scent of smoke and musk, the promise of what’s next written in every line of his body. Aaron doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t beg. He just waits, his hand resting on the doorframe.
Then, slow and deliberate, he pops the button of his jeans. The sound is loud in the quiet night. His fingers drag the zipper down, inch by inch, his eyes never leaving yours. The denim parts, revealing the dark cotton of his jockstrap, the outline of his cock already thick and heavy beneath the fabric. He hooks his thumb into the waistband, pulling it down just enough to free himself. His cock springs loose, already half hard, the head dark and flushed, a bead of precum glistening at the tip.
He gives himself a slow stroke, his calloused palm rough against his skin. His cock twitches, growing harder under your gaze, the vein along the shaft standing out. He doesn’t rush or hide. He just lets you see. Lets you want.
Then, with a smirk, he tucks himself back into his jeans, zipping up with deliberate slowness, the bulge obscene against the denim.
“On my terms,” he says, his voice rough.
He turns and steps inside, leaving the door open.
Aaron doesn’t stop you. Not at first.
Your fingers hook into the belt loop of his jeans, tugging just slightly, testing. He walks slower now, his stride deliberate, like he’s giving you time to take what you want. You pull just a little, and his jeans sag lower, the waistband of his jockstrap peeking out again, the cleft of his ass shadowed and tempting. You can see the dark trail of hair disappearing beneath the fabric, the way his muscles flex as he moves.
Then he stops.
Your hand is still on his belt loop, your fingers curled into the denim. Aaron reaches back. His grip closes around your wrist, firm but not painful.
“Easy,” he says, his voice a low rumble.
He turns to face you, not releasing your wrist. His other hand cups himself through his jeans, adjusting the growing bulge with a slow, deliberate motion. His cock is thick beneath the denim, the outline impossible to miss.
“We do this my way,” he murmurs, his thumb pressing against your pulse point. His gaze is dark, his expression unreadable, but there’s something there, something like heat, something like challenge.
He releases you, but not before you feel the weight of his warning. Then he turns and keeps walking toward the trailer, leaving you to follow. Or not.
Aaron unlocks the door, the key turning with a sharp click. He pushes it open, stepping inside, but pauses in the doorway. The dim light from inside spills out, casting his face in shadows. He looks back at you, his gaze dark and steady.
“Coming?”
The question hangs between you, simple but loaded. The trailer is warm, the air thick with the scent of smoke and musk, the promise of what’s next written in every line of his body. Aaron doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t beg. He just waits, his hand resting on the doorframe.
Then, slow and deliberate, he pops the button of his jeans. The sound is loud in the quiet night. His fingers drag the zipper down, inch by inch, his eyes never leaving yours. The denim parts, revealing the dark cotton of his jockstrap, the outline of his cock already thick and heavy beneath the fabric. He hooks his thumb into the waistband, pulling it down just enough to free himself. His cock springs loose, already half hard, the head dark and flushed, a bead of precum glistening at the tip.
He gives himself a slow stroke, his calloused palm rough against his skin. His cock twitches, growing harder under your gaze, the vein along the shaft standing out. He doesn’t rush or hide. He just lets you see. Lets you want.
Then, with a smirk, he tucks himself back into his jeans, zipping up with deliberate slowness, the bulge obscene against the denim.
“On my terms,” he says, his voice rough.
He turns and steps inside, leaving the door open.