You push off from the counter, nodding at Aaron. “I’ll be back before close.”
He doesn’t look up from the engine. “Suit yourself.”
The late-afternoon air hits you as you step outside, warm and thick with the scent of cut grass and something sweet, maybe the bakery down the street. The sidewalk is quiet, the storefronts bathed in golden light as the sun begins its slow descent. You shove your hands in your pockets and start walking, no destination in mind.
The bakery is first, just five minutes from the shop. The windows are steamed, the scent of sugar and yeast spilling onto the sidewalk, mixing with the faint tang of sweat from the owner bent over the counter. His apron is dusted with flour, his shirt underneath clinging with sweat, the fabric thin enough to show his broad chest and the muscles shifting beneath. You pause just outside the window, watching the way his biceps flex with each movement. Your cock stirs, an unwelcome twitch in your jeans, and you force yourself to keep moving. But not before he glances up, his hands never stopping, and gives you a slow, knowing smile. His gaze lingers on you a second too long, and you feel the heat of it like a touch.
A block later, you pass the gym. The plate glass windows give you a clear view of the personal trainer spotting a client on the bench press. His workout clothes are obscenely tight, black shorts that ride up his thighs, a tank top that clings to his chest, the fabric damp with sweat. The outline of his cock is impossible to miss, heavy and thick against his thigh. He catches you looking and winks, his lips curling into a smirk as he adjusts the client’s grip. “Like what you see?” he mouths, his eyes dark with amusement.
Your face warms, and you look away, but not before your pulse kicks up, your body reacting to the sheer confidence of him. You can still feel the weight of his gaze on your back as you walk away, your jeans suddenly tighter, your skin prickling with awareness.
The café is another block down, tucked between a laundromat and a boarded up boutique. The twink behind the counter is all sharp angles and easy grins, his red hair falling into his eyes as he steams milk. He doesn’t even try to hide the once over he gives you as you approach, his gaze lingering on your chest, your hips, before meeting your eyes.
“What’ll it be, sweetheart?” he asks, leaning forward just enough to let you see the piercings in his ears, the way his shirt rides up to show a sliver of toned stomach. His voice is light and teasing, and you can’t help but smile back.
You order a black coffee. He makes a show of writing your name on the cup, his fingers brushing yours as he slides it across the counter. “Stick around,” he says. “I get off at eight.” The innuendo is obvious, and your cock shifts again, heavier this time.
You take your coffee to a corner table, pulling out your phone. The book you’ve been reading doesn’t hold your attention. Your mind keeps drifting, back to the bakery owner’s arms, the trainer’s smirk, the way the barista’s hips sway as he moves behind the counter. You shift in your seat, trying to ease the growing pressure in your jeans, but it doesn’t help. The café is quiet, the hum of the espresso machine the only sound besides the occasional laugh from the barista as he chats with a regular.
You sip your coffee, the bitterness grounding you, but your thoughts are elsewhere. The book blurs in front of you. You check the clock above the door. 5:47 PM. Plenty of time.
The barista catches you watching him and grins, his tongue darting out to wet his lower lip. “You look like you could use something stronger than coffee,” he says, his voice low enough that it feels intimate, just for you.
You laugh, shaking your head. “I’m good.”
“Mmm, I bet you are,” he murmurs, his eyes flicking down to your crotch before meeting your gaze again. The heat in his look is unmistakable, and your body responds, your cock thickening, pressing against your zipper. You cross your legs, trying to hide it, but he’s already seen. His grin widens.
You glance at the clock again. 6:23 PM.
Shit.
You drain the last of your coffee and stand, your chair scraping against the floor. The barista looks up, his grin turning sly. “Leaving so soon?”
“Rain check,” you say, already heading for the door. His laughter follows you out, light and knowing.
The walk back to the garage is faster than you intended, your steps quickening as the sky darkens, the streetlights flickering to life. The bakery is closed now, the gym’s windows dark. The air is cooler, the scent of evening, damp earth and distant smoke, replacing the day’s warmth. Your body is still humming from the encounters, your skin sensitive, your cock half hard in your jeans. You check your phone. 6:50 PM. Ten minutes. You break into a jog.
You push through the garage door, the hinge groaning as it swings shut behind you. The air inside is warmer than the evening outside, thick with the scent of motor oil and Aaron’s sweat. The neon “OPEN” sign flickers weakly above the bay, casting long shadows across the concrete floor.
Aaron is at the counter, his back to you as he wipes his hands on a rag. His shirt is tucked into the back pocket of his jeans, the denim hanging low on his hips, the waistband of his jock visible at his lower back. He turns slightly, just enough for you to see how the jeans sag in the front, the pouch of his jock clearly defined, the outline of his cock pressing against the fabric. Your breath catches, your body reacting instantly.
The clock on the wall reads 7:03 PM.
Aaron doesn’t turn fully around right away. He knows you’re there. You can tell by the way his shoulders tense, just slightly, before he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his shirt. He wipes his hands on it, slow and deliberate, then tosses it onto the counter without bothering to put it back on. The movement makes his jeans slide lower, revealing more of the jock’s waistband where it sits snug against his hips.
He finally turns to face you, his gaze finds yours. His eyes are dark in the low light, his beard shadowed. The sweat on his skin has dried in places, leaving a faint sheen that catches the dim light. There’s a tired satisfaction in the way he moves, like he’s been working hard all day and doesn’t give a damn who knows it.
“Took longer than I thought,” he says, his voice rough. “Sensor was loose. Alternator’s shot. Fixed it for now, but you’ll need a new one.”
His gaze drops to your lips, then lower, lingering just long enough to make it clear he notices the way your body’s reacting to him. His eyes darken, just slightly, and you wonder if he can tell how wound up you are, by the town, by him, by the way your body seems to have a mind of its own whenever he’s near.
“You good to drive?” he asks, his voice a low rumble.
He doesn’t look up from the engine. “Suit yourself.”
The late-afternoon air hits you as you step outside, warm and thick with the scent of cut grass and something sweet, maybe the bakery down the street. The sidewalk is quiet, the storefronts bathed in golden light as the sun begins its slow descent. You shove your hands in your pockets and start walking, no destination in mind.
The bakery is first, just five minutes from the shop. The windows are steamed, the scent of sugar and yeast spilling onto the sidewalk, mixing with the faint tang of sweat from the owner bent over the counter. His apron is dusted with flour, his shirt underneath clinging with sweat, the fabric thin enough to show his broad chest and the muscles shifting beneath. You pause just outside the window, watching the way his biceps flex with each movement. Your cock stirs, an unwelcome twitch in your jeans, and you force yourself to keep moving. But not before he glances up, his hands never stopping, and gives you a slow, knowing smile. His gaze lingers on you a second too long, and you feel the heat of it like a touch.
A block later, you pass the gym. The plate glass windows give you a clear view of the personal trainer spotting a client on the bench press. His workout clothes are obscenely tight, black shorts that ride up his thighs, a tank top that clings to his chest, the fabric damp with sweat. The outline of his cock is impossible to miss, heavy and thick against his thigh. He catches you looking and winks, his lips curling into a smirk as he adjusts the client’s grip. “Like what you see?” he mouths, his eyes dark with amusement.
Your face warms, and you look away, but not before your pulse kicks up, your body reacting to the sheer confidence of him. You can still feel the weight of his gaze on your back as you walk away, your jeans suddenly tighter, your skin prickling with awareness.
The café is another block down, tucked between a laundromat and a boarded up boutique. The twink behind the counter is all sharp angles and easy grins, his red hair falling into his eyes as he steams milk. He doesn’t even try to hide the once over he gives you as you approach, his gaze lingering on your chest, your hips, before meeting your eyes.
“What’ll it be, sweetheart?” he asks, leaning forward just enough to let you see the piercings in his ears, the way his shirt rides up to show a sliver of toned stomach. His voice is light and teasing, and you can’t help but smile back.
You order a black coffee. He makes a show of writing your name on the cup, his fingers brushing yours as he slides it across the counter. “Stick around,” he says. “I get off at eight.” The innuendo is obvious, and your cock shifts again, heavier this time.
You take your coffee to a corner table, pulling out your phone. The book you’ve been reading doesn’t hold your attention. Your mind keeps drifting, back to the bakery owner’s arms, the trainer’s smirk, the way the barista’s hips sway as he moves behind the counter. You shift in your seat, trying to ease the growing pressure in your jeans, but it doesn’t help. The café is quiet, the hum of the espresso machine the only sound besides the occasional laugh from the barista as he chats with a regular.
You sip your coffee, the bitterness grounding you, but your thoughts are elsewhere. The book blurs in front of you. You check the clock above the door. 5:47 PM. Plenty of time.
The barista catches you watching him and grins, his tongue darting out to wet his lower lip. “You look like you could use something stronger than coffee,” he says, his voice low enough that it feels intimate, just for you.
You laugh, shaking your head. “I’m good.”
“Mmm, I bet you are,” he murmurs, his eyes flicking down to your crotch before meeting your gaze again. The heat in his look is unmistakable, and your body responds, your cock thickening, pressing against your zipper. You cross your legs, trying to hide it, but he’s already seen. His grin widens.
You glance at the clock again. 6:23 PM.
Shit.
You drain the last of your coffee and stand, your chair scraping against the floor. The barista looks up, his grin turning sly. “Leaving so soon?”
“Rain check,” you say, already heading for the door. His laughter follows you out, light and knowing.
The walk back to the garage is faster than you intended, your steps quickening as the sky darkens, the streetlights flickering to life. The bakery is closed now, the gym’s windows dark. The air is cooler, the scent of evening, damp earth and distant smoke, replacing the day’s warmth. Your body is still humming from the encounters, your skin sensitive, your cock half hard in your jeans. You check your phone. 6:50 PM. Ten minutes. You break into a jog.
You push through the garage door, the hinge groaning as it swings shut behind you. The air inside is warmer than the evening outside, thick with the scent of motor oil and Aaron’s sweat. The neon “OPEN” sign flickers weakly above the bay, casting long shadows across the concrete floor.
Aaron is at the counter, his back to you as he wipes his hands on a rag. His shirt is tucked into the back pocket of his jeans, the denim hanging low on his hips, the waistband of his jock visible at his lower back. He turns slightly, just enough for you to see how the jeans sag in the front, the pouch of his jock clearly defined, the outline of his cock pressing against the fabric. Your breath catches, your body reacting instantly.
The clock on the wall reads 7:03 PM.
Aaron doesn’t turn fully around right away. He knows you’re there. You can tell by the way his shoulders tense, just slightly, before he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his shirt. He wipes his hands on it, slow and deliberate, then tosses it onto the counter without bothering to put it back on. The movement makes his jeans slide lower, revealing more of the jock’s waistband where it sits snug against his hips.
He finally turns to face you, his gaze finds yours. His eyes are dark in the low light, his beard shadowed. The sweat on his skin has dried in places, leaving a faint sheen that catches the dim light. There’s a tired satisfaction in the way he moves, like he’s been working hard all day and doesn’t give a damn who knows it.
“Took longer than I thought,” he says, his voice rough. “Sensor was loose. Alternator’s shot. Fixed it for now, but you’ll need a new one.”
His gaze drops to your lips, then lower, lingering just long enough to make it clear he notices the way your body’s reacting to him. His eyes darken, just slightly, and you wonder if he can tell how wound up you are, by the town, by him, by the way your body seems to have a mind of its own whenever he’s near.
“You good to drive?” he asks, his voice a low rumble.