You can’t. You turn away, your boots crunching too loud on the gravel as you walk back to your car. The night air is cool against your flushed skin, but it does nothing to ease the heat in your body. Your cock is painfully hard, pressing against your jeans, your palms slick with sweat.

Behind you, the trailer door closes with a soft click.

Then you hear it. The thud of his boots hitting the floor. The clink of his belt buckle. The slow zzzip of his jeans coming down.

Your breath hitches. You pause, your hand on the car door handle, your body betraying you, wanting to turn, to look, to take what he’s offering. But you don’t.

You slide into the driver’s seat, your hands shaking as you grip the wheel. The engine roars to life, but the sounds follow you, the rustle of fabric, the creak of bedsprings, then the unmistakable wet slide of his hand on skin, the low groan he doesn’t bother to stifle.

You drive, your knuckles white, your body still humming with what you walked away from. The garage shrinks in your rearview mirror, but the sounds, his zipper, his breath, the wet slide of his hand, echo in your head, a ghost of what you left behind.

You shift in your seat, your cock throbbing, your skin too hot. The road blurs ahead of you, but all you can see is the way his jockstrap framed his ass, the way his cock had pushed against the fabric, the way he’d looked at you like you were already his.

You press harder on the gas.