About five seconds after the first time David touched his cock, Patrick came, gasping both with pleasure and from the force of sheer humiliation. He shut his eyes and sat still in the driver’s seat of the car.
David’s broad, impossibly hot hands, slick with saliva and now Patrick’s come, gentled on him.
Patrick felt his low rumble of laughter. He thought he might die of shame. “Sorry,” he choked out. It was his car, but he felt the urge to tuck in, zip up, and bolt out the door into the night.
“I’m not sorry,” David purred into his ear. His hands slid away.
Patrick marshalled his courage. He opened his eyes.
David regarded his hands. He raised his index finger to his lips, slid it between them. His cheeks hollowed. David made a low ‘mm’ noise before he slipped the finger out with a slick little pop.
Patrick felt a new bolt of heat surge through him.
David’s lips quirked. “Totally worth it, but this is still very messy.” He hunted and found a couple of unused napkins tucked into the tray in the passenger door. He wiped his hands clean and looked from the napkin to Patrick’s crotch. “These are not high-quality paper products. Trust me, you wouldn’t want me to clean you up with them.”
Patrick didn’t realize what was happening until David had leaned over and sucked Patrick’s cock into the warm of his mouth. He was—oh, God, David. He couldn’t control the strangled noises of torture and pleasure that fought their way out of him. Patrick didn’t always get hard again quite this quickly. But he’d never been with anyone who made him feel the way David made him feel.
David released him. “Um. Do you—can I keep going?”
“Yes,” Patrick managed.
David’s mouth slid over him, and the driver’s seat suddenly slid all the way back; David had found its release.
Patrick’s hands found their way into the shock of David’s perfectly mussed hair. He smelled of juniper and sandalwood, two scents Patrick wouldn’t have been able to identify before he’d met David. David, who was often downright hygiene-obsessed, and yet was currently doing very dirty things with his tongue, filthy things he’d probably read about in avant-garde blowjobs-as-performance-art books back in the city, things mortal men from the suburbs weren’t allowed to know. “Fuck, David,” he moaned in the quiet of the darkened car.
David pulled back, the warmth of his mouth on Patrick’s cock instantly replaced by the grip of his fist. His lips were slick and swollen.
“I’d be game to try, but maybe not here. It’d be one thing if we had an SUV or the ground outside wasn’t cold and dirt. Also, these skinny jeans weren’t an ideal choice,” David whispered.
“David?” Patrick let his control slip. He thrust his hips and his cock upward into David’s grip.
There were words on his lips. But he’d never said them. Not to anyone. Previously, sex had been a messy, awkward, embarrassing proposition and he’d tried to buckle down and get through it with as much efficiency and politeness as possible.
But now David Rose had made him come, was working on making him come again, and wore a coy, open-mouthed grin that suggested efficiency and politeness were optional.
Patrick gasped on David’s tight upstroke and met his eyes. “Suck my cock.”
David froze. Then he raised an eyebrow and grinned wider. “I can do that.” He bent down and did as asked, taking Patrick’s shaft between his gorgeous lips. He licked all over and sucked him deep, almost back into his throat. Then he let Patrick slip back out. “What do you want me to do again?”
For half a second, Patrick didn’t understand, overwhelmed by the sensation. But the way David didn’t raise his head, held Patrick’s throbbing head right against his lips… Oh. “Suck my cock.”
David’s mouth engulfed him again. He slid back, almost off.
Patrick, reflexively, put his hands on David’s head.
David held still with just the tip of Patrick’s cock in his mouth. He sucked ever-so-gently.
Patrick thrust up into his mouth. As he did, he heard a long, low moan escape from David. Something as primal as the way he himself felt. He thought maybe he understood, and lightly pressed down on David’s head.
David moaned and licked and sucked him; whenever he let off, Patrick pushed his head back down and David went eagerly, desperately, until finally he rose up, gasping, his lips slick, eyes wild. “Patrick, fuck my face.”
Patrick had never done that before. Also it seemed very much to him like something that needed discussion and negotiation. A text message heads-up at the least. But it was David asking. No, begging. So Patrick took David’s face in his hands, kissed him, and then pressed him back down. It was easy to do as he asked, especially with the way David’s muffled moans and noises filled the car, so easy for Patrick to hold him in place while he pumped his dick deep into David’s hot mouth.
The car rocked with them, but they’d fogged the windows and it made Patrick feel as if it were only them, as if this—this disrespectful and amazing thing—was more than okay, it was right. “Oh, fuck, David. David,” he cried out, and suddenly he’d stepped over the edge, right into a one-two-punch of an orgasm that sent him coming into David’s mouth.
But just as Patrick felt David swallow the last pulse, his mouth pulled away. Patrick watched as David threw himself back into the passenger seat, yanked open the fly of his jeans, and pulled out his cock.
It looked good. Really, really good. Thick and full and hard in David’s hand. Patrick had never seen it before. Oh, he’d felt it, straining against the front of David’s briefs as they rolled around in Stevie Budd’s loaned bed and did what David later referred to as ‘medium petting’ - but he’d been hesitant to do more. That night, he hadn’t wanted thoughts of hot, tall ex-boyfriends to stain their evening. And okay, then Patrick had still been a little… scared.
But not tonight. Tonight, he’d felt like a coiled spring. Like he might die if David didn’t touch him. Thus the offer of a detour on the way to drop David at the motel. Patrick wondered if David could possibly feel the same way. Patrick tried to orient himself, even though it felt like the car was spinning. He could return the favor. He’d never given a blowjob before, but his hand? He knew he could do that part. He hoped.
But David’s eyes shut. He threw his head back, baring his neck, and jerked himself once, twice, three, four times—and with a groan he shot his come into the air with so much force, it spattered the dashboard and the inside of the front windshield.
Patrick let out a shuddering breath. He pictured leaning over, licking the crown of David’s cock like he had all rights to it. Just the way David had with him.
But the spatter caught his attention. He imagined shrieking Ew! the way he’d heard both David and his sister say it and he laughed. Then he laughed at the inappropriateness of the thought.
“Shut up,” David panted, his eyes still closed. “Unless you’re laughing with me. Are you laughing with me?”
“Of course,” Patrick said. The air inside the car felt heavy and saturated with sex. David looked—well, fantastic. More so, even, with a sheen of sweat on his brow, his lips parted, his black and white sweater rucked up, his too-tight jeans open, his silky-looking briefs pushed down underneath his large and now-softening cock. Patrick thought about what he’d have done if David had asked to fuck Patrick’s face instead. If he’d let him.
Patrick’s pulse jumped. He thought he would. He thought he’d let David do whatever he wanted.
“Mm, okay.” David opened his eyes. He smiled at Patrick; a half-embarrassed, half-flirty quirk of his lips. Then he spotted the come. “Oh my God! This is—do you have any wet wipes? Moist towelettes?” He located a few more napkins and began cleaning up as best he could. “This is disgusting. I am disgusting!” David’s gaze cut to Patrick. His voice lowered. “Don’t get me wrong, I loved every second of it and I can’t wait to do it again. Next time in a bedroom.”
“Yes.” Patrick cleared his throat. He joined the hunt for extra napkins and moist towelettes that part of his brain knew weren’t there. “Uh, yes, absolutely. Preferably without your sister or Ray anywhere nearby.”
“We could just be quiet,” David said.
Maybe David could be. “I like privacy.”
“Me, too.” He tucked the napkins away and regarded the streak on the inside of the windshield. “You might need some glass cleaner.”
“Yeah.” Patrick nodded. Ray would have some. Failing that, the store had a bottle or two and why did any of this matter at all after what had just happened?
“Um. Could you let a little air in here? It’s kind of swampy.”
They tucked themselves back in. Patrick turned on the car, hit the defroster, and lowered the front windows each a few inches. Outside, the dark country road stretched into the distance.
“Take a minute for the windows to un-fog,” David said. “We could… make out?”
Patrick was glad for the dark; he thought he might be blushing.
“Unless you’re one of those—I mean—I don’t care. But some people—I’ve heard don’t like it when you go down on them, and then try to kiss them. I guess they think it’s gross or whatever.” David shrugged and turned toward the window.
Did he? Patrick wasn’t sure. “Come here.”
David turned towards him.
Patrick flicked on the radio. A long way away, a station broadcast an old bluegrass standard. Too much banjo for Patrick’s tastes, but more romantic than the talk station. He leaned over and kissed David’s soft lips, tasting the barest hints of himself on them.
When they finally broke apart three songs later, Patrick said, “I like it. I mean. I don’t think it’s gross.”
David bit his lip as he smiled back.
I love him, Patrick thought, a full second before: Oh. So this is what it feels like.
Patrick couldn’t go back to Ray’s after he dropped David off. He drove around darkened streets while his thoughts raced in excited circles. Did I? Did we? We just—I can’t believe I asked him. And he said yes. And that—we did. I did. Eventually he pulled over into another dark, deserted lot by the side of the road, turned off the car, and just sat.
He remembered the first time he and David had kissed.
He’d been full of butterflies leading up to dinner. Jacket? No jacket? Jacket, he’d decided, hoping that its presence would help convey what Patrick couldn’t say aloud: I want this to be a date.
He remembered his spirits sinking when he’d seen Stevie, having to go to the bathroom and regroup, giving himself a silent pep-talk in the mirror. You can do this. This is just a casual dinner. It always was. How much his heart had hurt, and disappointment had tried to talk him into leaving early so that David and Stevie wouldn’t have to put up with a third wheel who’d misread things.
Then how David’s eyes had shone when he’d opened his gift. How Stevie excused herself early. How his and David’s hands had brushed when they’d both reached for the last mozzarella stick.
Patrick remembered walking David to his car. Pulling up to the motel. How his pulse raced because David was smiling at him, ducking his head, speaking so quietly Patrick needed to lean closer to hear him. How a thousand voices in his head had told him what a good idea, bad idea, terrifying idea this was—and how they had all gone silent when David kissed him.
Afterwards, he’d driven around Schitt’s Creek for a good half-hour. He’d passed the town’s sign and remembered the time when he was fifteen, and his cousin Bill had driven them up just to get pictures of it. They’d joked—all of them, even Patrick—that Schitt’s Creek was where you went when you were fucked.
He hadn’t known then that the trip would someday change his life. That he would, one dark day years later and seven months into an engagement that felt increasingly like the worst mistake of Patrick’s life, have what he thought of as a nervous breakdown, quit his job, pack his things, break it off for good with his fiancée, have a blistering fight with his parents, and then spend the night driving until the town sign appeared. And how because of that trip and what had just happened, he would decide to ask for and say yes when the friendly realtor offered him—a random unemployed guy with red-rimmed eyes, a few bags, a guitar, and zero plans for the future—a room.
Now, Patrick sat in the dark and wondered if everything had worked out in the way it was meant to. If somehow, all the roads in his life had been leading him here, to David.
“This is good. It’s going to keep being good. I’m not going to mess it up,” he promised himself.