Flameborn. Corinna Rogers

for longer than Drake is entirely comfortable with, then grins. “Because you’re all mine, right?”

      There’s something about the way he says it—relief, pride, pleasure—that makes Drake’s expression soften. “Yeah. Feels good to say it again.”

      “Yeah, well, talk is cheap.” Shane’s hand tightens on his and yanks it down, pressing Drake’s palm between his legs as he drives with one hand.

      “Um?” Drake looks from the road to Shane’s hand to his face, searching for something besides cocky good humor and finding nothing. “Jesus, you hedonist, wait until we get home.”

      “Don’t wanna. You know fighting always makes me hard.”

      “That’s your problem.”

      “Always makes you hard, too.”

      “That’s my problem. Dammit, concentrate on the road!”

      “Road isn’t going anywhere. Come on, baby, your hand feels so good. I love the calluses and how strong you are. Feel how hard I am.”

      It’s hard not to. Shane’s cock throbs under Drake’s hand, even through the denim of his jeans. Drake swallows hard, fingers curling in spite of himself. Shane’s not wrong, and that’s a problem. Fighting does usually make him more than eager to fuck, but there’ve been too many years when he wasn’t able to indulge those desires. “I’ve gotten better at holding it in,” he grumbles.

      “You’re not exactly pulling away.” One hand on the steering wheel, Shane flicks open his jeans with the other, enough to make it obvious he’s wearing nothing underneath. In spite of himself, Drake swallows hard, mouth gone dry.

      Shane lets out a sigh that turns into a groan. “You have about five seconds to stop looking like you’re gonna eat it, or I’m going to pull the truck over and—”

      “Pull the truck over.”

      Drake barely has enough time to think frantically, I meant at an intersection! before Shane swerves sideways, pulling roughly parallel to the curb and braking hard. The car is still lurching when Shane grabs his face, kissing him fiercely until they’re both flushed, sucking Drake’s bottom lip into his mouth to scrape his teeth across it and make them both groan.

      “Every time,” Drake mutters, fingers flexing on the sword he can’t goddamn put down as he rearranges his position. “You’re so damn needy whenever we get into a good fight.”

      “After,” Shane corrects, and pulls himself out of his jeans. He’s obviously achingly hard, and Drake’s own cock gives a twitch in his pants at the sight. “God, you look like you want it. Only takes a near-death experience to make you act like a slut, huh?”

      “Shut up.” Drake bends, sliding his lips around the head of Shane’s cock, eyes fluttering closed at the taste. He swipes the flat of his tongue over it, and Shane grips the steering wheel, a hand coming to tangle in his hair, pushing him down without any pretense, without any apology.

      Drake doesn’t want pretenses and apologies. He wants the slick, musky scent dragging over his tongue, the soft skin over hard muscle stretching his lips, the sound of Shane panting heavy and quick in his ears.

      “You act,” Shane says, and gasps occasionally when Drake scrapes his teeth gently, “like I n-never let you do this, fuck.”

      Drake pulls off for a second, letting the swollen head rub against his lips, sticky and slippery with his spit, so hard it quivers against him. “You’re usually too eager to jump on my dick.”

      “Uh-uh,” Shane teases. His hand grips Drakes hair tighter, not letting him up again. “You can’t dirty-talk me like I’m the slut when you’re practically inhaling my dick. God, you must be gagging for it.”

      Shane is the one that gets off on dirty talk. Usually, Drake is only too happy to oblige him, shoving him over a table and nailing him into next week, and Shane gets off on every second of it, but now…

      Now, he’s having a hard time denying just how much he likes having it in his mouth. It’s stupid to try, when his own cock is trying to drill a hole through his jeans just from the taste of Shane’s dripping all over his tongue, making it slippery and forcing sloppy, messy noises out of his mouth with every thrust.

      Shane doesn’t move his hips much when he’s getting blowjobs, Drake knows, even if it’s been a hell of a long time since he’s had his mouth around it. Long fingers tighten in his hair, and Drake tries to relax, letting Shane move his head up and down, the thick head pressing at the back of his throat, the taste everywhere in his nose. Even now, there’s the dark urge to grab Shane by the throat, to flip him over and take him rough and hard, to slap him around a little until he comes all over himself.

      They’ve always been a little fucked up.

      Drake curls his tongue around the length, sucking hard and long, his fingers coming up to knead into Shane’s thigh.

      “That’s it, baby,” Shane grunts, letting his legs splay farther apart. “I know you’re dick-hungry as hell right now—yeah, just like that, shit, you’ve got a slutty tongue for such a respectable guy.” His voice is fond, heavy-laden with arousal and that same hunger, and a tenseness that means he’s got to be almost there. He laughs, a hitching breath, and warns, “You better clean it up real good, or you’re gonna be going into your precious church with come in your beard.”

      You bastard.

      Drake starts to pull off, probably to growl and snap at Shane, but Shane’s hand is strong in this position and holds him down hard. That thick cock bumps the back of his throat one more time, and Shane sucks in a breath, yanking back on his hair, the asshole.

      Wet heat floods Drake’s mouth, spilling over his tongue in thick, bitter ropes. Drake tries not to gag, breathing through his nose and grabbing at Shane’s jeans, hand curling into a fist as he tries to choke it down. He manages a couple mouthfuls, then pulls off when Shane’s hand goes limp, coughing and scrubbing at his mouth with the back of his hand. “You fucking asshole,” he croaks, voice hoarse as his hand comes away wet.

      Shane shrugs. “Not my fault you’re such a bad gay. I like the taste of yours just fine.”

      “Mine tastes better! You eat all that junk food shit, no wonder.”

      Shane laughs, then reaches out and grabs Drake’s hand, bringing it up to his own lips. Slowly, holding Drake’s eyes the whole time, he runs his tongue up through the sticky smear on his hand, grinning when he gets to the end of it, and swallows. Drake’s cock makes a valiant attempt to punch its way out of his jeans. “I think I taste just fine.”

      “Shane.” Drake’s voice is hoarse and needy, and Shane just rolls his eyes. “Of course, baby.”

      Half a second later Drake has to wonder if Shane used magic to get his cock out that quickly. His mouth is searingly hot, tongue lashing against his length, and Drake’s head tips back against the car’s seat. “Now who’s the one with a slutty tongue?”

      Shane pulls off, delicately tracing the slit at the end of Drake’s cock. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s always me. Fuck my face, I want you to shoot it down my throat.”

      “I just bet you do.” The sentence turns into a groan when Shane dives down, taking him all in, swallowing around the thick length of Drake’s cock, making his balls ache from being so ready. “Jesus, just—you fucking whore, I’m going to throw you onto every surface you’ve ever seen later—“

      Shane looks up at him, eyes dilated, lips stretched wide, shiny and wet from the drool and precum coating his face, and Drake loses it. He humps up frantically into Shane’s mouth, holding him down with one hand, thrusting deep into his throat over and over again, bruising those pretty lips. All so Shane can feel how hard he is, how much he wants.

      The sudden impulse to pull out and come all over Shane’s face is so strong, Drake almost gives