The very structure of the car works in their favor, and Jefferson's height, both combining to give the impression that the dash and the car doors rise protectively high.
Jefferson's duty, as a man, a driver, a person with a conscience, is to push Burr away and ask him to hold off until they're somewhere more private. He does not do this, and he is an idiot for it. Switches to driving with his left hand, and his right weaves into Burr's hair, spreads protectively and possessively across the back of his skull.
For a long moment, he seems frozen, in a kind of astonishment, as Burr's breath dissipates on his skin, the tentative tongue laps at him. Tentative? No, it must be teasing; there is no possible way Burr isn't confident of Jefferson's desire. And Burr shows it, immediately after: Jefferson has to brake a little too hard at the next stoplight as Burr's hot mouth envelops him. His cock twitches at Burr's commanding touch.
"Oh, the windows," he remembers, and he pulls down the sunshade on his side. It's probably illegal to drive with these down at night, but it provides an extra shield of privacy. As he does, his thumb strokes Burr's stretched lips. He continues stroking, Burr's cheek, the back of his neck, occasionally urging him deeper as Jefferson sighs with sensation. "Oh, what can I say? You are a lurid thing -- if you were conjured from my fevered -- mm! Ah -- debauched imagination, you could not be more enticing."
The click of the turn signal; he turns into the narrow, cramped parking lot of a closed restaurant. Flicks the car off, and then he's cupping Burr's head in his hands. "I can't, I can't focus with you like this," he says, breathless -- "I've heard of a wicked tongue, but you are all wicked -- your palate, your lips, even," as Burr takes him deeper, "even that muscle, ah, Aaron, the muscle at your throat--"
His hips twitch up, breath escaping in a whimper. Good boy makes him shiver, a wave of goosebumps. He lets Burr urge him into a rhythm, but it's a slow one, lingering and sensual.
no subject
Jefferson's duty, as a man, a driver, a person with a conscience, is to push Burr away and ask him to hold off until they're somewhere more private. He does not do this, and he is an idiot for it. Switches to driving with his left hand, and his right weaves into Burr's hair, spreads protectively and possessively across the back of his skull.
For a long moment, he seems frozen, in a kind of astonishment, as Burr's breath dissipates on his skin, the tentative tongue laps at him. Tentative? No, it must be teasing; there is no possible way Burr isn't confident of Jefferson's desire. And Burr shows it, immediately after: Jefferson has to brake a little too hard at the next stoplight as Burr's hot mouth envelops him. His cock twitches at Burr's commanding touch.
"Oh, the windows," he remembers, and he pulls down the sunshade on his side. It's probably illegal to drive with these down at night, but it provides an extra shield of privacy. As he does, his thumb strokes Burr's stretched lips. He continues stroking, Burr's cheek, the back of his neck, occasionally urging him deeper as Jefferson sighs with sensation. "Oh, what can I say? You are a lurid thing -- if you were conjured from my fevered -- mm! Ah -- debauched imagination, you could not be more enticing."
The click of the turn signal; he turns into the narrow, cramped parking lot of a closed restaurant. Flicks the car off, and then he's cupping Burr's head in his hands. "I can't, I can't focus with you like this," he says, breathless -- "I've heard of a wicked tongue, but you are all wicked -- your palate, your lips, even," as Burr takes him deeper, "even that muscle, ah, Aaron, the muscle at your throat--"
His hips twitch up, breath escaping in a whimper. Good boy makes him shiver, a wave of goosebumps. He lets Burr urge him into a rhythm, but it's a slow one, lingering and sensual.