Eight Box Set

Money’s Worth-2

Ritchie. Me.

Thank you, Jesus.

* * * *

When we reach my car, I scrape the paint around the keyhole in my eagerness to open the door. Ritchie stands against the side of the car and watches me as he rubs one hand down the front of his jeans, over the flat part of his hip and along his upper thigh, as if smoothing out the denim to accentuate the erection he’s not even trying to hide. I see that hand in the corner of my vision and the key scratches with a squeal across the passenger side door. It takes me almost a full minute of fumbling around in the dark to get the key into the hole, all the while watching Ritchie’s hand inch closer to the bulge in his pants, and when I finally pop the lock, the light clicks on inside the car and just about blinds me.

I drop the keys as I open the door. When I bend down to retrieve them, Ritchie leans around me to unlock the back door, and I feel that hard d**k of his press into my side. He actually gasps as he rubs against me, damn but that sound’s going to haunt my dreams from now on. Then he has the back door open and slides across the seat to lean against the far door, leg propped up on the seat as he waits for me to follow.

Tossing the keys into the front seat, I lock and slam the door shut, then climb into the back. Lock the door, pull it closed behind me. The sudden silence that envelops us is almost uncomfortable. I stare at him from across the wide expanse of the back of the car—I never realized it was so roomy in here—I can just see his eyes glisten in the darkness. An arm stretches across the back of the seat, fingers reaching for mine. His touch is tentative, so unlike the Ritchie I’ve learned to love over these past few months that I have to bite back sappy, stupid words that want to tumble from the tip of my tongue. “So,” he says.

So.

The quiet presses against me like water, crushing my lungs, stealing my breath, until I’m just about drowning. I shift position to prove to myself that I can, and my hand brushes over Ritchie’s knee in the darkness. So the back seat isn’t as big as I thought. He’s right up on me, I can hear his breath, and when he speaks I swear I can taste his last beer in his words. “Now what?”

This awkwardness is killing me. I want to tear into him, abandon all pretense of decorum, ravage him right where he sits as I’ve dreamed of doing all semester long. But I can’t even seem to touch him—my hand burns where it glanced over his knee, and I still feel the imprint of his fingers on my arm. Now what? The phrase hangs between us as if resonating in the air, like the fading echo of a dying bell. I open my mouth to say something, anything, and find that my throat has closed around whatever it is I was going to say.

“Carl?” Ritchie prompts.

My name in his voice, so familiar, brings me back to myself. I clear my throat and my voice sounds disused when I tell him, “So like, unzip already.”

Ritchie balks. “Just like that?”

I don’t know how else to get things moving. “Well, if I’m going to suck your d**k…”

He laughs at that and it sounds so blunt that it makes me grin, too, and suddenly the tension between us dissipates. “Come on,” I say, a tease in my voice, as I playfully reach for his zipper. “Show me what you got.”

But he catches my hand and pulls me into his lap, and before my grin even begins to fade, he presses his lips to mine in a rough kiss. For a moment I struggle against him but he’s insistent, his tongue licking into me, his mouth parting and mine opening in response. When his hand releases mine to rub up my arm, I don’t pull away. Instead I lean into him, into the kiss, one hand on the seat behind him to prop myself up and the other toying with the fly of his jeans. Beneath my fingers, his hidden length feels thick and solid, exciting, and as I strum down his zipper, his hips rise up to thrust into my palm. He tastes darkly sweet, like the grape flavored bubble gum he was chewing earlier, and the alcohol on his breath takes mine away.

I thumb open the button on his jeans. His zipper unzips itself, parting beneath the erection that pokes out at me. His briefs strain against his c**k and through the thin material, I fist my hand around his length, trace its outline, as if trying to burn the shape and feel of it into my skin. When he gasps my name, I take that as my cue to get started. I kiss his chin; he leans his head back and I kiss along the curve of his neck, over his Adam’s apple, into the hollow of his throat. I have to scoot back a little to move further down; my backside hits the car door behind me, and in the confines of my sweatpants, my own c**k throbs alongside Ritchie’s leg. As I push his T-shirt up to expose the thin, smooth flesh of his stomach, I find my hips humping his leg, rubbing my crotch against him, pressing my d**k down hard until I feel each beat of my heart pulse in my balls.

As if he feels my throbbing need, Ritchie kicks his sneaker off the foot trapped beneath me, and next thing I know, a socked foot rubs between my legs. I clamp my thighs around his toes, hump against his foot, my d**k already damp through my boxers and sweats. My tongue licks into his navel, tasting him, and my hands work to pull down his jeans and briefs. The first tug accomplishes nothing; on the second, he raises his hips off the seat and his pants slide down easily over the cut of his hips, stopping just below the tops of his thighs. Freed from its prison of fabric, his c**k rises at a slight angle, hard but not yet fully erect.

I’ll see to that.

With the softest touch, I kiss my way over Ritchie’s pubic mound and plunge into the soft curls at his crotch. I breathe deep his scent, a mix of soap and musk and warm flesh that makes my thighs clench his foot tighter between them. I nose aside his d**k as I take a moment to explore his genitals, learning for myself the secrets of his dark crevices, the shadows between his legs. My mouth finds his balls, brush over them, suckle them, my lips tucked over my teeth as I nuzzle and nip at the tender flesh.

Above me Ritchie gasps, one hand clawing my hair, pressing me down, holding me against him, the other gripping the headrest on the driver’s seat. “Carl,” he sighs. My name in that voice, in that tone, it trills through me, spurring me on. “Carl, God. Please.”

Not yet.

I work around beneath his d**k, planting tiny kisses along trembling flesh, over his velvety balls, the tender skin of his inner thighs. Beneath my touch, he quivers with lust. I stroke my fingers along his thighs, my nails playing lightly over downy hair, and then I pause to blow gently over his nuts; my saliva cools on his heated skin, and his c**k begins to stand on its own beneath my ministrations. “Carl,” Ritchie sobs. He bites down on one knuckle, eyes shut, to keep from pleading more, but his toes curl into my aching sac and I know he wants me. Finally, me.

Sitting back, I pull down my sweats and boxers. My erection juts out, hard and unyielding, and Ritchie’s socked foot rubs along my length when I lean over him again. The cottony material is so different from the feel of my pants, so rough against my c**k, I love it. Diving back into the shadows between his legs, I lick his balls then keep going, over the base of his shaft, up the underside of his c**k, along the frenulum that splits his mushroom-shaped glans. I can taste him already, salty with a little bit of tang, just the slightest hint of what’s to come. My tongue traces around the head of his c**k, swirling over it as if he’s a lollipop and I’m looking for something sweet, then my mouth closes over his tip and I suck, once, hard, before opening wide and taking him all the way in.

He rises off the seat, forces his way deep within me, and I take the full length, my tongue and cheeks and mouth working his hard length. I’m good at this, didn’t I mention that? As I pull up, my hands find his now slicked shaft, fingers kneading him, massaging him, as I concentrate on pleasuring his over-sensitive tip. Starting just above his balls, I encircle my forefinger and thumb around the base of his d**k, squeeze gently, closing my grip, then I move slowly, oh God so slowly, up up up his length, drawing his blood up to the head I’m sucking. When my hand gets halfway there, my other hand does the same thing, following up behind, drawing the sensations out of him and into me. When my first hand touches my lips, covering his cockhead, my fingers release him and move back down to the base to make the slow journey up to the top all over again.

And again.

And again.

Ritchie is beyond words. His breath comes in short little gasps that sound like panting, and his hands grab at the car seats, seeking purchase. His eyes have rolled back in his head, his mouth open in a perfect O of carnal desire. Every now and then I hear a word I think I know, “Yes” or “God” or “Carl,” but then it dissolves into a moan of delight and his hips thrust up at me, trying to drive more of himself in my mouth. “Please,” he sighs, I hear that word just fine. I can get used to him begging for me real quick. “Please.”

Even in the close, dark heat of the back seat of my car, I can sense he’s close to coming. When I take his c**k in my mouth again, I can feel his balls contract beneath my chin. I pull back, taking a deep breath, relaxing my throat, then ease down his length again, my lips covering my teeth to keep them out of the way, my mouth massaging down his length, opening to take him in, farther, deeper, in, until I’m kissing the base of his shaft and the muscles in the back of my throat contract around his bulbous tip. He bucks off the seat, driving into me; his balls are slick with my spit as I drool for him, my lips and cheeks and throat working to bring him release. When it comes, it’s a sudden rush that fills my throat and I swallow by reflex, the motion drawing another, more intense orgasm that makes Ritchie scream out so loud that his voice reverberates around the confines of my closed car.

That sound alone gets me off, and Ritchie’s sock catches the brunt of my juices. I rub against his foot a moment longer, savoring the pleasure that had spiked through me and now begins to wane, and dreading what I might see in his face when I open the car door and the uncompromising light overhead brings us back to our senses. With slow movements, I pull away from him, his limp c**k slipping from my mouth like a sigh. Then I sit back, tuck myself into my pants, pull them up again as if ashamed of my nakedness, and I stare out the window at the club across the street. The few patrons loitering outside take no notice of my car or the two of us in the back seat.

With ragged gasps, Ritchie’s breathing slows. He lays sprawled on the seat, head back, eyes half shut as if he’s drifting off to sleep, but I know he’s watching me, I can feel that gaze like a hand on my face. I don’t look at him, or his rucked up shirt, or his pulled down pants. Somewhere between those two, my saliva is cooling on his skin. When I swallow, I can still taste him, that salty, tangy musk of him, deep inside me where I imagine it’s taken root and begun to grow.

I’ve already decided this didn’t just happen. It was a once in a lifetime, out of nowhere, dream come true sort of thing, and yes, I’ll think about it from time to time; yes, it’ll fester inside of me for the rest of my life, the great what could’ve been; yes, it could come between us…but I won’t let it. Ritchie’s the coolest guy I know, and I won’t let this change anything between us. Already I feel myself falling into the role of steady sidekick again, waiting for Ritchie’s lead, waiting for that car door to open, the light overhead to stab back the darkness, as he rolls away from me into the night.

The last thing I expect is for Ritchie to crawl toward me.

But he does, moving as if his body hasn’t yet recovered from the sensations I roused in it. Slowly he sits up, pulling himself along with the back of the seats, his disheveled hair hiding black eyes I know are trained on me. I steal tiny glances of him from the corner of my vision, trying to pretend I’m more interested in the club and the people outside it than I am about him. Strong hands touch my arm; before I can move away, his arms slip beneath mine to wrap around my waist, and then he’s stretched out along the back seat, his head pressed against my lower belly, his face almost buried in my crotch. As he hugs me close, he sighs my name, content.

A long minute stretches between us—every second, I’m sure he’ll pull away. When he doesn’t, I dare to touch the top of his head. His hair is coarse beneath my fingers, full of gel and spray, but when my fingers delve in, I’m surprised at the soft, cool depths. He sighs against me, cuddles closer. When he speaks, his voice is worlds lower than I ever believed he could speak. “Answer me this,” he says.

My fingers toy with his hair. I don’t want to spoil this moment with talk, or one of his randy jokes, or anything other than him holding me like this. Still, I answer, “Hmm?”

He raises his head, props his chin on my stomach, and looks up at me. His eyes are pools of night I want to drown in. “Tell me,” he says—classic Ritchie, so upfront, so demanding, “why a guy like you, who can do something like that, doesn’t have a boyfriend.”

A dozen answers flitter through my mind. Because I won’t settle for less than what I want, I should tell him, and right now what I want is him. Because he’s never shown the slightest interest me in that way. Because he…

It all circles back to him. But I don’t want to ruin the moment with accusatory words, so I shrug and let my hand trail down through his hair, over the back of his neck, along his shoulders. He looks at me, eyes so piercing, that I finally feel compelled to say something, if only to get out from the spotlight of that gaze. I can barely hear my own voice when I mumble, “I don’t know.”

“But you don’t,” Ritchie presses. “Right?”

I shake my head, no.

Satisfied, he lays his head on my stomach and hugs me tighter. “Well, you do now,” he tells me, straight up, as if I wouldn’t dare disagree.

My heart swells in my chest. Every synapse in my brain fires, excited, my mind a blur as if the world has begun to spin too fast around me and I’m barely managing to hold on. Suddenly I’m all too aware of Ritchie’s arm lying across my lap, and the way it presses against the start of another erection. As if he feels my d**k beneath his elbow, he snuggles closer, really digging in, turning me on all over again.

Remembering the ten dollars I gave away earlier, in the hopes of buying myself a chance with Ritchie, I stifle a goofy grin that threatens to split my face. I definitely got my money’s worth.