Matt wanted to arrive in style, in his tight jeans and form-fitting cashmere pullover that seemed to hug his every move. Curls sculpted just right, hips angled when he walked, butt high and tight in the jeans, his c**k already hard and his balls throbbing from the pinch of the cuffs that kept them under lock and key. He wanted to arrive fashionably late, just fifteen minutes or so, zooming down Roxie’s quiet street with hip-hop music blaring from the speakers of his Jaguar, the city’s lights glistening wetly off the polished hood of his car. In short, he wanted to make an entrance, and he wanted everyone to know he was on the scene.
Instead, he had to settle for riding shotgun in Vic’s battered old Toyota, cringing when the vehicle backfired at the end of the block and covering his face
