Clyde's hands were bruising at his hips, grip possessive, rough, dragging him back every time he tried to arch away.
The rhythm wasn't slow. It wasn't careful. It was hard, relentless, like Clyde had something to prove.
His head fell back against the seat, mouth open, breath breaking apart every time Clyde drove into him harder.
The car rocked.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, dread flickered — they were in a goddamn parking lot. Anyone could walk past. Anyone could hear.
But Ryley couldn't bring himself to care.
Not when Clyde was roughly twisting his nipples, not when he smirked at the way Ryley was leaking all over his own stomach— and definitely not when those thick fingers were stretching the blond's throbbing hole wide just to make room for more.
Clyde was just as far gone, his body wound tight like a spring.
He'd been rock hard for hours, fueled by a toxic, intoxicating cocktail of pure irritation and raw desire.
