The bump of the truck’s wheels rolling over Angel’s body sends a flood of heat over his skin and how fucked up is it that he got hard? He’s out of the cab the second the truck shudders to a halt, fire in his belly climbing higher, scorching his throat to settle behind his eyes and paint his vision red.
The copper bright taste of satisfaction in his mouth rolls over his tongue, sweet and heavy. He doesn’t even realise he’s bitten though his lip and it’s his own blood staining his teeth and sliding down his throat.
Too many times when he’s been the one laid out on the floor or shoved up against a wall, bruised and battered, panting for breath as hands fisted into his shirt and his hair.
Turnabout is fair play.
He’s crashed and burned, lost everything he thought was important, lost the one person he loved. Don’t need no excuses anymore, now he’s got reasons. Been looking forward to this for years and there ain’t nothing gonna stop him from having himself some fun.