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Got Him on His Knees Like Religion

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GOT HIM ON HIS KNEES LIKE RELIGION

The car door slams, cutting off the vibrant and varied sounds of the city coming alive in the evening. The car’s interior is quiet, insulated. Only the low tones of the satellite radio, set to one of Jared’s preferred stations, infiltrate his treasured sanctuary.

Jensen keeps the car immaculate, stocked with everything Jared requires. Jared is Jensen's only client; he pays well enough to ensure Jensen doesn't need to seek out other business. He's worth every penny, too. The last thing Jared wants is to climb into a car that smells, feels, like someone else. And while his driver has never said it explicitly, Jared imagines that Jensen prefers his client list with a single name. He’s not forthcoming about his history, but Jared has based an entire career on his ability to read people, situations—to see past the egos and desires.

Jared doesn’t need Jensen’s employment contract to deduce that his driver served in the military, or that his service to his country didn’t end there. If Jared had to guess, he’d venture that Jensen was recruited into specialized training. Something elite and way, way off the books. It’s written in his sharp reactions, evident in the way he can process scenarios and routes faster than any other driver Jared has used, not to mention his, at times, unnerving vigilance.

Combined, these traits make Jensen a great driver. The fact that he’s also a stoic bastard makes him Jared’s favorite driver.

There are two bottles of lightly chilled water in holders, protein bars, organic honey sticks, and a twist-tied package of neon sour candies from a particular shop uptown that Jared’s trainer can never know about; all part of Jared’s requirements. (Except the candy, but a bag has appeared once a week without fail since Jared mentioned his craving.)

When he’s feeling triumphant, the sugar would be enough to mollify him, the honey sticks temporarily quenching his oral fixation, chewing on the plastic tubes and letting the slow sweetness coat his tongue while he comes down from the high of a successful negotiation, or the rush of getting his clients exactly what they need. It’s when a deal falls apart, when an unforeseen complication proves too much to untangle, that Jared finds his routine inadequate.

After the day he’s had, Jared’s mood requires something outside his usual comforts. Something stronger.

“Do you keep any liquor in here?”

Jensen’s gaze finds Jared’s in the rearview mirror. “No, sir.”

Jared bristles, shoves his right hand under his thigh so he doesn’t have to feel it shake. “I don’t care what it is. Scotch, vodka, cinnamon schnapps. Just give it to me. You must have a mini bottle or two stashed somewhere.”

“No liquor, sir.” Jensen’s tone reeks of finality, which raises Jared’s hackles even more. He’s not in the mood to be dismissed.

“Then drive to the closest liquor store and get me a bottle.”

Jensen smoothly crosses three lanes of traffic—an impressive feat in the city at this time of night—and makes a turn that will take them back to Jared’s apartment.

“Didn’t you hear me? I said—”

“I heard what you said, sir,” Jensen bites into Jared’s rant, his expression without emotion, “but I’m not letting you drink in the car. Your rules.”

“Fuck the rules,” Jared curses, his blood pressure threatening to spill over into dangerous territory. “I’m telling you to make an exception. This is my car.”

“No, this is my car.”

Jensen’s voice is like a blade of ice cutting through Jared’s rage. His gaze in the rearview is just as cold.

There’s a moment between them, Jared’s heart beating heavily against his ribs, blunt fingernails cutting half-moons into the leather seat beneath his thigh, where Jared thinks this is where their professional relationship ends. Jared Padalecki is a lot to handle. Between his demanding schedule, the vague nature of his business, and the shady characters he’s forced to deal with, his retention rate on drivers, bodyguards, and associates is alarmingly low. He thought Jensen Ackles, former Marine, former who-knows-what for the government, would be the exception.

But instead of bringing the car to a screeching halt and dumping Jared on the cold, dirty sidewalk, Jared is relieved to see the steel fade from Jensen’s stare. His driver refocuses on the road, a single word uttered so softly, Jared almost misses it.

“Sir.”

Five minutes pass, traffic noise a dull beat beyond the insulation the expensive car provides. Jared’s mood hasn’t gotten worse, but it hasn’t improved either, and the restlessness threatens to overtake him. All because one of his clients fucked him over. Threats don’t bother Jared (he has a digital vault of secrets he can use against anyone who puts his business in jeopardy), but his reputation is everything. His now ex-client could’ve cost him a lot more than money today.

Purely out of habit, Jared reaches for one of the honey sticks provided in the console, playing with the plastic tip before ripping it with his teeth. He works the straw with his tongue, sucks the honey out, and tries to enjoy the natural sweetness. Instead of enjoying the way the thick honey melts in his mouth, the sugar is disappointing, a poor substitute for his harder cravings.

Once he’s drained the tube, Jared continues to slide the plastic between his teeth, nerves taking over. The car lurches and Jared looks up, ready to remark on his driver’s rare distraction, only to find Jensen watching him through the rearview mirror.

Embarrassed, Jared slips the straw out of his mouth.

A moment later, after no more awkward over-corrections at the wheel, Jensen asks, “Am I taking you home, sir?”

The question’s not out of place. Jared can hardly be considered a regular nine-to-fiver. Nothing is out of the ordinary, because nothing is ordinary. Dinners, back alley meetings, being summoned to boardrooms, hotel suites, no-name motels, and galas at all hours.

“You already said no to the liquor store,” Jared mutters, not low enough for Jensen to miss. “Might as well.”

Jensen’s next question takes Jared by surprise.

“Will you be needing me after that, sir?”

It’s an unspoken rule that Jensen is always on call. At any hour, for any reason. Not once in the last year and a half has Jensen asked to be dismissed for the remainder of a night. Unless he lies, Jared has no reason to ask his driver to stay available.

Feeling the weight of Jensen’s stare via the rearview, Jared shakes his head. “As soon as you drop me off, you’re free for the rest of the night.”

Jensen’s focus returns to the road. Jared, at a rare loss for words, stares out the car window as Jensen maneuvers him home one block at a time.

Snippets of Jared’s day come back along the way, each like a spark trying to reignite his frustration. He gives his clients specific instructions for a reason—Jared knows what he’s doing. No lies, no press, and no surprises. His current client, the one at the epicenter of his headache, violated two of those rules in one day. Politician’s kids. Those fucking brats think they can get away with anything. (In this case, drug possession.) Jared had half a mind to back off and let the press have their fun—something akin to watching a pack of lions tear into their helpless prey—but keeping a Senator as a client was more important in the long run.

At least Jared is earning himself one hell of a favor. In Jared’s line of work, those are far more valuable than cash in the bank. Although he has plenty of that, too.

The motion of the car changes as Jensen slows and pulls towards the curb in front of Jared’s building. The knot in Jared’s stomach grows; he’s antsy, and the last thing he wants is to flounder in an empty apartment. His doorman is already approaching the car when Jensen turns around in his seat and pins Jared with a look. The green of his eyes, such a precious color to find in the middle of a city filled with steel and concrete, is even more arresting without the distortion of the rearview mirror.

“As far as I’m concerned, I’m done for the night,” says Jensen. Jared’s hand freezes on the door handle and the doorman, well instructed, won’t open it from the outside.

“You can get out of this car right now, go inside, and work out whatever’s got you so riled up. Hit the gym, take a pill, or screw someone into the mattress. I don’t care. I’ll pick you up tomorrow like tonight never happened, because that’s my job.”

Jared’s hand slips away from the car door.

“Or?”

Jensen’s grin is the most terrifying thing he’s ever seen, and yet, somehow, Jared’s cock is getting stiff within his tailored slacks.

“Or, you can let me work it out for you.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Stay or go,” Jensen growls, “I don’t have all night.”

Jared is a rational man; he believes actions and decisions take time in order to avoid mistakes. He thinks first, jumps second. But as soon as Jensen issues his ultimatum, Jared’s mind is made up.

“It’s your show,” he says, sounding more at ease than he feels. Anxiety beats at him like a hammer beneath his sternum. Combined with his rising heartbeat, the ache in Jared’s chest is almost too much to bear, though it begins to ease when Jensen shifts back into gear and drives away from the curb, leaving the doorman grasping at nothing but air.

Jared knows the city well, but he can’t guess where Jensen’s taking him. Certainly not to any of Jared’s usual haunts: upscale clubs and bistros that look like nothing from the street, non-descript doors protecting the city’s elite from prying eyes and unwanted attention. The kind of place that doesn’t need to advertise by traditional means to bring in business.

His view gradually transitions into an area that’s quieter yet rough around the edges. Bright streaks of neon in windows, walk-ups tucked between corner shops and dark bars. No doormen in sight.

“Where are we headed?”

This time Jensen doesn’t bother with the rearview mirror.

“My show, remember?”

Jared huffs. “Just tell me, Jensen.”

“I only follow orders when you're paying me.”

Jared can’t see what’s surely a dangerous smirk on Jensen’s face, but he can damn well hear it. He swallows, nerves beginning to crackle once more.

“So right now?”

“I'm off the clock,” Jensen tells him. “Same goes for calling you sir.”

If Jared couldn’t feel the shift before, he does now. Jensen is capable, professional, and he packs one hell of a punch. There’s always been a distance between them, however, a careful arrangement between client and driver. Something that’s breaking down the further they drive away from Jared’s home.

The shift has him reaching for another honey stick, instinct telling Jared he needs something to stop the prickling beneath his skin. He’s barely torn into the straw when he hears Jensen’s voice take on a tone he’s never heard before.

“I can't stand those things.”

Jared looks up and finds Jensen's eyes in the rearview. The car is stopped at a light, drawing out the connection.

“You're the one who buys them,” Jared points out, the straw still between his teeth.

A pause. They're still stopped. Jared imagines that if the light turned green right now, Jensen would keep his foot on the brake.

“I let you have them because I like watching you eat them.” His voice drops almost to the point Jared can't hear him. “Your lips always end up messy. Sticky and wet.”

Jared's inner voice screams, distance shattered as Jensen’s words obliterate any semblance of professionalism. Following his driver’s lead, Jared had kept his attraction locked deep—it had no place in their day-to-day lives, could even be considered an unnecessary distraction.

If tonight proves anything, it’s that Jared might need more distractions, not less.

It’s clear Jensen isn’t expecting a response. He flashes one more curled grin at Jared through the rearview before turning back to the road just in time for the light to turn green. When he hits the gas, the sensation runs straight through Jared’s chest.

Five minutes later, the car stops again. Jared is no closer to figuring out what Jensen has planned—a quick glance out the tinted window provides only one clue. Dingy windows, flickering neon advertising an off-brand domestic beer, and chipped gold paint on a door that reads JD’s.

“This is your plan?” Jared huffs. “A bar?”

Jensen ignores him and gets out of the car. He comes around to the passenger side, hands in his pockets as he waits. A few more seconds and he leans down to look in the window.

“I’m not opening the door for you,” Jensen says. “Off the clock, remember?”

Keeping his eyes down, Jared steps onto the sidewalk and lets Jensen lock the town car behind him. The street is nearly empty, only a few cars parked between them and the next cross-street. Jensen nods towards the door.

“You know I have a bar at home, right? Fully stocked, twelve-year scotch, microbrews in the fridge.”

“I don’t care about your fancy wet bar,” Jensen tells him, snagging Jared’s elbow and pulling him towards the entrance. “We’re not here for the ambiance.”

Though it’s gotten dark outside, it’s even darker inside the bar. Most of the light comes from a pair of flat screen televisions mounted high on the walls, Sportscenter playing on both, and a faint golden glow behind the bar’s selection of liquor bottles. Half of the tables are occupied, the bar itself nearly full, but it’s quiet. Mellow. Not what Jared’s used to.

Jensen waves at the bartender, an older man with grey in his beard and threaded through at his temples. Like just about everyone else in the bar, he’s wearing plain clothing, logos long faded, and worn jeans. Comfort over style. Utilitarian and simple. Military, if Jared had to guess. He begins to understand the subdued atmosphere, and why Jensen might frequent a place like this.

“I’ll take a bottle,” Jensen says. His eyes meet Jared’s before he adds, “And I’ll take the key.”

Jared understands the first part of Jensen’s request, but he’s at a complete loss on the second.

There are no introductions made. The bartender, whose relationship with Jensen clearly goes beyond customer and drink-slinger, takes one look at Jared while he pulls a full bottle of whiskey from beneath the bar. A few seconds later, he tosses Jensen a set of keys before turning back to his other patrons.

“Are we getting a table?” Jared asks, scanning the room.

“Nope.”

Jensen grabs his arm and pulls him towards the back of the bar, bottle and keys in his free hand. They pass the door to what looks like a small kitchen, stepping instead to the right through a heavy curtain and into a narrow hallway. Not for the first time since pulling away from his building, Jared wonders what he’s getting himself into.

Jensen leads him past two doors before stopping at the third and using the keys the bartender gave him.

“This is it?” Jared follows Jensen into the small room. “This is where you wanted to bring me?”

Jensen looks around. “It has its charms.”

If it does, Jared is blind to them. There’s nothing charming about the leather couch, although the material does look soft and broken in. The same goes for the chipped and unvarnished sidebar with various glassware stacked on top, the American Iron auto posters in cheap frames, or the old but sturdy dining table pushed against the far wall.

“Glass?”

When Jared looks at Jensen, he’s brandishing the bottle.

“It hasn’t been aged for twelve years, but it does in a pinch.”

“Just pour the damn drink, Jensen.”

As the name passes Jared’s lips, he realizes how rarely he uses it. He accepts the glass Jensen hands to him and takes a sip, his nose wrinkling involuntarily.

“It’s not that bad.”

Jared shakes his head. “You’ve clearly been drinking the wrong stuff.”

“Suck it up,” Jensen mutters.

By the third sip, the whiskey isn't so bad, but Jared still has no idea what they’re doing standing in the middle of a strange room. Jensen pours himself a shot and takes it quickly, giving Jared only a second to appreciate the subtle movement of his throat when he swallows.

Jared opens his mouth to ask, only managing a groan when Jensen reaches for his tie and yanks him forward. Lips slack, Jared leans in, expecting the rough slide of Jensen’s mouth against his. It never comes, and Jared finds himself staring at his driver’s stern expression. Jensen’s eyes are anything but, however, something like heat blooming in those green irises.

“I want you to listen,” Jensen says, his chest so close to Jared’s, he can almost feel it rumble. “I don’t know what happened today. I’m only your driver—I don’t get involved unless someone threatens to harm you.”

He releases Jared’s tie, smoothing out the wrinkle. Unexpectedly gentle in counterpoint to his normal demeanor.

“You are good at what you do,” Jensen insists. “The best, I'd wager, and I think you know that. You could bring this city to its knees, Jared. Instead, you keep it going, pulling the strings and getting none of the credit. And you're going to act like one incident, one client, was enough to unravel you?”

Jared’s breath skips out of his lungs and suddenly he feels like he needs another measure of whiskey.

“Why are you telling me this?”

You are my business.” Jensen’s expression softens the barest amount. “In my car, you’re my responsibility. That includes making sure you’re able to do your job to the best of your ability. The way you were acting tonight? You weren’t even close.”

“So your solution is getting me drunk?”

Jensen shakes his head, his lips temptingly close to Jared’s.

“I wanted to get you out of your own head. I didn’t know what it would take, but this place was my first thought.”

“Really?” Jared huffs. “The backroom of some jarhead bar? With a bottle of no-name whiskey that’s better suited to—”

That’s all Jared manages to say before Jensen shuts him up with his mouth, all pressure and no finesse, until Jared swallows the last of his words and gives in to Jensen’s lips. It’s less of a kiss and more of a statement, Jensen declaring that he’s still running the show. Jared promised to let him, and if there’s one thing they both know, it’s that Jared is a man of his word.

He sinks into the kiss, ignores the sound his empty glass makes when he tosses it to the side hoping that it doesn’t shatter. Jensen’s hands grip his waist, hauling him closer. Jared always figured Jensen was well-built, body kept in perfect working shape, and now he feels the evidence to prove it. There’s a wealth of untapped strength in his driver’s arms and shoulders. Jared may have the advantage of height, but Jensen is broad where Jared is lean, and his job is literally to be a wall between Jared and the nearest threat.

Feeling Jensen against him now, Jared doesn’t regret putting his life in this man’s hands.

The next thing he knows, Jensen is shoving him away and reaching for the whiskey, no glass necessary as he takes a long, bracing swallow straight from the bottle.

“I wasn’t complaining,” Jared points out, breathless, which earns him a smirk.

Jensen’s eyes are hot on Jared, tongue licking a stray drop of liquor from his lips. He takes his time staring, able to look full-on without the barrier of a seat or a mirror between them. Jared’s hands curl at his sides—he doesn’t want Jensen standing that far away. He’s had one taste of the man’s mouth and he’s already addicted. If Jensen allows him to have more, Jared won’t waste a drop.

If this is the pace Jensen is setting, Jared has no problem forcing the issue.

“Are you planning on finishing the bottle?” he asks, sidling forward. “How’d you know about this room, anyway? Do you bring your other clients here?”

“I only have one,” Jensen tells him. Jared catches a slip of white teeth against his bottom lip. “And he’s demanding.”

Not the worst way someone could have described him, Jared silently acknowledges. Inching closer, he takes off his jacket and drapes it over the closest chair. A man does not toss a bespoke suit, no matter how attractive the person is standing in front of him.

He starts to loosen his tie, fingers brushing his throat before Jensen stops him.

“That’s enough.”

Jensen’s fingers replace Jared’s at his throat, working the tie loose until the silk gives way and the knot slips open. It joins Jared’s coat on the chair. His hands brush gently over Jared’s shoulders, the pressure barely transferring to Jared’s skin underneath. They move all the way down his arms until he gets to Jared’s wrists. Jensen’s careful with the sleeves, as if he could cut himself on the sharp pressed cuffs of Jared's tailored shirt.

One by one, he removes Jared’s cufflinks and lets the sleeves hang over Jared’s wrists. Jensen’s fingers dance inward, swiftly untucking Jared’s shirt from his pants and unbuttoning it from the bottom.

Jensen’s lips are so close, Jared could lean down and reclaim them. Bite into the plushness and see them turn an even darker shade of pink. Force Jensen against the wall and lose every single one of his frustrations in his driver’s capable body. But he’d miss the way Jensen’s eyes are fixed on his pulse points, his fingers so devoted to their task. This isn’t about a fast fuck, that much is obvious.

Patience only lasts so long. By the time Jared’s shirt hangs open, baring his chest, his supply is all but gone.

“What do you want?” he hisses. “I’m dying here.”

Jensen makes a low noise, one that comes from deep within his chest, and Jared’s blood rushes south as if commanded. He lifts Jared’s right arm, the sleeve dropping to reveal his wrist. Jensen sets his lips to the exposed skin, rubbing them across veins and over tendons. His palm is the next to receive such sensuous treatment, Jensen’s breath blowing hot over his lifeline as if he holds the power to rewrite Jared’s fate.

Up his long fingers, to the tips, where Jensen’s teeth scrape lightly over his nails. Slow torture, all of it, but it’s nothing compared to what comes next. Jared’s fingers are drawn into Jensen’s mouth, stealing what Jared’s lips crave. When Jensen withdraws them, he kisses the pad of each finger.

“You’re meticulous with everything,” Jensen whispers, as if someone could overhear. Jared’s beginning to realize just how much Jensen appreciates the quiet when he can get it.

“So clean and polished,” Jensen continues, “always so put together.” A careful lick to Jared’s middle finger before he sucks it back into his mouth, tongue playing around the length until Jared can’t feel where his finger ends and the heat begins. Men have commented before on Jared’s long fingers, but none of them have ever orally obsessed over each knuckle and the flesh in between.

Jared holds his breath until Jensen lets his finger go again.

“Except for the honey,” Jensen says. “It gets on your lips, on your fingers. You never notice the mess you make. But I do.”

“Jensen, please.”

“You asked me what I want,” he reminds Jared, “and I want to know what your mouth feels like around me. I've had to watch you every day—gum, pens, those goddamn honey sticks—you can't keep them out of your mouth. Now it's my turn.”

Jared could drop to his knees right then and there. He can’t decide which is more arousing, Jensen’s spoken desire or the fact that he’s observant enough to catch and exploit Jared’s oral fixation. The resulting rush of blood leaves him lightheaded. He lists forward, and Jensen takes that as an invitation to kiss him again. Jared opens his mouth at the first touch of tongue on his lips, body rolling into the motion. He yields, lets Jensen kiss him thoroughly, mouth pliant and soft so Jensen’s can shape around his.

He’s not opposed to blowing Jensen while he stands, but Jared is grateful when Jensen shuffle-pushes him towards the couch and drops onto the wide, leather cushion. The idea that Jensen may have done this here before is a bitter one to swallow. Fortunately, he has Jensen’s tongue to sweep the taste away.

“Fuck, that’s a pretty sight,” Jensen says to the picture Jared makes kneeling between his spread legs.

Jared eyes him curiously. “Been imagining this for a while?”

“Trying not to,” Jensen mutters. At Jared’s scowl, he adds, “Driving with a hard on isn’t the most comfortable feeling.”

The mention of Jensen’s cock evokes a Pavlovian response from Jared; he’s suddenly desperate to see something beneath Jensen’s clothing. Jensen has the same idea, and their fingers bump and fumble together as they open Jensen’s belt and zipper, tugging his pants low enough for Jensen to tuck his boxer briefs below the base of his shaft. A full sack, covered with sparse yet soft-looking light brown hair, completes the insanely hot image: Jensen, his usually impeccable ‘man in a suit’, sprawled back with his cock full on display.

“I’m not in the mood for a tease.”

Jared looks up. “Just appreciating the view.”

“Appreciate it up close,” Jensen hisses, reaching for the back of Jared’s neck.

Jared opens his mouth, tongue slack and ready to carry the weight of Jensen’s cock. He’s surprised when, instead of pushing him down, Jensen meets him halfway, kissing him rough and sloppily. Finesse hardly matters when everything else hits him just right, such as the way Jensen bites at his bottom lip before moving along his jawline, sampling different patches of skin until Jared lures him back to his lips with a wordless plea.

“Please,” Jared begs, the word little more than a broken sound as Jensen runs his tongue along Jared's upper teeth.

“What am I going to do to you?”

Jared whispers his request. “Make me forget about today. Use me, I just want to feel—”

That's as much as Jensen will let him say and, for that, Jared is grateful. Given the warm, murky space his mind is occupying, there's no telling what could have spilled off his tongue. He accepts the touch to his shoulder and sinks smoothly into the cradle of Jensen's hips, facing the proof of Jensen's desire for him.

“You’ve got some work to do.”

The words are ridiculous, yet the rasp in Jensen's voice makes them anything but.

In this position, Jared's free to wrap his arms around Jensen's back, palms gripping the muscle of his ass and pulling his hips into Jared's face. Part of him wants to tease, to mouth softly at the head and paint his lips with Jensen's precome until the man is so strung out he forces himself down Jared's throat. Or, Jared could do that himself.

It feels so goddamn good going down, thick enough for Jared to wince at the stretch he feels at the corners of his mouth. The sound punched out of Jensen hits Jared’s blood like cocaine, saliva flooding his mouth until Jensen can slide cleanly in and out. Jared uses his hold on Jensen’s ass to leverage his own thrusts down, wanting to take more than Jensen’s giving him.

“Knew you’d be like this,” Jensen mutters, rasp even more pronounced; as if he’s the one getting his throat fucked. “Never thought I’d get you here.”

Jared knows instinctively that Jensen’s not talking about getting Jared in the backroom of his friend’s dingy bar.

When he goes deep, Jared’s nose scrapes through the short pubic hair at the base of Jensen’s cock. The smell invades his sinuses: clean and fresh, familiar like the cheap bar soap Jared used before he could afford his twelve-dollars-a-bar shea butter mint soap from France. Letting Jensen slide out, the head is perfectly shaped for Jared to cup with his tongue; he rolls the tip of it beneath Jensen’s crown, ready for the shockwave that electrifies Jensen’s body.

Jared keeps looking up, watches Jensen’s face. Doesn’t want to miss a thing in case this therapy is for one-night-only. That’s when he catches the unbridled lust in Jensen’s eyes, the intensity he’s doing his best to rein in.

And that’s not what Jared wants. Not at all.

He pulls off, lips wet, nearly dripping with the combination of precome and his own saliva.

“Thought you were gonna use me,” he whines, unashamed. “Make me forget everything but your cock stretching my throat, your come all over my—”

That’s the ticket. Unrestrained, Jensen moans and fists a hand in Jared’s hair, yanking him back down onto his cock. It’s a rough touch, nails digging into Jared’s scalp, thick strands twisting around his fingers, giving Jared more than one sensation on which to focus. The sting makes it easier to cope with the slap of Jensen’s skin against his lips each time he fucks in all the way.

Through the washed out haze of taking a cock like Jensen’s, Jared becomes aware of the way Jensen’s left hand contradicts his right. It’s gentle, exploring the skin of Jared’s shoulder as if he wants to learn its texture. The incongruity sets fire to Jared’s already heated blood; his own cock hasn’t gotten even a brush of friction outside the tortuous tease of fabric, yet he’s already trampling the urge to come.

Jensen’s close. His rhythm begins to falter, hips lifting further and further off the couch as he strains towards completion. Jared lets his mouth go slack, palms dropping from Jensen’s ass to brace himself on the cushions so he doesn’t fall back from the way Jensen is pounding his face. Jensen’s balls hit his chin, and Jared wishes he had more of a chance to play with what he could see was a nice, soft handful.

His lips will be bruised, his cheeks will be sore. All worth it to hear, see, feel Jensen fall apart around him. He considers locking his mouth around Jensen’s cock and swallowing, positive the taste won’t compare to anyone else, before Jensen steals the choice away, wrenching Jared’s head back using the grip on his hair. His other hand shoots to the base of his cock, strokes blurry and fast.

Jared manages to drag one hand off the couch to help.

“Know you’ve thought about coming on my face,” he says, barely recognizing the hoarse sound of his own voice.

Whatever Jensen’s going to say ends up lodged in his throat as he shudders once, twice—just enough time for Jared to tilt his face up and watch the way orgasm twists Jensen’s expression into something so beautifully haunting, Jared wishes he had thought to record this. To hell with his burgeoning addiction to Jensen’s mouth, his hands, his taste; they pale in comparison to the way Jensen’s face affects him.

Jensen paints thick streaks across Jared’s skin, the majority falling on his throat and the bare stretch between his collarbones. Jared’s disappointment fades in a flash when he sees Jensen’s gaze tracing the haphazard pattern of his come down Jared’s neck. Maybe Jensen’s fantasies centered more on marking Jared elsewhere than on his face.

Luxuriating in Jensen’s afterglow and tormenting his sensitive cock with the gentle brush of his lips is out of the question; Jared’s dick is about to rip through the seam of his pants. He stands on weak knees, falling forward until he’s straddling Jensen’s spread thighs. Together, they attack the button and zipper on Jared’s slacks. He ought to marvel at Jensen’s coherence after such a massive orgasm (he really outdid himself); then again, the man has always proven himself to be more than capable.

“Bet you’re close,” Jensen whispers against Jared’s lips. He loves his driver’s voice, but if he’s talking, he’s not kissing Jared, and that’s a problem. One Jared solves as soon as Jensen’s palm wraps around his cock.

He drops all pretense of control (if he even had any to begin with), letting Jensen take ownership of his mouth and his pleasure. It’s a swift road to completion, fucking into Jensen’s fist and committing his kiss to memory. He comes fast and hard, thighs shaking so intensely, Jensen needs to steady him with his free hand.

Jared collapses against Jensen, smearing his come all over Jensen’s shirt, splitting the mess between them. Normally meticulous, Jared couldn’t care less.

Jensen’s voice is soft and warm. “You’re paying to have this cleaned.”

“I’ll send it out with mine,” Jared mutters against his shoulder, leaning into his touch and accepting his sweeping kiss.

It’s nearly midnight when Jensen pulls up to Jared’s building. When they finally left JD’s, both men appearing slightly disheveled, Jared walked straight to the passenger door of the town car and let himself in, smirk in place as Jensen climbed in the driver’s side.

His earlier frustration is all but forgotten—Jensen lived up to his promise—only to be replaced by a different sort of distraction.

He glances over at Jensen now, wondering how the evening will end.

“I could’ve taken a cab,” he offers. “You’re off the clock, remember?”

“I’m still a gentleman,” Jensen says, looking straight ahead. Granted, he was driving, but he kept the eye contact to a minimum on the way back to Jared’s.

“Do you want to come upstairs?” Jared ventures, nerves vibrating in sync with the idling engine. The doorman has already gone off duty; no one’s stopping Jared from waiting in the car until Jensen gives him an answer.

He reads what he can from the way Jensen’s hands tighten their grip on the steering wheel, the flush on his cheeks, and the fact that he won’t meet Jared’s gaze.

Jared knows the answer before Jensen opens his mouth to say, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

He doesn’t wait around for Jensen to start listing off the reasons why. Stepping out into the cool midnight air, Jared turns and looks back one more time, muscles tense like he wants to slam the door in Jensen’s face.

He can’t. Not with the way Jensen’s looking at him.

“Jared—”

He waits, sees Jensen gather himself.

“I hope tomorrow’s better than today.”

“What if it’s not?” Jared snaps. “Gonna drag me to another bar?”

Jensen meets him head-on.

“No. My place.”

Just like that, the tension is gone.

Jared smirks. “Guess I’ll see you in the morning then. Be here early,” he says, “I have a feeling it’s gonna be a rough day.”

The last thing Jared sees before he shuts the door is Jensen’s smile. The real one.

“Looking forward to it, sir.”

 

FIN.