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eyes on the road

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If Ronan thought back four, even three months ago, he would never have seen himself driving Joseph Kavinsky’s glorified Mitsubishi while said owner mouthed obscenely at his cock, but here they were anyway.

 

But three months ago had been different. Three months ago, Adam Parrish hadn't been chasing after that fashion-disaster of a psychic’s daughter, and Noah hadn't been so painfully absent from their group, and Gansey hadn't been lecturing him on schoolwork like he was a concerned parents or some shit. Three months ago felt like a completely different world.

 

And Kavinsky was good with his mouth.

 

Glancing down at how he was dragging his tongue over Ronan's dick like a perverse lollipop, Ronan mused that it was a vast improvement on what K usually used his mouth for; arrogant goads and an excessive use of the word “fag” for someone so desperate for a cock in their mouth.

 

Ronan almost smiled at his own thoughts, then K sucked at the head of his dick and all thoughts left his mind with a soft groan.

 

Kavinsky pulled off with a childish “pop” and grinned up at him. “Eyes on the road,” he said lowly. “If we crash, you lose, remember?”

 

Lose what? Ronan almost asked, his mind still processing the fact that he was getting sucked off by Joseph Kavinsky in Joseph Kavinsky’s precious car. Then he remembered.

 

Their bet. It replayed in his mind.

 

Kavinsky rolling up a quarter of a mile from Monmouth while Ronan stopped at a red light, sunglasses perched obnoxiously on his nose, middle finger raised. Ronan returned the gesture; muscle memory.

 

“Fifty bucks says you can't drive this beauty at seventy in a whole circuit,” he’d said.

 

“Make it seventy five.”

 

K waved the money out the window. Ronan didn't know how to say no.

 

He still didn't say no when K began palming him through his jeans in the first three minutes of the high-speed drive. In fact, the only reprimand he gave was a look of disgust. Kavinsky brushed it off as he always did and then the blood was rushing south like it always did and Ronan didn't think he could entirely blame the purr of the Mitsubishi under his body - delicious as it was - for the raging hard-on in his pants.

 

And now Kavinsky was drawing out every damned second of it.

 

His tongue lapped at the slit in the tip before he closed his lips over the first inch and a half and hollowed his cheeks and sucked. Hard.

 

Ronan's knuckles turned white on the steering wheel.

 

Kavinsky sucked him right down to the base, gagged a little, and began to draw back for breath. Before he could stop himself, Ronan fisted a hand in Kavinsky’s hair and shoved him back down again, sending electric pleasure through every nerve. K choked, and saliva slicked the base of Ronan's dick.

 

He was in bliss for less than two seconds. Kavinsky’s teeth began to bite down on Ronan's cock. With a yelp, Ronan pulled him off by the roots of his hair to see that his lips were dripping with saliva and precum and were a filthy shade of pink. They stretched into a grin as K wrapped a fist around Ronan, and began to jerk quickly, roughly.

 

“Hands on the wheel,” he purred, voice husky and wrecked.

 

“Do that again,” Ronan seethed. “And I'll break your fucking face.”

 

He could feel the engine growl for a change in gear, so Ronan pushed it onwards, before suddenly becoming fearful. He was nearing the end of the circuit, and K hadn't got him off, hadn't made any move to push him any further than his current level of pleasure. Kavinsky’s efforts were spectacular, but Ronan could tell he was holding back: stilling his hand every few seconds to bring Ronan back from the brink.

 

K licked a long stripe from Ronan's balls to the very tip of his cock. And let go. And sat back in his seat as Ronan pulled up alongside his abandoned BMW.

 

“Kavinsky…” he said warningly, but he knew his eyes were pleading with K to suck him down again, to stick his fingers in his ass, to do something.

 

K pulled some cash from his pocket and threw it at him. It landed in his barely clothed lap. His cock was hard and curved against his stomach, agonisingly bare.

 

“You won,” K said, smiling saintly.

 

Ronan’s hands tightened on the wheel. “What the fuck?” he growled.

 

“What?” Kavinsky’s lips twisted into a sneer and he leaned close enough for his breath to fan over Ronan's ear. “I'm not your toy, Lynch. Go home and wank off to thoughts of your pretty little redneck. Or don't, see if I care.” He momentarily sucked Ronan’s earlobe between his lips, and grazed his teeth over the skin.

 

Ronan's cock gave a forlorn twitch. That hard-on wasn't going away any time soon.

 

K released his earlobe, but his mouth hovered over his jaw, close enough for Ronan to feel tense and turned on at the same time. “You can beg for me, if you want, Lynch?” K said. “I do love a bit of praise. Or maybe you want me to praise you… to tell you what a good little boy you are with my cock in your ass.”

 

Ronan kept his hands on the wheel; kept his mouth shut.

 

“I think you'd look lovely on my backseat, with your ass raw and my hand around that throat of yours. Would you still think of him then? Parrish, I mean? Would you still think of him fucking you up? Because it's never going to happen.”

 

Ronan opened the door, and K pulled away at once.

 

“Then again,” he said, his voice losing its seductive touch and turning colder than how Ronan felt inside. “A bit of blue balls never hurt anyone.”

 

Aggressively, Ronan pulled his shirt over his unbuttoned jeans to best disguise his hard cock, aching despite everything in Kavinsky’s words which should have turned him off. He slid his legs out the car and began to climb out when K grabbed his wrist and snarled, “I'm not your second-best plaything, Lynch. Come back to me when you're looking for a real fuck.”

 

Ronan wished he could see under those sunglasses; wished he could read Kavinsky for any meaning to those words. He had to admit, it was nice to be wanted, even when he didn't want in return.

 

Kavinsky was just that - a plaything. It would never be them, not together.

 

Ronan detached himself from K’s grip, climbed out, and slammed the door as hard as he could. He watched as K shuffled into the driver’s seat, stuck his middle finger out the window and drove off. Ronan returned the gesture, as he always would.

 

Dimly, he was aware that he was still stood in the road with a hard-on which didn't seem to want to fade, longing for Joseph Kavinsky’s mouth all over again.

 

Ronan cursed his traitorous body and wanked off in the BMW to the image of Kavinsky’s luscious mouth, and Adam Parrish’s tender eyes. He was fucked. He was so so fucked.