bet you will,” Shane mutters.
Drake shuts his mouth, clenching his jaw shut. There’s nothing good he can say to that comment that won’t start a fight, and both of them know it. Shane has never liked Father Aaron, but Drake had always assumed it was some natural aversion to the Church in general. It hasn’t abated since he got his soul back, however, and the idea that he’ll just have to accept this animosity rubs Drake the wrong way.
Shane pulls jerkily out into the street, amid unhelpful tips from Drake about how to handle the stick shift. At least he doesn’t stall at the intersection this time, which Drake decides to consider a small win. “You want me to wait in the car?”
“You don’t like it inside.”
Shane’s hands tighten on the steering wheel and his voice is tight when he speaks. “That wasn’t me. You know that. Christ, why are we still even having this conversation?”
Drake gives him a sideways look, then focuses on the road so he doesn’t lose his temper. Shane might not remember all that well, but Drake had lived through that decade and remembers it plenty for the both of them. “You’re saying you want to come in and talk to Father Aaron?”
Shane almost swerves into traffic and Drake grips the sword as tightly as he can. “Is there some way I can avoid going in and avoid you being alone with him?”
“Why don’t you want me alone with him?”
“Nothing against him, I just don’t like you hanging out with guys that want to bone you into next week.”
Drake’s eyebrows shoot straight up and he turns, incredulous, to stare at Shane’s clenched jaw, his fingers tight on the wheel. Whatever reply he’d been about to make fades on his tongue. Shane is a lot of things—irrational, flighty, over-eager, occasionally petty—but he’s not jealous for no reason. At least, he hasn’t been in the past, Drake reminds himself.
Not for the first time, he has to wonder how much of the boy he’d loved is in the man driving the truck.
“He’s a priest,” he says quietly, trying not to dismiss Shane’s feelings just because he thinks (knows) they’re ridiculous. “Even if he had some weird thing for me—which I really don’t think he does—“
“He does.”
“Even if, he’s still got his vows.” Drake carefully transfers the grip of his sword to his right hand and reaches the left over to squeeze Shane’s shoulder. “I’m flattered you think I’m hot enough to turn a priest, but seriously.”
Shane takes his eyes off the road for longer than Drake is entirely comfortable with, then grins. “Because you’re all mine, right?”
There’s something about the way he says it—relief, pride, pleasure—that makes Drake’s expression soften. “Yeah. Feels good to say it again.”
“Yeah, well, talk is cheap.” Shane’s hand tightens on his and yanks it down, pressing Drake’s palm between his legs as he drives with one hand.
“Um?” Drake looks from the road to Shane’s hand to his face, searching for something besides cocky good humor and finding nothing. “Jesus, you hedonist, wait until we get home.”
“Don’t wanna. You know fighting always makes me hard.”
“That’s your problem.”
“Always makes you hard, too.”
“That’s my problem. Dammit, concentrate on the road!”
“Road isn’t going anywhere. Come on, baby, your hand feels so good. I love the calluses and how strong you are. Feel how hard I am.”
It’s hard not to. Shane’s cock throbs under Drake’s hand, even through the denim of his jeans. Drake swallows hard, fingers curling in spite of himself. Shane’s not wrong, and that’s a problem. Fighting does usually make him more than eager to fuck, but there’ve been too many years when he wasn’t able to indulge those desires. “I’ve gotten better at holding it in,” he grumbles.
“You’re not exactly pulling away.” One hand on the steering wheel, Shane flicks open his jeans with the other, enough to make it obvious he’s wearing nothing underneath. In spite of himself, Drake swallows hard, mouth gone dry.
Shane lets out a sigh that turns into a groan. “You have about five seconds to stop looking like you’re gonna eat it, or I’m going to pull the truck over and—”
“Pull the truck over.”
Drake barely has enough time to think frantically, I meant at an intersection! before Shane swerves sideways, pulling roughly parallel to the curb and braking hard. The car is still lurching when Shane grabs his face, kissing him fiercely until they’re both flushed, sucking Drake’s bottom lip into his mouth to scrape his teeth across it and make them both groan.
“Every time,” Drake mutters, fingers flexing on the sword he can’t goddamn put down as he rearranges his position. “You’re so damn needy whenever we get into a good fight.”
“After,” Shane corrects, and pulls himself out of his jeans. He’s obviously achingly hard, and Drake’s own cock gives a twitch in his pants at the sight. “God, you look like you want it. Only takes a near-death experience to make you act like a slut, huh?”
“Shut up.” Drake bends, sliding his lips around the head of Shane’s cock, eyes fluttering closed at the taste. He swipes the flat of his tongue over it, and Shane grips the steering wheel, a hand coming to tangle in his hair, pushing him down without any pretense, without any apology.
Drake doesn’t want pretenses and apologies. He wants the slick, musky scent dragging over his tongue, the soft skin over hard muscle stretching his lips, the sound of Shane panting heavy and quick in his ears.
“You act,” Shane says, and gasps occasionally when Drake scrapes his teeth gently, “like I n-never let you do this, fuck.”
Drake pulls off for a second, letting the swollen head rub against his lips, sticky and slippery with his spit, so hard it quivers against him. “You’re usually too eager to jump on my dick.”
“Uh-uh,” Shane teases. His hand grips Drakes hair tighter, not letting him up again. “You can’t dirty-talk me like I’m the slut when you’re practically inhaling my dick. God, you must be gagging for it.”
Shane is the one that gets off on dirty talk. Usually, Drake is only too happy to oblige him, shoving him over a table and nailing him into next week, and Shane gets off on every second of it, but now…
Now, he’s having a hard time denying just how much he likes having it in his mouth. It’s stupid to try, when his own cock is trying to drill a hole through his jeans just from the taste of Shane’s dripping all over his tongue, making it slippery and forcing sloppy, messy noises out of his mouth with every thrust.
Shane doesn’t move his hips much when he’s getting blowjobs, Drake knows, even if it’s been a hell of a long time since he’s had his mouth around it. Long fingers tighten in his hair, and Drake tries to relax, letting Shane move his head up and down, the thick head pressing at the back of his throat, the taste everywhere in his nose. Even now, there’s
