You’re driving like you always do—
one hand on the wheel,
the other resting easy on your thigh,
until I slide my hand over yours
and start moving lower.

you glance at me—
just a flick of your eyes—
but it says everything:
go on.

I undo your jeans slow,
like unwrapping something I’ve been craving all day.
your cock is hard, warm,
pressing against my palm,
and I trace you through your boxers,
watching your jaw clench,
pretending you’re not already aching.

you lift your hips,
silent invitation,
and I pull you free—
thick, heavy,
already glistening at the tip.

I kiss it.
once.
just a soft press of lips.

then I sit back
and watch your hands grip the wheel tighter,
watch your breath catch
as I lick a slow stripe
from base to head,
tongue flat,
mouth still closed.

you shift in your seat,
trying to stay focused—
the road is straight,
but your mind is full of curves now.

when I finally take you into my mouth,
you groan low,
barely audible over the hum of the tires,
and your hips rise
just enough to show me
you want more.

but I go slow.
wet, steady strokes—
my lips wrapped tight around you,
tongue working soft circles
as I slide up and down,
pausing to suck just the tip,
just enough to make you twitch
and mutter my name under your breath.

I let you fall deeper into my throat
a little at a time,
gag once, swallow hard,
and keep going
until your whole body
is humming like the engine.

you’re trying not to thrust,
I can feel it—
the way your thighs tense,
your stomach tightens,
your voice catches.

and I won’t stop.
not yet.
not until your hands are shaking,
not until you can barely keep your foot on the gas,
not until you say it—
that quiet, broken “I’m close,”
like it’s a secret
you can’t hold anymore.

and even then,
I don’t stop.