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Dylan turned into the driveway of a brick-front, covered-porch two-story. The garage door slid up--the remote must have been in the pocket of his jacket--and Dylan pulled the bike into the garage next to the dark green Jeep Wrangler Sebastian had also seen him drive. The door closed behind them as Dylan shut off the bike.
They sat for a moment in the dim light from the garage door opener, not moving, the sexual tension so thick Sebastian almost couldn't breathe. He pulled off his helmet.
Dylan did the same, then wrenched his body around partway and dragged Sebastian into a kiss that conveyed every bit of the hunger and built-up need that surged in Sebastian.
"I didn't think we were ever going to get here," Dylan murmured against his lips.
"Me either." Sebastian stood, swung his leg off the bike, and set his helmet on the worktable behind him. When Dylan dismounted, Sebastian grabbed him by a belt loop and pulled him close, then planted another kiss on him. As the heat and seductive taste of Dylan's tongue curled with his, Sebastian worked open Dylan's belt buckle, popped open the button of his jeans, and slid down the zipper.
In a smooth motion, he pushed Dylan's jeans and briefs down to his thighs. His erection sprang free, hot and stiff and eager. Without pause, Sebastian dropped to his knees, wrapped his hand around the base of the thick shaft, and licked across the damp head of it, savoring Dylan's essence, the way the skin stretched like hot satin over the spongy crown, his warm aroused scent. Then not willing to wait a second longer, he guided that beautiful cock into the depths of his mouth.
"Shit," Dylan gasped. "Oh, shit!" His fingers dug intoSebastian's hair. His eyes closed. His breathing came out in stuttered huffs.
Sebastian loved to give head. Always had. There was something about a cock in his mouth, the taste, the smell, the sensation of sleek, wet skin as he worked it over that did it for him. But as he listened to Dylan's heavy breathing, felt the vibration of Dylan's need and the way his fingers flexed against his scalp, he realized he'd never wanted to give anyone pleasure more than he did this man. He wasn't sure why. Probably the same reason he'd gotten on the motorcycle with Dylan tonight--a need to show him he was more than what he seemed.
All his life he'd suffered over the stereotype of being the "smart guy." In high school, college, even now it continued, as evidenced by Babs today. He'd tried to fight it, tried to hide it. He'd shed glasses for contacts in high school, and after he'd opened Great Escapes and pulled a decent profit that first year, he'd gotten LASIK done. He'd banished geeky clothes from his wardrobe as soon as he'd been out on his own, and made a point of shopping at nicer men's stores. And yet, despite the improved external appearance, the smart guy label continued to stick. He didn't know what it was about him that broadcasted it, but he couldn't seem to escape it. "Pressed and scholarly," Babs had called him.
Certainly there were far worse things in life than being smart. But here, tonight, with Dylan, he felt compelled to prove to the man--and maybe to himself as well--that smart guys could be just as good in bed, maybe better, than anyone else. The next time he went into Dylan's tattoo shop, instead of laughing because Sebastian blushed over some horny woman's come-on, he wanted Dylan to remember this moment, when he'd dropped to his knees in Dylan's garage and boldly sucked his cock until Dylan's eyes rolled back in his head.