DDD: Daddies Dirty Desire
They walked out separately, faces blank, Alex’s thighs slick under his slacks for the rest of the afternoon.
Backseat of Damian’s black SUV after a late client dinner: tinted windows, city lights streaking past. Alex on his knees between the front seats, Damian’s hand fisted in his hair, guiding him down. Slow, deep sucks that made Damian’s thighs tense and his breathing hitch. Alex swallowed everything, then climbed into Damian’s lap for a messy grind—clothes half-on, just enough friction to come again before the driver pulled up to Alex’s building. Damian zipped up, kissed him once—hard, possessive—then said, “Text me when you’re home.”