Page 4 of Broken Highway (Cult Boys #1)

NOAH

Yellow lines.

Going everywhere.

Going nowhere.

Wherever the lines go, I go.

No set destination.

The moon—bright, orange, and full—lights up the night sky.

Shallow, gray clouds circle around in a constant flirtation of obscuring my favorite nightlight.

Car beams light the road ahead in a dim, yellow fog that’s straight out of a recurring dream I can never quite remember until I’m in the midst of a déjà vu panic.

I’ve been here before. Literally. Figuratively.

Most people spend their entire lives yearning for a life not lived alone.

They search every face in every crowd, hoping that the next stranger will be the one to save them from emptiness, from the loneliness.

That next stranger becomes someone familiar until they’re gone, becoming a stranger once more.

A stranger they hate, but a stranger nonetheless.

And then, just maybe—yeah fucking right—the next stranger will be the one.

I, too, find solace in strangers. I find safety in their bodies as a proverbial pillow to lie upon.

Finding a new home every night and then abandoning it as soon as I’ve come.

Only then do I come to my senses, because the world and the people in it will break your heart over and over again.

The world, and the people in it, will never take responsibility for the things they do to you.

People always leave.

I am people.

I stayed far too long once, and now I’ll never stay again.

On my way out, at least I took responsibility for the things I did to him.

After everything he’d done to me, pushing him down the stairs was the least I could do.

Didn’t even mean to do it. Years of sadness ballooned into an eruption of anger and I lost control.

I’m always in control. Hate losing it. It’s happened twice and it’ll never happen again.

The grip I have on the steering wheel could break bones. My right hand is always sore after a long night of driving. My left hand? Not so much. I shift back against the seat and try to pray away the steeled horniness trapped in my jeans.

The usual trucker isn’t going to cut it tonight.

I need something tighter, firmer. Need to drive my cock into a beautiful bubble butt.

Can’t be a married man because they’re not experienced enough to really take a pounding.

Needs to be someone like the guy from earlier. Tall, lean, and a total fucking slut.

In my imagination, the mysterious man at the hotel is a cockhungry sociopath.

Only cares about getting off. Disregards career, family, and friends, all in the name of losing control with a stranger.

The kind of guy who kneels on a bed, ass in the air, and circles back and forth.

Hole pulsing. Waiting with an insatiable hunger to be filled and bred.

I apply pressure to the erection fighting to escape, push it down and to the left.

Thick and pulsing. Crying for human contact with tears of precum pooling at my inner thigh.

Big guy is spoiled. Ain’t ever been neglected and I’m not about to start now.

I raise my knees upward to balance the steering wheel as I make quick work undoing my belt buckle, unbuttoning my jeans, and pushing them and my boxers down enough so that my cock springs free.

I reaffirm my grip on the steering wheel with one hand and take my cock in the other.

I’m good at playing pretend. Been doing it since I first got tired of Kevin sticking his dick in me whenever he wanted.

Mama said good boys were good at pretending.

Wanted me to be a child actor because I was so good at it, but when that didn’t pan out, she sold me to the highest bidder.

In the end, she got the life she always dreamed of, and I got the life everyone else dreamed of.

Nobody could see beyond the curtains because the shades were always drawn.

I pretend my hand is the ass of the man, tight as I fill him.

Stretching to accommodate each careful inch until I’m buried to the hilt.

I think about the muscles in his back, pulled taut as he balances himself with strong hands, fingers grasping at tangled sheets.

Think about the arch of his ass, and the way his bubble butt bounces with each of my thrusts.

Think about the masculine grunts that crawl out of his throat.

The same masculine grunts that quickly turn into something more submissive, like moans that grow louder, reaching a crescendo when I hit that fucking spot. Over and over again.

My cock oozes with precum, slicking the head, the shaft, and the space between my fingers. My other hand tightens, fingers curling around the leather steering wheel.

Closer and closer.

My toes curl in my boots and it becomes impossible to keep a consistent speed. Every tense of my body, every stroke, takes away my ability to control the pressure I’m applying to the gas pedal.

Stroke. Stroke. Stroke.

On the verge of release, I open my eyes.

Swerve.

Tires scream over the pavement as the car spins at the tail until the yellow glow of the headlights are fixated on a stranger. And fuck me for thinking he’s just what my cock ordered. He holds one hand over his eyes, shielding himself from the bright headlights.

He’s not the stranger at the gas station.

He’s someone else entirely, but men like him are rare on these highways.

He’s shorter than me by a half foot or so, but his skin has been kissed by the sun.

He’s a twunk, caught somewhere between a boy and a man with biceps that just barely fill the hollow sleeves of a white tee.

He begins to approach, and I notice my hand is covered in something akin to jizz.

It’s not a full load but it’s not merely a pool of precum either.

It’s a consistency that’s somewhere between the two.

That exact moment when an orgasm is interrupted.

The body feels the ecstasy of release—heart racing, breath hitched—but it’s ready to go again.

I wipe the evidence with the underside of my shirt but don’t have enough time to pull up my pants without looking suspicious.

I pull my shirt over my still-rock-hard erection.

With my left hand, I crank the window down. “What the hell are you doing in the middle of the road?”

And I swear his fucking eyes spot the erection I’m desperately trying to hide.

His lip hitches just to the right, flexing a yearning grin.

Probably my imagination. He drops his arm onto the edge of the window.

“Usually, it’s the one who was almost manslaughter’d who looks like a deer in headlights.

But you…” He drops his head slightly. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

He reminds me of someone I used to know. Someone who’s now a stranger. Someone who’s dead. “Yeah, it’s been a long night.”

“That doesn’t sound much like an apology for almost running me over.”

“Yeah, sorry about that, but I’m tired.”

“It’s the middle of the night so I guess that’s a believable excuse.”

“I’m not going to go round in circles with you. You’re alive. I’m not going to prison for killing some random man on the highway. Life is good.”

He taps his fingers on the windowsill. “Maybe you should get your car out of the middle of the road before you become a casualty of someone else driving under the influence of being tired.”

I shift the car into gear and coast to the side of the road, the tires crunching over the gravel that separates the asphalt from a ditch.

As he approaches to meet me again, I stuff my cock away and zip up my jeans.

When I turn back to him, he’s just outside my window again, lifting his shirt just a little.

Just enough to make out the V-shaped line that’s etched across his stomach.

Teasing me.

He has no fucking idea what he’s doing to me.

Or maybe he does.

Maybe that’s the point.

“Do you need a ride or something?” I ask.

He looks both ways with apprehension. Getting into a stranger’s car is a gamble, but I wonder if his apprehension is higher than mine.

Letting some stranger into my car is just as much a risk, except I know I’m not a killer.

Can’t be certain about him. He wears charisma like heavy cologne, but almost all serial killers were known to be charmers.

Still, with a face like that, I’m powerless to not at least offer him a ride.

“It’s the least you could do for almost killing me.”

I can’t help but to let out a hushed chuckle as I scratch at the scruff on my chin. “It’d be easy enough to leave you out here. Leave you for the next stranger, and maybe he or she won’t be so nice.”

“My elders taught me to keep intrusive thoughts to myself.”

“My elders were liars and thieves, so I apologize if I haven’t been taught correctly.”

He glances both ways, contemplating. “Where you heading?”

I point to the road ahead. “That way.”

“I’m heading the same way.” He taps his hands on the windowsill before taking a step back and straightening himself out. Pushes one hand into the front pocket of his jeans, weighing down the denim to expose just enough skin to make my cock jump again.

He knows what he’s fucking doing.

“Yeah…” He puckers his lips, soft and kissable. Fuckable. “I’d love a ride.”

His jawline is refined, cut at a sharp angle with only the slightest evidence of a beard.

Been about a day since he’s shaved his face.

Cheap cologne envelopes him with a hint of smoke and embers—like someone trying to cover up the scent of a bonfire.

He’s slouched to the side, the back of his head angled against the window as he watches me.

He’s a watcher. Looks for things. Notices things. Watches a little too long.

I turn to him and stare back. Stare a little too long.

He points to the road ahead. “Might want to keep your eyes on the road. I don’t want to be an accessory the next time you almost run someone over.”