Page 26 of Locked & Loaded

I want to touch him back.

I need to.

My hand slides under the hoodie he’s wearing—my hoodie—and finds the waistband of his sweatpants.

“Let me,” I say.

He nods, breathing quick, and I push his sweatpants and boxer shorts down over his hips. His cock springs free, hard and straining, and I wrap my hand around him.

He’s leaner than me, not quite as thick, but the weight of him is solid in my palm, hot, velvety, slick at the tip. The need punches through me so fast it almost makes me dizzy.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “Mads—”

I stroke him once, slow, feeling the way his body tenses under my hand. Then I pull back, spit into my palm, and wrap my hand around him again, copying him without thinking.

Rodriguez makes a wrecked sound in my ear. His hips jerk, his hand tightens on my cock, and the feedback loop of it—him touching me, me touching him, both of us groaning—fucks me up more than I know how to handle.

His hand moves faster on me, and I match him, our rhythm falling together like we’ve done this before. His breathing is loud in the silence of the room, and mine isn’t any better, both of us panting into the narrow space between us.

“Jesus Christ,” Rodriguez says, his voice breaking, and I look at him.

His lips are parted, his eyes half-closed. The moonlight catches the sweat on his throat despite the cold, and I want to put my mouth there again.

So I do.

I kiss his jaw, his neck, the hollow of his throat where his pulse hammers against my lips. He groans, tilting his head back to give me room, and his hand tightens on my cock. The rhythm stutters for a second, and I gasp against his skin.

“God,” he murmurs, his voice wrecked. “You feel so good—”

“Don’t stop,” I say. “Please, don’t stop.”

It sounds like a plea because it is one.

Rodriguez lets out something close to a chuckle and changes his grip. His hand slides lower, then back up, firmer this time, his thumb catching just under the head on the upstroke, right where I’m so sensitive I nearly come off the mattress.

“Fuck,” I choke out, my fingers tightening around him.

“That?” he asks, breathless.

I can’t answer. I just nod, and he does it again, slower this time, watching my face like he wants to memorize what it does to me.

Our hands work between us, stroking, gripping, the slick sounds of it obscene in the tiny compartment. The bunk creaks beneath us, the metal frame rattling against the wall every time one of us shifts. I should care about that. I don’t. Let the whole train hear us. Let Roman and Sam and Coach Toledo wake up and figure out exactly what’s happening in compartment eleven. I couldn’t give less of a fuck right now. Hell, maybe then they’ll finally realize we’re fucking locked in here.

The thought should be funny. It is, somewhere at the back of my mind, but Rodriguez’s mouth is on mine again and his hand is moving like he’s figured out exactly how to undo me, so the laugh never makes it out.

Rodriguez's hand on my cock is relentless now, his grip firm, every stroke pushing me closer to the edge, and I’m already embarrassingly close.

“Fuck, Mads—” he breathes against my lips.

His voice cuts off with a groan when my hand twists on the upstroke, the way I know I like it. His body answers immediately, his hips bucking into my grip, his cock hard and slick in my palm, and for one insane second I can’t believe this is happening to either of us.

“Tell me,” I say, my voice rough. “Tell me how it feels.”

He looks at me, his eyes dark and hazy. “Good. So fucking good.”

He kisses me again, hard, his tongue in my mouth, and his hand doesn’t let up. The rhythm builds between us, my strokes matching his, and I can feel him getting close.

The cold air from the broken vent swirls around us, snowflakes drifting through the gap and melting on the hot skin of my thighs, but I don’t feel cold. I feel like I’m burning up from the inside.