Special Delivery: Special Delivery, Book 1 (13 page)

“Oh God.” Sam trembled as he took himself in hand. “
Oh God.
”

“You’re so hot, Sunshine.” Mitch’s teeth grazed his lobe. “Inside and out. Hot and tight. Come for me, Sam. Come now, right now, hot and naked in my arms. Come on, sugar. Come on. Come on. Come on.”

Sam didn’t know how to categorize the sounds he made now—cries, grunts and something more. Something guttural but oddly musical. He sang, a strange, surreal song only he and Mitch could understand. The pressure built inside him, not just in his groin but in the back of his brain. Before he came, the explosion resonated inside him, and he turned his face into Mitch’s neck. When he came, he bucked, almost launching himself out of Mitch’s arms, but Mitch held him down, and he held himself in place by sucking at Mitch’s skin. When it was over, he let go, both of his now-very-sticky cock and Mitch’s throat. Sam saw the red, angry mark he’d left there. The warm semen ran over his fingers, his stomach, his thigh.

Sam sagged into him, spent and sated.

Mitch’s laugh was a rumble reverberating in his chest. “Feel better?”

Sam managed to grunt. The next thing he knew, the world tilted as Mitch stood and carried him through the curtain and into the cab.

Moving around in the dark, Mitch shifted Sam in his arms as he pushed and pulled at things and at one point appeared to be tugging at part of the wall before placing Sam tenderly into bedlike softness.

“If I’d have known I was picking you up, I’d have washed the sheets.”

Sam’s ass throbbed and his dick purred, sending waves of contentment through the rest of his body. Mitch moved in the darkness to the other side of the cab, where he first washed his hands and then wet a cloth which he brought over to Sam to clean him too. Sam lay there, letting him, too blown away to do anything else.

“I gotta drive us on a ways into Nebraska.” Mitch stroked Sam’s hair. “You okay?”

Sam leaned into Mitch’s stroking fingers. “Yeah.”

Mitch tousled Sam’s hair affectionately before lifting away. “You go on and sleep. You look like you could use about eighty winks at least.”

Sam didn’t know what to say. Despite his Grand High Slut performance, he was too shy to tell Mitch what a great time that had been. Mitch hadn’t even gotten off. Too moved to do anything else, Sam turned his head and placed a soft kiss on the inside of Mitch’s wrist.

Mitch’s hand trembled, and he stroked Sam’s lips with his index finger—which smelled of musk and soap—before pulling away.

“Good night, Sunshine.”

Sam watched him go through the curtain, and as the truck rumbled to life and Sam slipped into the darkness of sleep, he prayed he wouldn’t wake to find out this was nothing but a dream.

There was no forgetting for Sam, however, that he was indeed running away with Mitch. After a few hours of deep sleep, he woke still stowed in Mitch’s bunk, and after that he wandered in and out of slumber, dreaming strange dreams he couldn’t recall once he woke, tucked naked into the narrow bed with the diesel engine rumbling all around him. But late into the night, he dreamed Aunt Delia screamed at him and chucked bananas at his bright blue umbrella while he shouted
Violet
at her. Then the dream was gone, the engine had stopped, and a large, warm, Mitch-scented body climbed into bed beside him.

The bed was narrow, and Mitch was a large man—by rights they shouldn’t have fit at all, but Mitch maneuvered them into place, and soon Sam nuzzled into Mitch’s naked back, his own pressed against the rear wall of the cab as Mitch tucked the blanket around them. Mitch fell asleep without so much as a word, and after a few minutes, Sam joined him.

He woke in the morning with his head on Mitch’s shoulder, his leg thrown over Mitch’s body, his arm around Mitch’s waist. Mitch’s left arm was wrapped around him, holding him close, and his hand rested on Sam’s bare ass. His other arm lay across Sam’s own.

Sam had never been this close to anyone, ever, except for Emma and his mother, and never had he lain quiet like this with a man. Darin fucked him but never held him, and while his few forays to clubs had gleaned a few close-held dances, never had anyone wrapped their arms around him and simply kept still, let alone slept. Lying tangled with Mitch was something new. This embrace was more than the lost shelter of his mother, more than the familiar reassurance of Emma, more than the erotic whispers of his fantasies. More what, he didn’t know. All he knew was that being held by a man transcended all those other embraces, taking him to a place so pure and wonderful Sam would do about anything to keep it.

Mitch stirred, groaned and slid his hand up over Sam’s shoulder to sleepily tousle his hair. “Mornin’, Sunshine.” His hand fell away from Sam to land on his own hip as if it were too heavy to hold up any longer. “What time is it?”

“I don’t know,” Sam said, but Mitch was already lifting a watch from the floor beside him and looking at it.

“Six thirty. Gotta rise and shine.” Mitch pressed a quick kiss on Sam’s forehead. “Get dressed, hon, and I’ll feed you.”

Mitch untangled himself from the sheet and got out of bed, and Sam indulged in a moment’s regret they weren’t going to start the day with more sex. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast the day before, though, and as soon as he was aware of this, it was all he could think about. He rose to hunt down his clothes.

The darkness of the cab gave way to the full brightness of morning light as Mitch pulled back the curtains separating the sleeping area and the dash. This was not only a bedroom, though: it was also the kitchen area, and when Mitch stepped inside a space hidden behind a tall and narrow door, Sam saw it was also a bathroom. Across from it was a sink, a fridge, a microwave and a TV. As he fished his underwear and jeans from the floor, he craned his neck around and saw he’d been right in his assessment the night he’d walked Mitch to the truck stop: he really did have an RV back here.

Sam eventually found all of his clothes and started climbing into them. He dismissed the day-old underwear, and after a moment’s debate and glance at his pack on the other side of the cab, decided to go commando. It wasn’t something he did usually, and his jeans felt odd as they brushed against his bare ass. He was extremely careful about zipping, and he finished as Mitch came out of the bathroom.

“Your turn.” Mitch pointed behind him. “Or you can wait until we get inside. I’m due to empty it before we take off, and I’ll fill the shower too.”

“I’ll go when we’re inside, if that’s okay.” Sam wasn’t sure he could pee with Mitch on the other side of the door. When he glanced at Mitch’s neck and saw the bright red hickey there—a hickey Mitch showed no interest in hiding—Sam stuffed his hands into his pockets, abruptly sheepish.

Mitch headed to the front of the cab and climbed out the driver’s side door. Sam hung back, not sure if he should follow or use the passenger door until Mitch waved him forward. He helped him down, giving Sam a thrill when Mitch didn’t only assist him but indulged in subtle groping as well.

“How’s your ankle?”

Sam had forgotten about it, which he thought was a good sign. He took a few steps, and outside of a faint twinge, it was perfectly fine. “It’s good.”

Mitch skimmed his hand down Sam’s back before nodding at a long building across the parking lot. “Come on.”

They were at a truck stop again, and this one seemed large enough to be considered a small village. They’d parked in what could only be described as a sea of semis, and all around them were canopies for fueling stations, garages advertising repair, and other buildings which might have been warehouses. Several fast-food companies had logos on the outside of a large main building, but there was also a bold yellow sign reading RESTAURANT, and it was there Mitch headed.

“Where are we?” Sam caught sight of himself in the reflection of a semi’s chrome fender and hurried his fingers through his hair. “Colorado?”

“Not quite. I got too tired to push over the border. We’re in North Platte, Nebraska.”

Sam didn’t know where that was exactly, but he knew it had to be farther than Omaha, so this was foreign territory to him. He craned his neck around the sides of trailers, trying to catch a glimpse of the landscape, but so far it looked the same as Iowa.

“Bathroom is that way.” Mitch pointed to his right as he headed left toward the hostess stand. “You want me to order you some coffee to get started?”

“Sure, thanks.” Sam hurried away. He hadn’t felt that urgent when he was in the cab, but now the need to piss was rather acute.

The urinals were crowded with men larger, dirtier and grimmer than Sam wanted to face, so he chose a stall instead, and as he took care of business, he contemplated the strange new chapter in his life.

This could, he reasoned with himself, be a good thing. He trotted out all Mitch’s arguments, adding one of his own: on this trip, he could be himself for once. He could do anything he wanted, within legalities and reason, and no one would talk about it at the bank or, more importantly, bring it back to the makeup counter at Biehl’s. He could slut out all he wanted with Mitch, anywhere and anytime, and he wouldn’t be judged. Even if someone gave him trouble along the way—well, they’d move on just as quickly, wouldn’t they? This little segue from real life would be nothing but win.

Sam returned to the restaurant nervously, aware this mental declaration was an invitation for the universe to sic some big badass biker on him or worse. Outside of a few looks, however—some appreciative, some derisive—he returned to Mitch’s table without any incident of note.

Mitch glanced up at him from his newspaper, smiled briefly and continued reading.

“Their eggs are a little off here, but if you get them in an omelet, you don’t notice so much.” Mitch looked up long enough to nudge a menu at Sam. “Eat up, because it’s nothing but snacks until we’re done unloading in Denver.”

Sam opened a menu. “What are you hauling, anyway?”

“Scrap metal, though it’s an odd kind. This guy in Chicago collects it, and a company in Denver buys it and turns it into recycled stuff. They have some arrangement going, and I got in on it. They’re one of my bridge legs from Midwest to west.” His finger slid down a column and tapped a small square of text. “My original L.A. order fell through, but I think I may have found the next leg. Order for me, will you?” Mitch pointed to an item on Sam’s menu before reaching into his pocket for a small cell phone. “I’m going to try and get us a load for Old Blue.”

“Old Blue?” Sam arched his eyebrow over the top of his menu.

“My truck.” Mitch gave him a wry grin. “You name your toys, and I name mine.”

Sam smiled and returned to choosing something to eat, because he was seriously going to expire if he didn’t get food soon. As he scanned the breakfast items, he listened to Mitch chatting amiably with someone on the other line, sometimes drifting into Spanish. He didn’t so much as pause when the waitress came.

The waitress looked at them oddly.

“Hi.” Sam pointed to the menu. “I’ll have number three and an orange juice.” He glanced at Mitch and bit his lip. “I forgot what it was he said he wanted.”

“I know what
that one
wants.” The waitress folded her pad and left.

Sam frowned at her, wondering what had crawled up her ass and died. He glanced at Mitch, wanting to share a shrug to diffuse her attitude. To his surprise he saw Mitch watching her retreat, looking red-faced and guilty. He didn’t seem angry or even affronted, just guilty, especially when his eyes darted to Sam.

He cleared his throat and looked down at the newspaper again as he resumed his conversation.

Putting that weirdness out of his mind, Sam did a quick survey of the restaurant. There were a lot of people present, mostly men, but there were some women too. There were two families, but they were closed off, dealing only with themselves. None of the women were alone, sitting instead with men who either had ball caps with unruly hair or big bushy beards, or both. Almost everyone in the room was overweight.

No one smiled either, which seemed odd to Sam. Everyone was grim, solitarily eating their breakfast or conversing seriously at the counter or urging children to eat up so they could get on the road. Some of the other truckers watched Sam the same way the waitress had, and it started to irritate him. He glanced down at himself, but no, he wasn’t flaming out or anything. He didn’t necessarily
look
gay, no more than usual. Sam and Mitch simply sat there, not even touching hands.

I know what that one wants.
Sam caught the waitress’s eye as she came through. The look she gave him was decidedly dirty and homophobic.

Sam rolled his eyes.
Stupid rednecks.
He vowed not to think of them anymore.

Mitch was charming up whoever he was speaking to, promising them “
Si,
I can do that,
no hay problema,
” and mentioning figures in some sort of negotiation. It went on for a long time until at last he hung up.

Mitch cupped his hands around his coffee. “They’re cutting back same as everyone else. So I lowered my rate, and then I lowered it again. They’re going to call and check on a few things, so hopefully it works out.”

Sam sipped his coffee. “What is it?”

“A custom fencing company in Cortez. I used to carry parts to and from them regularly, but they’ve stopped calling, and they switched to another, cheaper carrier.” Mitch pointed to the paper. “But then I saw that company went out of business. The run will barely cover gas, the offer I floated to them, and they never have a full load. I might be able to get a long load for Phoenix from Denver. Maybe.” He rubbed his chin. Abruptly his face shuttered, and Sam followed his gaze to see the waitress coming toward them with a serving tray. “Ah-ha—here’s food. Good, because now more than ever we need to get going.”