Chapter 1
Jason gripped the steering wheel with one hand, the other resting lazily on the gearshift, fingers tapping against the console to the rhythm of the highway beneath his tires. The drive from Fort Benning had been long, quiet, and boring with the kind of thoughts he couldn't shake, no matter how loud the music or how open the road.
The trees were turning upstate. Orange and red bleeding into the sky. His kind of quiet. His kind of place. The kind where time slowed down, where the only sound was the wind combing through the branches and the occasional crackle of a dry leaf underfoot. No traffic. No talking. Just the hush of the woods settling into fall.
He shifted in the seat, long legs stiff from the drive, the weight of his thighs stretching the fabric of his camo pants. Nine and a half inches of thick, restless cock curled up under his waistband--half hard, again. The damn thing had been irritating him all day, making his balls ache, the damn thing had a mind of its own. Ever since puberty, once it was fully up, dropping a load was the only way. No reasoning with it, no talking it down. Just a single-minded drive like it had its own agenda,
"Fuck," he muttered, eyes flicking down to the glowing screen mounted on his dash.
He unlocked his phone. No notifications. Just the usual blank quiet. Maybe he'd check the app--see who was nearby. A quick blow job might take the edge off, make this ride a little smoother.
He didn't usually use that shit. Swore he wouldn't be that guy, scrolling for a hookup like it was takeout. But jerking off in his truck or rubbing one out in a cheap hotel bed just wasn't cutting it anymore. Not after months dry. Not after years of women who didn't want to suck his dick--just spend his money like it came easy. Women who never had time to help him pack a ruck or clean a rifle, but had plenty of time for brunch, shopping, bullshit. Women who moaned like porn stars but couldn't suck worth a damn. All show, no follow-through.He was tired of it. He wanted simple. Real devotion. Not some half-assed performance or transactional shit. Someone who knew what the fuck they were doing--who didn't treat his needs like a chore or a bargaining chip. Someone who showed up, no drama, no games. Just straight-up hunger and loyalty. The kind you feel in your gut. The kind that doesn't flinch when things get rough
He had a few good nights with men over the years mostly one-offs. A blow job in a supply closet. A wild weekend with another officer on leave. But nothing lasted. Gay culture? That whole scene? Not for him. Too loud. Too public. Too damn unserious.
Jason didn't want a boy. He wanted a man. A man who knew how to cook, clean, shut the fuck up, and suck him off until his legs went numb. A man who could be his wife at home, his partner in the yard, and his slut behind closed doors.
He pulled up the app again.
No profile pic. Just the blank gray silhouette and a basic bio:
New to the area. Just looking for something real. Rugged men only.
He kept it vague on purpose. Mid-ranking military couldn't be too careful.
His inbox had blown up anyway with the usual: twinks with lip gloss, guys in jockstraps bent over sinks, endless abs and pouty faces.
But one stood out.
Lamont.
Black. Bearded. Stocky and solid. No ass shot. No filters. Just a powerful-looking man leaning against a stack of lumber, arms crossed, biceps bulging, His shorts rode high enough to show thick thighs and calloused knees.
