Page 57 of The Order of Disorder
“Goddamn,” he groans, as I moan below him.
He starts in a steady roll of his hips, letting my body adjust around his girth, and soon his breath is coming in quick, even pants by my ear. My voice rises with every thrust; in response he speeds up, pumping harder until the bed knocks the wall in rapid, heavy beats. He seals his mouth over mine, swallowing the sounds. I anchor my hands on his shoulders, nails digging inwhile he drives into me, until everything narrows to the rhythm of him moving inside of me.
He hooks a hand under my knee, lifting it up, and with the other hand cradles the back of my head, thrusting deeper. Rougher. The friction from his body rubs my clit, and soon my second orgasm is rising. He grits his teeth, clenching the carved line of his jaw as he tilts his head back and groans, and I come with a cry, my body clenching around him as the pulse passes through me like a shockwave.
“Fuck,” he pants, voice raw. “You’re gonna make me come, sweetie. Oh fuck, I’m gonna come.”
He pulls out and starts stroking himself, and in as swift a motion as I can manage with my head still spinning from my own orgasm, I bend forward, positioning myself so that I can take him into my mouth. He groans and threads fingers into my hair as he slides his cock into my waiting mouth.
“Fuck—” He only thrusts a couple of times before he breaks, grunting as he pulses into my mouth, hips quivering, hand fisting in my hair. I swallow him down, slowly licking him clean as he shudders, and then eventually he slumps forward, and wraps an arm around me, pulling me down on the bed beside him.
The heat of his naked body, curled in so tight that there isn’t a single air pocket between us, is so much warmer and closer than all those nights I wrapped myself around his hard, contained body, pressing my palm against the cotton of his t-shirt. I’m raw and spent. Breathless and purified.
For the first time since I got here, I feel something close to happy.
Time doesn’t work right in the clubhouse. There are no windows in the hangar, no clocks. Spotty cell service. Parties go into themorning, people sleep until sunset. Time is a collective thought, structured by the majority.
The day starts when it gets too noisy to keep sleeping. Doors grinding open. The whine of a compressor kicking to life. Boots on concrete. Someone shouting across the hangar about fuel or wiring.
I surface slowly, dragged up by the noise like rising from deep water. My limbs are heavy, and I’m warm, wrapped under the weight of Wyatt’s arm and the heat of his chest against my back, breath slow against my shoulder.
Flashes from last night come back to me in scorching detail—his hand fisting the sheets, his jaw locking, the way he felt inside of me.
I press back into him and feel that hardness now, growing against my back. He makes a low noise in his throat, pulling me in against him.
“Morning, kiddo,” he says, voice rough with sleep.
“Morning, old man,” I whisper.
He laughs under his breath, a sound more breath than voice. Then he rolls his hips once, grinding his erection against me with a groan that makes my insides clench, like he might take me again right now, without even opening his eyes. His fingers press into my hip…and then he stills.
A silence stretches before he sighs, squeezes my hip and sits up, rubbing his eyes and then turning the lamp on.
“Sounds busy down there,” he observes, picking his watch up off the side table and checking it. “Got a bike in the shop I promised to finish before noon.”
He looks down at me, gives me a little smile and bends down to kiss my temple, then he swings his legs off the mattress. By the time I stretch and sit up, he’s already tugging on his shirt.
He’s still naked from the waist down, and my eyes lock on his cock—still half-hard, long and thick enough that the heft of itmakes my breath catch. He opens the dresser, steps into a pair of black boxer-briefs, the fabric stretching tight over the heavy length before he snaps the waistband in place. He doesn’t spare a glance for the camera watching him. Doesn’t care. But he grabs my clothes off the chair and tosses them to me so I can get dressed on the bed where the camera can’t see, since he moved the bed to the new position by the door.
Silas’s microphone might have picked up our cries over the perpetual whirring of the fan, the camera might even have picked up my toes curling in the corner of the image, but at least I have a modicum of privacy.
“Let’s get moving,” he says impatiently. “Get dressed.”
Like it’s any other morning. Like nothing’s different.
I drag on yesterday’s shorts, finger-comb my hair, and follow him downstairs.
The clubhouse is busier than usual, especially so early in the day. With the race just over a week out, it seems like every patched member with a running engine is tuning, polishing, or yelling at someone who is. The front half of the hangar churns with sound and motion: tool chests rolling, grinders spitting sparks, cheap speakers crackling out music warped by the acoustics. The smell of diesel is thick in the air, as well as the smell of weed. Sunlight floods through the wide-open bay doors, glinting off the polished tanks of the racing bikes lined up in tight formation—sleek, bright, and designed to fly.
I trail behind Wyatt through the organized chaos, trying to stay out of the way. We pass the galley, where two prospects are scrambling eggs and stacking bagels for whoever remembers to eat. Wyatt nabs a coffee for himself and hands one to me without comment. When his fingers brush mine, the small contact buzzes under my skin.
Then he slips into Road Captain mode. He grabs a clipboard and waves Cash over, getting a quick rundown on what’s already in motion. At Tank’s Dyna, he crouches to check the tire pressure himself and rattles off the torque specs without looking up.
I hover near the tool wall, wiping grease off a wrench that doesn’t need cleaning, just so I can watch him be this version of himself—competent and commanding.
“Hey,” he calls over to me. “I need a 14-mil.”
I grab the socket off the pegboard, click it onto the ratchet, and hand it over. A few minutes later: “Torx T-30.”
