Of course. One can’t be too careful when it comes to their mode of transportation. Safety first. And Michael Langdon does you the best. He’s got a classic he takes you in, spreads you out over the back seat.
He likes to get adventurous and fuck you against the hood of a car, bed of a truck. So many options.
Looking like the devil when he’s fixing your car. It makes you hit the gas and rev your engine. When you both go to test drive your car after he works on it, to make sure it’s all in order, well, you cave. Your breathing is heavy because you can’t have the radio on to drown out your panting and nerves, because he needs to make sure your engine sounds better. He asks why you’re worked up and you’re shaking, holding the wheel, you pull over and he’s looking at you, a strand of his hair loose, his rings on his fingers.
It’s all too much at once that you dive across the seat and kiss him. It’s hot and sweaty sex, anyone could drive by you and see. His shirt is off, your hand is tugging his ponytail back, your mouth going up his neck as you rock across him. His rings scrape across the naked flesh of your back. This is a much better ride.
Yes, he can’t stop worshipping one of the one good things that’s always been a constant in his life. He doesn’t fear much, but losing you is one of his worst fears. You’re part of him. You remind him there’s good, there’s pure trust, whole hearted and unconditional love. So he makes sure not to take advantage of or twist that.
He lays his shit all out with you. No talk around, no tricks. He can be less than with you if he’s having a hard time. Touching you makes him know you’re real, he’s real. He’s capable of cherishing and protecting.