In a future where outposts swelter beneath a nuclear sun and run-gunners patrol dusty wastelands to protect against winged creatures known as devlars, Trin is the mech at the waystation in Arens. He has a thing for the gunners: rough men with strong hands and hard bodies, who roll through his garage like the hot desert wind. Gerrick’s the best gunner around, a quick draw with a deadly aim and a penchant for sharing his pallet with young men. He has a roving eye and roaming hands, and has left a string of broken hearts in his wake. Having heard the tales of Gerrick's bravery and seen the man in action for himself, Trin has fallen in love with the man he believes Gerrick to be, and he’s sure he can change the gunner’s mind if given the chance. Gerrick’s all he wants out of this blasted world, and he tells anyone who will listen. Then Gerrick rides through Arens. He’s heard the rumors of what Trin will do for a gunner who only mentions his name. What he wants to know is, what will Trin do for him?

Trin

He’s ridden into the pallet, the gunner driving into him, his mouth on Trin’s ear grunting each thrust. He hears his name and yesand Godand fuckall strung out like beads on a rosary, each one a prayer for more. Twice he gets off, Gerrick smearing his belly and cock with the juices, until the sheet beneath him cools with his own cum. But the gunner is relentless, a force of nature, a dervish or sandstorm whirling through Trin until he can’t even think. It’s just the fucking, the hands on his body, the arms holding him down, and a voice like the desert moaning in his ear. Don’t stop, he thinks, rising off the pallet to meet the gunner’s thrusts. Don’t let me go.


Chapter 18