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The night was thick and damp, one of those when the air feels heavier and the headlights of the few cars on the highway cut through the darkness like blades. A light rain tapped rhythmically on the hood of the patrol car parked on the side of the BR as Andréas Kisser yawned, eyes fixed on the radar screen. The night dragged on lazily. Wednesday — dull, lukewarm. Just another one.
The only sounds were the idle hum of the engine and the occasional crackle of the police radio.
Until he saw it.
A flash of light appeared in the distance, speeding closer. The radar screamed mercilessly: 183 km/h in a 120 zone.
“Son of a…” he muttered, already turning the key. Adrenaline surged through his veins.
He floored it, flipped on the siren. The patrol car screamed down the wet road in pursuit. The fleeing vehicle flew ahead, almost defying the laws of physics. But boldness had a price: a loud pop and the screech of metal announced a blown tire. The car wobbled and jerked to a stop on the dusty shoulder.
Andréas approached slowly. Flashlight in hand, he lit up the inside of the car — and there, in the driver’s seat, sweaty, breathless, with those intense eyes, was Max Cavalera.
The impact was instant.
The past hit like a punch. The beer-soaked nights, loud rehearsals, and stolen kisses in stuffy dressing rooms. Max’s hands in his hair, their bodies tangled in filthy bar bathrooms, the tension between them always on the edge of combustion.
“Andréas Kisser?” The raspy voice rang out, filled with surprise… and something more — something lascivious.
Andréas took a deep breath, trying to stay composed.
“License and registration. Now.”
Max let out a low, slow laugh.
“You really gonna pretend you don’t recognize me? With that face like you want to throw me against the hood?”
“I’m on duty,” he said flatly, jaw clenched. But his eyes… they couldn’t look away from Max’s ripped jeans, the wide curve of his thighs, the teasing shine on his parted lips.
“You really gonna ticket me, officer?” Max whispered, leaning out the window. The scent of cigarettes and leather filled the air. “Or are you gonna teach me a lesson?”
Andréas swallowed hard. His throat burned. He knew exactly what Max was doing — and hated how easily he still fell for it.
“Step out of the car.”
Max obeyed with a smirk. He stood under the light rain, arms open, eyes locked on him. A silent challenge.
“Are you frisking me or stripping me?”
“You still talk too much,” Andréas growled.
“And you still get hard when I get close,” Max shot back, stepping forward until there was barely space between them.
Andréas shoved Max firmly against the hot hood of the patrol car. His body gave in like it remembered. His hands went to his legs, his hips, his chest — a standard search turned into something far more intimate. The skin under the shirt was hot, alive. Max gasped with every touch.
“You miss it, don’t you?” he whispered. “When I was at your mercy. When I begged for your touch.”
“Shut up,” Andréas whispered, but he was already lost.
He opened the back door of the patrol car and shoved Max inside. Locked it. The rain grew heavier. He followed, the windows quickly fogged up by the heat of their bodies. The darkness felt like a co-conspirator.
Max sat with his legs open, leaning back on the seat, hands on his abdomen, lifting his worn shirt to reveal a sweaty, defined torso.
“You still remember what I like?” he asked, voice rough, eyes dark with desire.
“I remember everything,” Andréas replied.
His hands moved across Max’s torso with precision — caressing with fingertips, then gripping harder. Max arched into his touch, provocative and submissive all at once. Their mouths met hungrily — wet, bruising kisses full of longing and suppressed rage.
Andréas moved to Max’s neck, biting his salty skin. Max moaned — low, hoarse, somewhere between pleasure and surrender.
“You’re all mine now,” Andréas murmured, pulling at Max’s belt, yanking down his zipper with impatience.
Max moaned again as fingers found his heat, touching slowly, with cruel precision. The patrol car rocked gently. The rain above turned into a soundtrack for their fevered reunion.
Max turned over, kneeling on the seat with practiced ease. Andréas grabbed his waist, positioning himself behind. Max trembled at the feeling of Andréas’s heat between his thighs.
“Don’t hold back, Kisser,” Max said through gritted teeth. “I know you want to wreck me.”
Andréas thrust in with force, both of them groaning. Max clutched the seat, forehead pressed to the headrest, breathing like he’d run a marathon.
The rhythm started slow, steady — but soon quickened. Each thrust made Max moan louder, every movement was revenge, a memory carved into flesh. Andréas’s hands clutched Max’s hips with possessiveness. Their names spilled in broken sighs.
“Say you’re still mine,” Andréas whispered, biting Max’s shoulder.
“I’ve always been,” Max panted. “Always been yours, fuck…”
The climax came violently, hot, with a muffled cry and shaking bodies stuck together with sweat and desire. Max collapsed forward, still gasping, and Andréas followed, resting his forehead against his bare back.
For a while, there was only the sound of rain. And their breathing.
Max broke the silence first.
“So, officer… am I under arrest?”
Andréas took a deep breath, hands still on him.
“This… goes way beyond your speeding ticket, Max.”
The vocalist smirked, satisfied, relaxed.
“I know.”
And Andréas knew, in that moment, this was far from over.