The cab smelled of pine air freshener and something far more primal: the driver. Arthur’s eyes were locked on the back of the man’s neck, thick and corded, before drifting down. The partition was down. He could see everything.

“Pull over here. Anywhere is fine.”

The Armenian driver, name tag reading ‘Raffi’, grunted and eased the car to the curb. He was a beast of a man, late thirties, with forearms dusted in dark hair. Arthur’s mouth was already watering.

“The fare is twenty-three,” Raffi said, his voice a low rumble.

Arthur leaned forward, bills in hand. “Keep the change. All of it.” He let his gaze fall pointedly to the man’s feet, clad in worn leather work boots. “Your shoes look… tight. Long shift?”

Raffi eyed him, a flicker of understanding in his dark eyes. A slow, confident smirk spread across his face. “Twelve hours. They’re fucking roasting.”

“Let me,” Arthur breathed, already sliding off the seat onto the floor of the cab. It was cramped, humiliating, perfect. The scent hit him first—an intense, salty, masculine musk of sweat and leather, blooming from Raffi’s boots. Arthur’s cock strained against his jeans.

“You one of those foot freaks?” Raffi asked, not moving, his tone dripping with casual power.

“For yours? Yes.” With trembling hands, Arthur untied the thick laces. He peeled the first boot off. The sock underneath was damp, dark with sweat. The smell intensified,