Chapter 11 Riley - May 2018, Hibbing #2
He got a hand in my lapel and pulled, and I went, and the door swung shut behind me with the bottle still in my jacket digging into both of us.
He kissed me like he'd been waiting, which he had.
One hand came up the back of my neck into my hair and closed, and the other went flat between my shoulder blades and pulled me the rest of the way in, until there was nothing between us but a bottle and two jackets.
He kissed me slow and open and did not come up for anything. When I tried to talk into it he made a low sound against my mouth and took my bottom lip in his teeth, not hard, just enough to end the sentence, and I forgot what the sentence was.
"You’re right. I should return the bottle," I said.
"I don't care."
"But it's a $400 bottle and…"
"Riley," he said, against my mouth. "Shut up."
It was different that night and we both felt it and neither of us said one word about it.
The other nights had all been collisions.
That one was more like coming home from somewhere.
It was slower than Las Vegas has any business being.
He got the bottle out of my jacket without breaking the kiss for longer than a second, set it on the desk, and then both hands were under my suit coat, pushing it off my shoulders.
I did the same to him. The jackets hit the floor in a heap. I got his tie loose while he worked the buttons of my shirt, and when the last one came free he spread the fabric open and put both palms flat on my chest like he needed to check I was still solid under there.
We stripped the rest of the way between kisses that kept stretching longer. Shoes, socks, pants, everything left in a trail that led to the bed. When we were finally bare he backed me up until the backs of my knees hit the mattress and then followed me down, covering me with his weight.
The first press of skin on skin pulled a sound out of both of us. His cock was already hard against my hip. Mine answered the same way. He settled between my legs and just stayed there for a minute, forehead against mine, breathing the same air while his thumbs stroked the sides of my face.
The Calder Memorial trophy was standing on the dresser across the room with my tie hanging off it, because I put it there at some point and neither of us moved it, and it sat there all night like a witness we forgot to send home.
I sat on the edge of the bed with my legs spread and pointed at the floor between them.
He looked at me for a second, that composed media face flickering, and then he went down without a word.
The carpet had to be rough on his knees.
He did not seem to care. I reached out and threaded my fingers into his hair, just holding.
"Look at you," I said. "Calder winner on his knees for me. You looked good up on that stage tonight. You look even better like this."
His cheeks went pink under the Vegas tan. He liked it. I could see it in the way his eyes dropped and then came back up, darker. I stroked my cock once and brought the head to his lips.
"Open up. Show me what that mouth can do."
He did. He took me in slow, lips stretching around the thickness, tongue pressing flat along the underside the way he had learned I liked. I kept talking while he worked.
“I’m proud of the speech you gave. The whole league watched you take that trophy and still you’re here on the floor of a hotel room sucking my cock like it’s the only thing that matters.”
Every compliment made him flush harder and take me deeper.
“Your mouth is perfect. You’re so fucking good at this.”
He made a soft sound around me and the vibration went straight up my spine.
I let him set the pace for a while, just watching the way his head bobbed, the wet shine of spit on my shaft, the way his own cock hung heavy and neglected between his thighs. Then I tightened my grip in his hair and held him still while I fucked up into his mouth in short, controlled strokes.
He took it. His hands stayed on my thighs, fingers digging in, and when I finally pulled him off he was breathing hard and his lips were red and swollen.
"Up," I said. "On the bed. Hands and knees."
He climbed up and settled the way I wanted, ass presented, head dropped between his shoulders. I reached for the lube we kept in the nightstand now, the same bottle from Pittsburgh that had traveled with us ever since. I slicked my fingers and pressed one against him without warning.
He pushed back into it immediately. I worked him open with the same patience I had learned the first time, one finger until the resistance eased, then two, then three, curling them to find that spot that made his arms shake.
He was already leaking onto the sheets. When I brushed that place inside him again he made a broken sound and tried to rock back harder.
He got impatient the way he does everything, which is quietly and then all at once.
"Riley, please. I need it. Stop teasing and just fuck me."
"Not yet."
"You know I am ready. Please!"
I kept my fingers moving, slow and deep, until the words started coming out of him in pieces.
“Please. Riley. I need your cock. Fuck me.”
The more he asked the harder I got. When I finally pulled my fingers free he made a noise of pure frustration that almost finished me right there.
There was nothing in it about winning. That's what was different.
Every other night with him, somewhere underneath, there'd been a game running, some part of both of us keeping score.
Not that night. What I was doing that night was apologizing, and there is no language for that between two guys like us, so I used the only one available. Sex.
I slicked my dick and lined up. The first push in was slow enough that I felt every inch of the stretch. He was hot and tight and perfect around me. I bottomed out and stayed there, hands on his hips, giving him time.