10. Hotel Again
HOTEL AGAIN
The van rolled into the hotel lot under a sky already bruising toward evening.
Same beige stucco walls, same flickering sign that read VACANCY in half-lit letters.
My knee throbbed with every shift of the seat, the fresh tape pulling tight under my sweats.
Diego sat beside me this time, thigh deliberately not touching mine, eyes fixed on the dashboard like the road still held answers.
The rest of the team spilled out first, bags thudding against pavement, voices carrying about dinner and ice packs.
I waited until the last guy disappeared through the sliding doors before I spoke. "We should ask for one room."
Diego's head turned. His gaze moved over my braced leg, then up to my face. A beat passed. He gave a single nod. "Training strategy. Keeps us synced. Less chance of anyone asking questions."
We limped inside together. The same clerk from last time glanced up, recognition flickering across her features. Diego handled the counter, his voice steady. "One room. King bed. We're prepping together for the qualifier. Promoter knows."
She didn't blink. Just slid a fresh key card across the laminate. "Room 312 again. Same as before." Her smile stayed professional, but her eyes lingered on the space between us a fraction too long.
Up the elevator in silence. The doors opened on the third floor and we moved down the hall, my arm over his shoulders for support. The key card beeped green. Diego pushed the door open, then locked it behind us with a deliberate click. The sound settled heavy in the quiet room.
"You sure about sharing again?" he asked, his voice low. His hand stayed on the knob like he might still give me an out.
I met his eyes. The knee pain had dulled to a deep pulse, but the rest of me felt wired. "Yeah. I'm sure."
Dinner came from the lobby restaurant—grilled chicken, rice, nothing heavy.
We ate at the small desk, knees brushing under the wood, conversation limited to sets and recovery times.
Every bite tasted like cardboard. My focus kept sliding to the line of his throat when he swallowed, the way his fingers gripped the plastic fork.
The promoter's warning from the weigh-in still sat in the back of my mind, but it felt distant here, behind a locked door.
Plates cleared. Diego stood first, collecting the trash and dropping it in the bin by the mini-fridge.
The room lights cast long shadows across the bed, the same king from last trip, sheets pulled military tight.
He crossed to the window, drew the curtains until only a thin strip of parking-lot glow remained.
Then he turned, his eyes darker in the low light.
"Come here."
I pushed up from the chair, testing the knee. It held. Three steps brought me close enough to smell the faint cedar on his skin mixed with the hotel soap. His hands settled on my hips, careful not to jostle the brace. The touch grounded me, calluses rough against the thin fabric of my shirt.
He guided me backward until my thighs hit the mattress edge.
I sat. Diego dropped to his knees between my spread legs, his movements deliberate, his eyes never leaving mine.
His palms slid up my thighs, thumbs pressing into the muscle above the tape.
The pressure sent sparks racing straight to my groin.
"Slow tonight," he said. The words carried that rough guidance I was starting to crave.
He tugged my sweats down just enough to free me.
Cool air hit heated skin. I was already half-hard, thickening further under his stare.
Diego leaned in, breath ghosting over the head before his lips parted.
He took me in slow, tongue flat and warm, sliding down inch by inch until his nose brushed the trimmed hair at my base.
The wet heat enveloped me completely. My head fell back, a groan tearing free before I could stop it.
He held there, throat working around me, then pulled back with agonizing control.
Every drag of his tongue along the underside built a steady fire low in my belly.
He set a rhythm that felt endless—deep, then shallow, his lips tight on the upstroke, one hand cupping my balls with gentle pressure.
"Fuck, Diego." The name came out ragged. Praise hummed around my shaft in response, the vibration shooting straight up my spine. He pulled off long enough to murmur against the wet head.
"Look at me."
I did. His lips shone, his eyes locked upward, dark and focused.
He sank down again, taking every inch, his cheeks hollowing.
The sight alone nearly undid me. My fingers threaded through his hair, not pulling, just holding on.
He let me feel the back of his throat, then eased off, sucking lightly at the tip until pre-cum coated his tongue.
He worked me like that for long minutes, building the ache without rushing.
Every bob of his head drew sounds from me I barely recognized—low, broken exhales that filled the room.
The knee forgotten. The promoter forgotten.
Only the slick heat of his mouth and the steady press of his hands on my thighs existed.
When the edge crept too close he pulled off completely, his lips brushing the head one last time.
I shuddered at the loss. Diego rose, shedding his own clothes with efficient movements.
His cock stood thick and flushed, a vein prominent along the underside.
He stretched out on the bed, back against the pillows, and reached for the small bottle from his bag.
"Get up here."
I stripped the rest of the way, heart slamming against my ribs.
The mattress dipped as I straddled his hips.
Diego slicked himself, then guided my hand to spread more over my entrance.
His touch stayed patient, one finger circling before pressing in just enough to open me.
The stretch burned sweet. He added a second, scissoring slow, his eyes on my face the whole time.
"Whenever you're ready," he said. His free hand rested on my good thigh, his thumb tracing idle patterns that steadied my breathing.
I positioned myself over him. The blunt head nudged against me, hot and insistent. I sank down inch by careful inch. The fullness stole my air. Diego's hands gripped my hips, not forcing the pace, just anchoring me. His jaw tightened but he stayed still, letting me adjust to the thick invasion.
"Easy." The word came gravel-rough. "Breathe."
I did. The burn eased into something deeper, a pressure that lit every nerve. When I bottomed out, hips flush to his, we both exhaled. His cock throbbed inside me, alive and overwhelming. I rolled my hips experimentally. Pleasure spiked sharp through my groin.
Diego groaned, his head pressing back into the pillow.
His hands flexed on my waist. I found a rhythm, rising and sinking, each downward stroke taking him deeper.
The angle hit something inside that made my vision spark.
Sweat beaded along my spine. My braced knee protested faintly but the pain stayed distant, drowned under the drag of him against that spot.
He met me with small upward tilts, controlled and precise. One hand left my hip to wrap around my cock, stroking in time with my movements. The dual sensation coiled tight at the base of my spine. I braced my palms on his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart under my fingers.
"Like that," he murmured. "Ride me. Show me what you need."
The words unlocked something. I moved faster, my thighs burning, taking him harder. The wet slap of skin filled the room, obscene and perfect. Diego's strokes on my shaft sped up, his thumb swiping over the head on every pass. Pressure built fast, unstoppable.
I came first, spilling over his fist in thick pulses that painted his abs.
My channel clamped down around him with each wave.
Diego cursed, his hips snapping up once, twice, then holding deep as he followed.
Heat flooded inside me, his release marking me from within.
He stayed buried through the aftershocks, one arm wrapping around my back to pull me down against his chest.
Our breathing synced in the quiet. His palm smoothed down my spine, careful of the knee still braced between us. The room smelled of sweat and sex and the faint hotel cleaner. I let my weight settle, cheek against his collarbone, listening to his heart slow.
His arm draped heavy across my chest as sleep pulled me under, solid and warm. The lock on the door held. For now, that was enough.