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By *ommo400 OP Man
3 weeks ago
Queensferry |
The last ice cube in Tom's glass had melted twenty minutes ago, leaving only a weak amber smear of rum at the bottom. Across the table, Lewis swirled his own drink absently, the condensation from his glass dampening the hotel's cheap paper coaster.
"Conference bars," Lewis sighed, pushing the glass away. "They never stay open late enough."
Tom chuckled, rubbing a hand over his shaved head. "Yeah, well. Carol would kill me if I came back shitfaced anyway."
Lewis' eyebrow quirked. "Carol?"
"My wife," Tom said, fingers unconsciously tracing the wedding band he still wore even on business trips. The weight of it felt heavier tonight somehow. "Twelve years next month. She's got this... way of knowing when I've had one too many just by looking at me."
Lewis smiled, the lines around his eyes deepening. "Ah. That kind of marriage." He tapped his own ring finger, conspicuously bare. "Had one of those myself once. Before I realized why it never quite fit right."
Tom blinked. The alcohol made the silence stretch longer than it should have before understanding dawned. "Oh. Ohhh." He took a quick sip from his empty glass, then laughed at himself. "Guess I'm the dumb straight guy in this scenario."
"Relax," Lewis said, chuckling as he signaled for the check. "Happens more than you'd think. My partner Richard—we've been together eighteen years—still gets mistaken for my brother at family functions." He leaned forward slightly, voice dropping conspiratorially. "Though to be fair, we do have an... understanding about certain extracurricular activities."
The walk to Lewis’s room was blurry at the edges, the rum warm in Tom’s veins. The elevator smelled faintly of disinfectant and too many bodies packed close. Lewis swiped his keycard with practiced ease, the door clicking open to reveal a room identical to Tom’s—same generic landscape prints, same stiff-backed chair—except for the bottle of aged rum on the dresser, half-empty beside two clean glasses.
"Proper hospitality," Lewis said, pouring with a generous hand. The liquid glowed amber under the bedside lamp. Tom took his glass, their fingers brushing—deliberately?—before he sank into the chair, suddenly hyper-aware of his own breathing.
Lewis perched on the edge of the bed, swirling his drink. "Twelve years," he mused. "That’s admirable. Most marriages don’t survive the seven-year itch, let alone twelve." He took a slow sip. "Though I suppose it helps when you don’t realize you’ve been scratching the wrong itch all along."
Tom laughed, too loud, the rum loosening his tongue. "Christ, I haven’t even admitted this to myself." He stared into his glass. "There was this guy in college—football teammate. One night after practice, showers empty…" He trailed off, throat tight.
Lewis didn’t press. He just nodded, sipping his rum, letting the silence stretch comfortably between them like an old sweater. The bedside lamp cast warm shadows across his face, highlighting the silver threading through his stubble. Tom’s pulse thudded in his ears—too fast, too loud. He could still smell the chlorine from that locker room, the steam clinging to tile, the way his teammate had turned under the spray and—
"You ever act on it?" Lewis asked, casual as if inquiring about the weather.
Tom swallowed. "No. Almost. Then he transferred schools." He huffed a laugh, rubbing his beard. "Probably for the best. Would’ve scared the hell out of me at nineteen."
Lewis set his glass down with a soft click. "And now?"
Tom's glass trembled slightly in his hand. The ice hadn't melted yet, but something inside him had. "Now?" He exhaled sharply through his nose, staring at the way Lewis' thumb traced the rim of his own glass. "Now I'm forty-three years old and wondering if I missed the only chance I'll ever get to know what it's like."
Lewis' chuckle was warm, unforced. "Let me tell you something," he said, leaning forward just enough for Tom to catch the scent of his cologne—something woody, expensive. "You'll never get a blowjob as good as one from a man who knows what he's doing with his mouth." His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and Tom felt heat flood his groin in a way that had nothing to do with the rum.
The silence stretched, but Lewis didn't break it. He just watched, those sharp eyes tracking the way Tom's fingers clenched around his glass, the way his throat worked when he swallowed. Tom shifted in his seat, suddenly aware of how tight his trousers felt. The fabric pulled against his thickening cock, and Lewis' gaze dropped to his lap for half a second before flicking back up—slow, deliberate.
Tom's breath hitched. He should say something, should make an excuse, should leave. Instead, he watched, frozen, as Lewis set his glass down and stood. The older man stepped between Tom's spread knees with the confidence of someone who'd done this dance before. Tom's pulse hammered against his skin as Lewis' fingers—steady, sure—brushed his thigh.
Tom’s breath caught when Lewis’ fingers found his belt buckle. The metal clicked open with practiced ease, the sound absurdly loud in the quiet room. Lewis didn’t rush—his movements were deliberate, almost methodical, as if he were unwrapping something precious. The rasp of Tom’s zipper being lowered made his stomach tighten. He should stop this. He *should*. But his hands stayed glued to the armrests, knuckles white.
The first touch of Lewis’ palm against his bare skin sent a jolt through him. Tom hissed, hips twitching upward involuntarily. Lewis chuckled, low and warm, his breath ghosting over Tom’s exposed cock. "Easy," he murmured, fingers tracing the vein running along the underside. "No rush." His thumb swiped over the head, smearing precome, and Tom groaned, head thumping back against the chair.
Lewis didn’t tease. One moment Tom was staring at the ceiling, pulse roaring in his ears, and the next, heat enveloped him completely. Lewis took him deep, throat working around him with obscene ease. Tom’s hips jerked—instinct, reflex—but Lewis’ hands clamped down on his thighs, holding him in place. The older man’s eyes flicked up, dark with amusement, and Tom realized with dizzying clarity that Lewis *wanted* him to watch.
So he did. Watched the way Lewis’ lips stretched around him, the way his tongue pressed firm against the underside on each slow drag upward. Watched the way his throat bulged when he took him deep again, nose brushing coarse hair. Tom’s fingers scrambled for purchase, tangling in Lewis’ greying strands—not pushing, just *holding*, as if he might float away otherwise.
Tom’s breath came in ragged bursts, the wet sounds of Lewis’ mouth working him filling the room. He’d never been so aware of his own body—the way his balls tightened, the coil of heat low in his gut, the involuntary twitch of his thighs under Lewis’ grip. When Lewis hollowed his cheeks and sucked hard, Tom’s vision whited out for a second, his grip tightening in Lewis’ hair. “Fuck—Christ—”
Lewis pulled off just long enough to murmur, “That’s the idea,” before swallowing him down again, one hand sliding up to cradle Tom’s balls with practiced ease. The dual sensation—wet heat and firm pressure—drove Tom wild. His hips jerked, but Lewis held him steady, his rhythm unbroken as if he knew exactly how much Tom could take before—
The orgasm hit him like a freight train. Tom arched off the chair with a cry, his release surging into Lewis’ waiting mouth. Lewis didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away—just kept working him through it, swallowing every pulse until Tom was limp and gasping. Only then did he release him with a soft pop, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Good?”
Tom could only nod, his brain still scrambled. Lewis chuckled and pressed a kiss to his inner thigh before standing. “You’re a quiet one,” he said, reaching for the rum bottle. “Most men scream louder.”
Tom’s fingers trembled as he fumbled with his belt, the metal buckle clinking softly in the thick silence of the room. His mind was still hazy, caught between the lingering warmth of Lewis’ mouth and the sharp, unfamiliar thrill of what they’d just done. He cleared his throat, avoiding Lewis’ amused gaze as he tucked himself back into his pants. “I should—uh. Probably head back to my room.”
Lewis leaned against the dresser, sipping his rum with a lazy smirk. “Mhm.” He didn’t push, didn’t tease—just watched with those knowing eyes as Tom straightened his shirt, the fabric clinging slightly to his damp skin.
The walk to the door felt impossibly long. Tom’s hand hovered over the knob, his pulse still thudding in his ears. He should say something. *Thanks* felt too transactional, *that was incredible* too revealing. Instead, he settled for a gruff, “See you at the conference tomorrow,” before slipping out into the hallway.
The cool air of the hotel corridor hit him like a slap. Tom exhaled sharply, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead. What the hell had he just done? Twelve years of marriage, twelve years of *certainty*, and now— He swallowed hard, the taste of rum and something darker lingering on his tongue. His phone buzzed in his pocket—Carol, probably, checking in. He couldn’t bring himself to look.
The hotel bed felt like concrete beneath Tom’s back as he stared at the ceiling, the dim glow of his phone screen casting long shadows. Carol’s last text—*Hope the conference is boring, miss you*—burned behind his eyelids whenever he blinked. He’d typed and deleted three replies before giving up. The sheets smelled like cheap detergent and his own sweat, but underneath it all, the memory of Lewis’ cologne clung to his skin.
Morning came with a headache and a dry mouth. Tom showered mechanically, the water too hot, scrubbing at himself like he could erase the phantom press of fingers against his thighs. The conference badge around his neck swung heavily as he stepped into the elevator—only to freeze when the doors opened to reveal Lewis already inside, sipping coffee with the casual ease of a man who hadn’t swallowed another man’s come twelve hours prior.
“Morning,” Lewis said, offering the spare coffee cup in his other hand. “Thought you might need this.” His smile was all polite professionalism, but his eyes—sharp, amused—darted to Tom’s throat where his pulse jumped visibly.
Tom took the coffee, their fingers brushing. The heat seared through the paper cup straight to his groin. “Thanks,” he muttered, staring at the elevator buttons like they held the secrets of the universe. The silence between them thickened, charged with everything unsaid—until Lewis chuckled softly and leaned in, his breath warm against Tom’s ear.
"Still thinking about last night?" Lewis murmured, his voice low enough that the security camera in the corner wouldn't catch it. The elevator hummed between floors, the numbers above the door blinking lazily. Tom's grip tightened around the coffee cup, the sharp scent of dark roast doing nothing to clear his head.
Tom opened his mouth—to deny it, to laugh it off—but what came out was a hoarse, "Yeah." The admission hung between them, raw as the flush creeping up his neck.
Lewis smiled, slow and knowing, just as the doors slid open on the conference floor. "Good," he said, stepping out with a casual pat to Tom's shoulder that lingered half a second too long. "Because I wasn't done with you."
The morning sessions blurred together—PowerPoint slides about market trends dissolving into memories of Lewis' mouth, the keynote speaker's droning voice fading beneath the phantom sensation of fingers in his hair. Tom drank three more coffees, the caffeine doing nothing to steady his hands. Every time he glanced up, Lewis was watching him from across the room, sipping his own drink with that same infuriating smirk.
The conference lunch break found Tom hovering near the buffet table, poking at a limp salad with plastic tongs. He hadn’t eaten since last night—his stomach still clenched tight with something between hunger and nerves. Across the room, Lewis leaned against a pillar, chatting with a group of attendees, his laughter carrying easily over the din. Their eyes met briefly—Lewis’ gaze flicked down Tom’s body and back up—before he turned back to his conversation as if nothing had happened. Tom exhaled sharply through his nose, the salad tongs snapping in his grip.
He ditched the plate and made for the men’s room, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. The mirror showed a man he barely recognized—dark circles under his eyes, beard grown rough overnight. He splashed cold water on his face, but the heat under his skin wouldn’t fade. The door opened behind him, and Tom’s head jerked up to see Lewis stepping inside, locking the door with a quiet *click*.
"Christ, you look wrecked," Lewis said, leaning against the sink beside him. Up close, Tom could see the fine lines around his eyes, the silver threading through his stubble. Older, yes, but confident in a way that made Tom’s throat go dry.
Tom wiped his face with a paper towel, avoiding Lewis’ gaze. "Didn’t sleep much."
Lewis chuckled, plucking the crumpled towel from Tom’s fingers and tossing it in the bin. "You're thinking too much." His hand settled on the small of Tom’s back, warm even through the dress shirt. "That’s your problem." The touch was casual, but it sent a jolt down Tom’s spine. He should step away. He didn’t.
"You—" Tom swallowed, his voice rough. "You said you weren’t done with me." The words hung between them, heavy as the scent of bleach and aftershave.
Lewis’ grin was all teeth. "Eager." He turned Tom toward him with a nudge of his hip, backing him against the sink. The porcelain dug into Tom’s thighs, but he barely noticed—not when Lewis’ thumb was tracing the line of his belt, slow and deliberate. "Tell me," Lewis murmured, leaning in until his breath ghosted over Tom’s lips, "did you taste yourself when you brushed your teeth this morning?"
Tom’s breath hitched. He had—had *flinched* at the salt-bitter memory on his tongue, then stood there like an idiot, staring at his own reflection while his cock twitched in his boxers. Lewis read the answer in his face and laughed, low and rich. "Good." His fingers slipped beneath Tom’s waistband, just enough to tease. "Because tonight, you’re going to learn what *I* taste like."
The rest of the conference day passed in a haze—Tom sat through presentations with his fingers drumming restlessly against his thigh, the phantom press of Lewis’ thumb against his belt loop replaying in his mind. His collar felt too tight. His phone buzzed twice—Carol again—but he couldn’t bring himself to answer. The guilt coiled low in his gut, but it was smothered under something hotter, sharper.
At 6:45 PM, Tom stood under the shower’s scalding spray, scrubbing himself raw like he could wash away the tremor in his hands. He’d brought his own soap—something woodsy, Carol’s favorite—but the scent felt wrong now. He shut off the water and toweled off roughly, the mirror fogged except for one clear spot where he’d wiped it absently. His reflection stared back—flushed, pupils blown. He slicked his hair back and didn’t bother shaving.
Room 712’s door was slightly ajar when he arrived. Tom pushed it open with his shoulder, the hinges silent. Lewis stood by the window, silhouetted against the city lights, a glass of rum already poured and waiting on the dresser. He turned, and the slow once-over he gave Tom was enough to make his pulse stutter. “Took you long enough,” Lewis said, grinning.
Tom opened his mouth, but Lewis crossed the room in three strides and kissed him before he could speak. It wasn’t gentle—Lewis’ teeth scraped his lower lip, his hands already working open Tom’s belt with practiced ease. The rum on his tongue was dark, sweet. Tom groaned into it, his hands finding purchase on Lewis’ hips, pulling him flush against him.
Lewis' mouth was warm and insistent, his fingers already pushing Tom's shirt off his shoulders before the door had fully clicked shut behind them. The fabric pooled at his elbows, trapping his arms momentarily—just long enough for Lewis to bite down on his collarbone, hard enough to make Tom hiss. "Fuck—"
"Language," Lewis murmured against his skin, but his hands were already at Tom's belt, undoing it with quick, efficient tugs. The leather slithered free with a whisper, and then Lewis was pressing him backward toward the bed, his palms rough against Tom's bare chest. Tom stumbled, his calves hitting the mattress edge, and Lewis didn't hesitate—just shoved him down with a grin.
Tom landed with a soft *thump*, the hotel bedspread cool against his overheated skin. Lewis climbed over him, knees bracketing his hips, and leaned down to lick a slow, wet stripe up Tom's throat. "You ever done this before?" he asked, voice low. His breath ghosted over Tom's ear, sending a shiver down his spine.
"Not—not like this," Tom admitted, his voice cracking. His pulse hammered under Lewis' tongue, his cock already straining against his boxers.
Lewis chuckled, the sound vibrating against Tom’s skin as he nipped at his earlobe. "Perfect." His fingers traced the waistband of Tom’s boxers, teasing but not yet pulling them down. "Means I get to show you everything." He shifted his weight, grinding his hips down just enough to make Tom groan. "Starting with this."
With a quick tug, Lewis yanked Tom’s boxers down to his thighs, freeing his half-hard cock. Tom’s breath hitched as Lewis leaned in, his breath warm against the flushed skin. "Relax," Lewis murmured, running a thumb along the underside. "You’re thinking again." He pressed a kiss to the head, tongue flicking out to taste the precome already beading there.
Tom’s hips jerked involuntarily, his fingers twisting in the sheets. "Christ—"
Lewis didn’t tease. He swallowed him down in one smooth motion, his throat working around Tom’s length with practiced ease. Tom’s head thumped back against the mattress, his thighs tensing as Lewis sucked him deep, his tongue pressing hard against the sensitive underside.
Tom's fingers clawed at the sheets as Lewis' mouth worked him with relentless precision. Every flick of his tongue, every hollowed-cheek suck sent sparks shooting up Tom's spine. He'd never been this aware of his own body—the way his toes curled against the bedspread, the way his abs clenched with each wet drag of Lewis' lips. "Fuck—Lewis—" His voice cracked on the name.
Lewis pulled off just long enough to grin up at him, spit-slick lips glistening. "Tell me," he murmured, thumb swiping over the leaking head of Tom's cock, "does Carol ever get you this hard?" Before Tom could answer—not that he could've formed coherent words—Lewis ducked back down, taking him deeper this time, his nose pressing into coarse curls.
The sensation was overwhelming—hot, wet pressure combined with the sharp musk of his own arousal thick in the air. Tom's hips jerked upward instinctively, but Lewis pinned him down with a firm hand on his stomach, the message clear: *Stay still. Let me.* Tom obeyed, trembling, as Lewis set a brutal pace, his other hand cupping Tom's balls with just the right amount of pressure.
When the orgasm hit, it ripped through Tom like a live wire. He arched off the bed with a cry, his release surging into Lewis' waiting mouth. Lewis took it all without flinching, swallowing every pulse until Tom collapsed back onto the mattress, chest heaving.
Tom lay sprawled on the rumpled sheets, his breath still ragged, staring at the ceiling as if it might offer some explanation for what had just happened. The taste of Lewis’ skin still lingered on his tongue—salt and expensive aftershave—and his throat ached faintly from the force of his own groans.
Lewis wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then crawled up Tom’s body, pressing a kiss to his slack lips. Tom could taste himself—bitter, unfamiliar—and something hot twisted low in his gut.
"You’re a quick study," Lewis murmured, nipping at Tom’s lower lip. His hand trailed down Tom’s chest, fingers brushing over his softening cock before moving lower, tracing the crease of his thigh. "But we’re not done yet."
Tom’s pulse jumped. He should say no. He *should*. But when Lewis rolled onto his back beside him, spreading his legs with casual confidence, Tom’s mouth went dry. The older man’s cock stood thick and flushed against his stomach, glistening at the tip.
Tom's fingers trembled as they hovered over Lewis' thighs, tracing the coarse hair without quite touching skin. The scent of lube and sweat hung thick between them, unfamiliar and intoxicating. Lewis smirked up at him, one hand lazily stroking himself while the other guided Tom's wrist lower. "Relax," he murmured, thumb pressing against Tom's pulse point. "It's just skin."
The first touch of Tom's tongue to Lewis' cock was tentative—salty, musky, so different from Carol's perfumed softness. Lewis exhaled sharply through his nose, hips twitching upward. "There you go," he coaxed, fingers carding through Tom's short hair. "Use your lips more." Tom obeyed, sinking down until his nose brushed wiry curls, and the groan Lewis let out sent heat flooding straight to his own groin again.
Lewis tugged him off after a few minutes, flipping them with surprising strength for a man his age. Tom gasped as his back hit the mattress, Lewis' weight settling over him—solid, real, anchoring him to this moment in a way that made his chest ache. "My turn," Lewis murmured, reaching behind himself with a slick hand. Tom watched, transfixed, as Lewis prepared himself with quick, efficient strokes, his breath coming faster.
When Lewis finally lowered himself onto Tom's cock, it was with a slow, deliberate roll of his hips that made them both groan. Tom's hands flew to Lewis' waist, fingers digging into soft flesh as the older man took him deeper with each downward stroke. "Fuck—" Tom blurted out, his head thrashing against the pillow. The heat was overwhelming, tighter than anything he'd ever felt, and Lewis' satisfied smirk above him didn't help.
Tom's fingers dug into Lewis' hips as the older man rode him with slow, torturous rolls of his body. Each downward stroke squeezed the air from Tom's lungs—tight heat and friction that made his thighs tremble. Lewis braced his hands on Tom's chest, his own cock flushed and leaking against his stomach as he worked himself up and down with practiced ease.
"Christ—you feel—" Tom's voice cracked, his nails biting into flesh. Lewis smirked, grinding down in a slow circle that dragged a ragged groan from Tom's throat.
"Tell me," Lewis panted, tipping his head back as he lifted almost completely off before sinking down again. "Does Carol ever take you this deep?"
Tom's hips jerked upward instinctively, driving himself deeper into the slick clutch of Lewis' body. The older man groaned, his fingers tightening on Tom's chest as his rhythm stuttered.
Tom's grip tightened convulsively on Lewis' hips—partly to steady him, partly because if he didn't hold onto something, he'd dissolve into the mattress. Lewis' body was impossibly hot around him, tight in ways he'd never known existed. Each slow drag downward sent sparks shooting up Tom's spine, his cock throbbing with every heartbeat.
"Fuck, Lewis—" Tom's voice was raw, wrecked. His thighs burned with the effort of not bucking up wildly, but Lewis kept him pinned with that maddening, controlled pace—up until the head of Tom's cock caught just right inside him, and Lewis gasped, his rhythm finally breaking.
"There," Lewis panted, grinding down in small, deliberate circles now. "Right there, Christ—" His own cock dripped freely onto Tom's stomach, untouched. He braced one hand against the headboard, the other fisting in Tom's chest hair just shy of painful. "Come on, then. Show me what you've got."
Tom didn't need telling twice. He hauled Lewis down by the hips and thrust up hard, burying himself to the hilt. Lewis' cry went straight to his already throbbing cock. The slide was perfect now—slick, desperate—and Tom set a punishing rhythm, each snap of his hips punching ragged noises from Lewis' throat.
Lewis' fingers twisted in the sheets as Tom fucked up into him, their bodies slapping together in a rhythm that had the bedframe thudding against the wall. The older man's thighs trembled, his cock bobbing untouched between them, flushed dark and leaking steadily onto Tom's stomach.
"God—yes—just like that," Lewis gasped, his voice cracking on the last syllable as Tom angled his hips just right. The sharp snap of Tom's thrusts sent shockwaves through Lewis' body, his hole clenching tight around Tom's cock with each inward drive.
Tom could feel the tension coiling low in his gut, the sweat-slick press of Lewis' body against his own, the way Lewis' muscles fluttered around him—it was too much, too intense. His grip on Lewis' hips tightened, fingertips digging into soft flesh as he drove upward with a groan.
Lewis' breath hitched, his body going rigid above Tom. "Inside—Christ—do it inside me," he demanded, his voice ragged with need. His fingers scrabbled at Tom's chest, blunt nails leaving red trails in their wake.
Tom's orgasm tore through him like a lightning strike—white-hot and unstoppable. He arched off the mattress with a cry, his release surging deep into Lewis’ body as his hips jerked erratically. Lewis clenched around him, milking every last pulse, his own cock twitching untouched between them. The older man’s groan was raw, primal, as he finally reached down to fist himself—two rough strokes and he was coming too, stripes of thick release painting Tom’s heaving stomach.
They collapsed together, sticky and spent, Lewis’ weight pressing Tom into the damp sheets. The room smelled like sex and sweat and the faint citrus of hotel soap. Tom’s pulse hammered against Lewis’ chest where their bodies touched, his breathing still ragged. Lewis chuckled against his collarbone, the vibration sending a shiver down Tom’s spine. “Still thinking too much,” he murmured, rolling off to lie beside him.
Tom stared at the ceiling, his mind blissfully blank for the first time in years. His fingers twitched against the sheets—should he reach out? Touch Lewis’ shoulder? The older man solved the dilemma for him, turning onto his side and propping himself up on one elbow. His free hand traced lazy patterns across Tom’s chest, through the cooling mess of come. “First time with a man?” Lewis asked, though they both knew the answer.
Tom swallowed, his throat dry. “Yeah.” The word hung between them, simple and heavy. Lewis’ fingers stilled over his sternum, pressing lightly as if feeling his heartbeat.
Lewis exhaled through his nose, his fingers resuming their slow exploration of Tom’s chest. "Thought so." His thumb brushed over a nipple, and Tom shivered despite the heat still radiating off their bodies. "You’re quiet afterward," Lewis observed. "Most men babble—ask if it was good for me too." He smirked, rolling onto his back and stretching like a cat. "Or they bolt. You didn’t."
Tom swallowed, his pulse still thudding in his throat. He should bolt. Should pull on his pants and walk out right now. Instead, he turned his head to watch Lewis’ profile—the sharp line of his nose, the silver threading through his stubble, the way his throat worked when he swallowed. "Would you have stopped me?" Tom asked, his voice rough.
Lewis' fingers trailed lazily through the mess on Tom's stomach, collecting slick strands of his own release. The older man's palm glistened in the dim light as he wrapped it around Tom's softening cock with a practiced grip. Tom hissed at the contact—overstimulated but unable to pull away as Lewis began stroking him slowly, the slick warmth coaxing blood back into spent flesh.
"You're—fuck—" Tom's protest died in his throat as Lewis' thumb circled the swollen head, smearing their combined mess over sensitive skin. His hips jerked involuntarily, his body responding against all logic. Lewis chuckled low in his throat, his grip tightening just enough to make Tom gasp.
"Told you," Lewis murmured, leaning down to lick a stripe up Tom's inner thigh. "Men know how to keep the party going." His tongue followed the path of his fingers, hot and wet against Tom's twitching cock. Tom's hands fisted in the sheets as Lewis swallowed him down again, the dual sensation of slick fingers and suction dragging another reluctant erection from his exhausted body.
Lewis pulled off with a wet pop when Tom was half-hard, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He reached for the nightstand without breaking eye contact, retrieving the nearly empty lube bottle. The sound of the cap snapping open made Tom's pulse jump.
"Feet up," Lewis ordered, tapping Tom's calves. When Tom hesitated, Lewis smirked and hauled his legs over broad shoulders in one smooth motion. The sudden shift left Tom exposed, his hole clenching instinctively at the cool air. Lewis squeezed lube onto his fingers, rubbing them together idly while his other hand stroked Tom's cock in lazy passes. "Relax," he murmured, pressing a slick thumb against Tom's entrance. "This part's better when you don't fight it."
Tom's breath hitched when the first finger breached him—a slow, relentless pressure that burned in ways he hadn't expected. Lewis worked him open with methodical patience, crooking his finger just enough to make Tom's thighs tremble. "There you go," Lewis murmured when Tom groaned, adding a second finger with a twist that punched the air from Tom's lungs.
By the third finger, Tom was panting, his cock leaking against his stomach with each deliberate scissoring motion. Lewis' breath came faster now, his free hand stroking himself as he watched Tom unravel beneath him. "Ready?" he asked, though it wasn't really a question.
Tom nodded, swallowing hard. His throat felt raw, his body simultaneously exhausted and electrified. Lewis slicked himself with one last pump of lube, then positioned himself with a hand on Tom's hip. The first press of Lewis' cock against him stole Tom's breath—hot, insistent pressure that built slowly into a sharp, stretching burn.
Lewis bottomed out with a groan, his hips flush against Tom's ass. For a moment, neither of them moved—Lewis' fingers dug into Tom's thighs hard enough to bruise, his own breath coming in ragged bursts. Then he pulled almost all the way out before driving back in with a snap of his hips that made Tom cry out.
The rhythm Lewis set was merciless—deep, rolling thrusts that pushed Tom up the mattress with each inward drive. Tom's legs trembled where they rested on Lewis' shoulders, his toes curling with each punishing stroke. Lewis' grip on his hips kept him anchored, fingers pressing into flesh with possessive intensity.
"Fuck—you're tight," Lewis ground out between clenched teeth. His thrusts grew erratic, his rhythm faltering as he chased his own release. Tom could only gasp, his cock twitching untouched between them with each inward snap of Lewis' hips.
When Lewis came, it was with a groan—his body locking up as he buried himself to the hilt, his release pulsing hot inside Tom. The sensation—warmth flooding him, Lewis' cock twitching within him—sent an unexpected jolt through Tom's spent body. Lewis collapsed forward, bracing himself on shaking arms above Tom, his breath hot against Tom's throat.
For a long moment, neither moved—Lewis' softening cock still seated inside Tom, their bodies joined in the humid aftermath. Then Lewis chuckled, low and satisfied, and pressed a kiss to Tom's collarbone before pulling out slowly. The loss drew a faint hiss from Tom, his body clenching instinctively at the sudden emptiness.
Tom's cock was throbbing against Lewis' thigh, still painfully hard despite the exhaustion weighing down his limbs. Lewis smirked against his collarbone, breath hot on damp skin. "Still?" he murmured, dragging a fingertip through the mess on Tom's stomach. "Greedy."
Before Tom could respond, Lewis shifted—rolling onto his knees with a slow, deliberate motion that made Tom groan at the loss. The older man reached back with slick fingers, spreading himself open just enough for Tom to see his own release glistening at Lewis' stretched rim. Lewis' grin was all teeth. "Come on then," he taunted, lowering himself inch by agonizing inch onto Tom's cock. "Show me what else you've got."
The slide was obscene—hot, wet pressure that punched the air from Tom's lungs. Lewis' body clung to him like a vise, still pulsing from his own orgasm, and when he bottomed out with a satisfied sigh, Tom saw stars.
"Fuck—Lewis—" Tom's hands flew to Lewis' hips, fingers digging into soft flesh as the older man began rocking in slow, torturous circles. Every movement dragged a ragged noise from Tom's throat—the oversensitivity tipped into something sharper, hotter, until his vision whited out entirely.
Lewis' chuckle was rough with exertion. "There it is," he murmured, grinding down hard as Tom arched off the mattress with a cry. The orgasm ripped through him like a live wire—his release flooding Lewis' already-spent body in thick pulses that left him trembling.
They collapsed together in a tangle of limbs, both breathing hard, Tom's softening cock slipping free with a wet sound that should have embarrassed him but only made Lewis chuckle again. The older man rolled onto his side, pressing a lazy kiss to Tom's shoulder. "Told you," he murmured against sweat-damp skin. "Men know how to keep the party going."
Dawn crept through the curtains far too soon, painting Lewis' sleeping profile in pale gold. Tom watched him for a long moment—the way his stubble caught the light, the steady rise and fall of his chest—before carefully disentangling himself. The shower was cold this time, the water sluicing away the lingering scent of sex and sweat as Tom scrubbed himself raw.
At the airport, Lewis pressed a slip of paper into Tom's palm with a smirk. "Next time you're in town," he said, fingers lingering just a second too long. Tom nodded, folding the number carefully into his wallet for next time... |
