My hand found my cock, stroking in time with his thrusts, but he batted it away and replaced it with his own, his grip firmer, his pace perfect. The dual sensation—his cock inside me, his hand on me—had me climbing toward the edge, pleasure building at the base of my spine.
Just when I thought I couldn’t take any more, he flipped us, the movement so smooth I barely had time to register what was happening. Suddenly I was straddling him, his cock still buried inside me, his hands on my hips guiding me as I began to move.
This was new—he’d never let me take control before—and the power of it went to my head. I set the pace, rising until just the head of his cock remained inside me, then sinking back down, taking him to the root. His hands tightened on my hips, hard enough to bruise, but he let me lead, his eyes never leaving my face as I rode him.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he said, the words punched out of him with each thrust. “So perfect. Taking me so good.”
His praise sent heat flooding through me, my cock leaking onto his stomach as I moved. One of his hands left my hip to wrap around my length, stroking in counterpoint to my movements, and the combination was too much. I felt my orgasm building, my thighs trembling with the effort of maintaining the pace.
“Come for me,” Cruz said, his voice rough with want. “Let me see you.”
His hand tightened on my cock, his thumb circling the head on each upstroke, and then I was coming, my release spurting across his chest and stomach as my body clenched around him.
The sight of me coming undone was enough to push him over the edge—with a growl that was almost animal, he flipped us again, driving into me with renewed force, his rhythm faltering as he chased his own release.
When it hit him, he buried his face in my neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin where my shoulder met my throat as he came. I felt the pulse of him inside me, the warmth of his release, and held him through it, my hand stroking his back as his weight settled fully on top of me.
For a long moment, we stayed like that—his cock still inside me, his face hidden in the curve of my neck, my arms around his shoulders—neither of us willing to be the first to break the connection. Eventually, though, his weight became too much,my legs started to cramp, and he rolled off me with a grunt, pulling out carefully.
We lay side by side on the rumpled bed, our breathing slowly returning to normal, the air between us heavy with the smell of sex and sweat. I stared at the ceiling, aware of Cruz’s eyes on me, but unable to look at him, not yet ready to see whatever was in his face.
“That was...” he started, then stopped, apparently unable to find the right word.
“Yeah,” I agreed, because what else was there to say?
The sheets were twisted around our legs, half on the floor, half still clinging to the foot of the bed. The room’s AC hummed steadily, pumping cold air that raised goosebumps on my sweat-damp skin.
Beyond the partially open curtains, Billings glittered—streetlights and car headlights and the occasional flash of a plane coming in to land at the airport ten miles out.
Normal Friday night stuff.
The kind of things that happened whether or not you were lying naked in a hotel bed with a man who’d just fucked you so thoroughly you could still feel the ghost of him inside you.
Cruz’s hand drifted across my back in slow, absent circles, his touch so light I almost couldn’t feel it. Almost. But my skin was hypersensitive after what we’d just done, every point of contact registering like a brand.
His palm was warm against my spine, his fingers tracing the dips between my vertebrae with a care that seemed at odds with the way he’d just taken me apart.
Neither of us had spoken since that broken “Yeah” I’d offered in response to his unfinished thought. The silence should have been awkward—we were strangers, essentially, despite the fact that I’d had his cock inside me five times in six months—but it wasn’t. It was easy in a way that made my chest tight, comfortable in a way that made me want to run.
I stared at the ceiling, my mind replaying the text he’d sent.Be in Billings end of week. Room at Sheraton downtown. Would like to see you if you’re free.The kind of message you’d send a colleague, not a lover. Not someone you’d spent the night with, whose body you knew as well as your own. Not someone you’d missed.
Had he missed me? There’d been something in the way he’d kissed me when he pulled me into the room, something desperate in the way his hands had touched me, like he was making sure I was real. Something in his voice when he’d said “You came” that had sounded almost like surprise.
Or maybe I was just seeing what I wanted to see. Building meaning into something that was exactly what it appeared to be on the surface: a hookup. A booty call. A weekend away from real life.
No questions asked, no answers offered. That had been the deal from the start—unspoken, but clear. We showed up, we fucked, we went our separate ways. No expectations, no complications, no messy feelings to sort through afterward.
Except here we were, Cruz’s hand still moving across my back, my body still humming with the aftershocks of what we’d done, and the question of what the hell we were doing hanging in the air between us.
I should say something. Should break the silence, make a joke, suggest dinner or another round or a shower—anything to put us back on familiar ground. But the words wouldn’t come. My throat felt tight, my chest heavy with something I refused to name.
Cruz shifted beside me, his weight making the mattress dip. His hand left my back, and I immediately missed the contact, the loss like a physical thing. But then his arm was around mywaist, tugging me closer until my head rested on his chest, his heartbeat steady under my ear.
“Stay,” he said, the word so quiet I almost didn’t hear it.
I should say no. Should remind him that I had a house to get back to, a vineyard to plan, a life that didn’t include weekend trips to Billings to fuck a man who texted like he was writing mission briefings. Should extract myself from his arms, get dressed, drive the three hours home in the dark, and put this—him—behind me.
I knew I couldn’t get comfortable here. Knew that whatever this was—whatever we were doing—it couldn’t last. Knew that eventually one of us would want more than hotel rooms and stolen weekends, and the other wouldn’t be able to give it, and that would be the end of whatever this was.
