Two In The Morning Part 2

The following is a true story that happened bet wen my brother and I a few years ago. All parties in this story are 18+

Part 1 can be found here

I am forty. I am telling you this because that is what it was. Not a beginning. A year and a half after I had his cock in my mouth on his living room floor, we ended up in a hotel with one bed.

I left his house two days after the Xbox night. We shook hands at the door. I drove out of state. He went back to drop-offs and the ring. We texted when a birthday made us. We got on the phone if somebody died or somebody graduated. We did not say the living room. After a few months I stopped checking to see if he would.

A year and a half later there was family business in another city. A few days. We booked separate rooms. We still hit the front desk at the same time, which is how we found out the hotel had lost one reservation and had a single king left facing the highway.

Mark looked at the clerk. Then at me. Then he took the keycards.

"It's a few nights," he said in the elevator. "We'll live."

The room was fine. One bed and a chair that was never going to save anybody. He called home while I was still standing there with my bag. He told her about the mix-up like it was funny. He asked about the kids. He said he loved her. The phone went face down on the nightstand.

We ate in the room. He changed in the bathroom and came out in a t-shirt and boxers. I stayed in what I had on. T-shirt, regular shorts, boxer briefs underneath. I sat in the chair until my back quit, then I took the other side of the mattress and left space. He put a game on. We talked about the drive. Who looked older. Who had gotten weird. It was almost easy.

Lights out, the easy died.

I could hear him breathe. The mattress moved when he turned. Highway light kept dragging across the ceiling. Past midnight he said my name, just to see if I was up.

"Yeah."

"Can't sleep."

"Yeah."

He was quiet long enough that I thought he had let it go.

"You still out there?"

"Yeah."

"Seeing anybody?"

"Not really."

"Huh."

Another stretch of highway.

"Can I ask you something?"

"You just did."

"That night. At the house."

I stared at the ceiling.

"We don't have to."

"I know."

"Then why are you starting it."

He shifted. The sheet pulled.

"I don't know."

"Yeah, you do."

The highway hissed under the window. He picked at the edge of the pillowcase like it needed fixing.

"We never said it," he said.

"No."

"Not after. Not on the phone. Not when Mom had that thing in March and we were both on the call."

"There was nothing to say that wouldn't make it real again."

"It was already real."

"I know."

He let out a breath.

"Did you think about texting me?"

"No."

"Not even once."

"I thought about it. I didn't do it."

"Why."

"Because a text makes it a thing you can keep. I didn't want a thing I could keep."

He was quiet.

"I wrote one," he said. "After you left. Like a week later. I didn't send it."

"What did it say."

"I don't remember the words. Something stupid. Are we okay. Which is a shit question."

"What did you want me to answer."

"That it didn't happen. Or that it did and it was fine. I don't know. I deleted it."

I turned my head. He was on his back with one arm over his forehead.

"You avoided me," I said.

"I didn't."

"You did. You didn't come to Thanksgiving."

"The kids were sick."

"You didn't come to Mom's birthday either."

"I had work."

"Mark."

He laughed once, short, no joke in it.

"Fine. I didn't want to be in a room with you if it was just us. I could do family. I could do a parking lot. I couldn't do... this. Sitting here. Knowing you know."

"And now we're sitting here."

"Yeah. The hotel did that."

"The hotel did the bed. You did the sentence."

He swallowed.

"When I saw your name on the family email about this trip I almost said I couldn't come."

"Because of family."

"Because of you. Because I knew if we ended up like this I was going to talk."

"You talked anyway."

"Yeah."

I hated that I was glad he had. I also wanted him to shut up and go to sleep. Both things sat there and did not cancel each other out.

"Eighteen months," I said. "You had eighteen months to leave it in that living room."

"I tried."

"Did you."

"I went home. I did drop-off. I had sex with my wife and tried not to think about your mouth while I was doing it, which is a fucked up sentence and I'm saying it anyway. I told myself it was a night. Curiosity. Beer. A stupid hour."

"And."

"And then I'd be standing at the sink and it would come back. Not even the sex part first. You asking why I was asking. Me not taking the out. That's the part that stayed."

The sheet had slipped. He was hard. He knew I could see it. He left it.

"So why now," I said.

"Because we're here. Because I already opened my mouth. Because pretending I don't remember makes me feel like a coward on top of everything else."

"You have a wife."

"I know."

"You're going back to her."

"I know that too."

"Then this isn't you starting a life. This is you walking back into a room you already left."

"I know what it is."

He stared at the ceiling.

"I didn't come here for that."

"Neither did I."

"I keep saying that."

"It doesn't make it true just because you repeat it."

Somebody slammed a door down the hall. The air conditioner kicked harder.

"If I come over there," I said, "it isn't a question anymore."

"I know."

"You're not curious. You used that word last time until it got thin. This is you asking for it again."

He nodded once, small, like a larger nod would make it official.

"Yeah."

I sat up. He watched me do it. I pulled the sheet down. He sat up enough to get the shirt off, then shoved the boxers down. I popped the button on my shorts, pushed them off, then the boxer briefs, then the shirt. Then it was just skin and the air conditioner and his cock already wet at the head.

I did not ask him if I should. He did not tell me to get on him.

I got between his legs the way I had on his living room floor. He made a noise when he realized that, half a laugh, half a curse. I wrapped my hand around him and licked the head first. Salt. Same as that night. His thigh jumped under my palm.

"Fuck. Your mouth..."

I took him in and sucked him properly. Wet. Steady. I bobbed on him until he was slick to the base, spit running down onto his balls. He leaked on my tongue. I swallowed it and went back down, throat working around him, the wet click of it filling the room with the highway.

I pulled off and took one of his nuts into my mouth and suckled it while I stroked him against my cheek. He grabbed the sheet.

"Jesus. Easy."

I did not go easy. I sucked the other one, then went back to his cock with his balls in my hand. His hips kept making these little pushes up into my face. His balls drew up tight against my palm. I felt it. He was already there.

"Stop. Stop. I'm gonna come. I'm serious."

I pulled off. He was dark, soaked, pulsing in the air. His hands were fists in the sheet. His mouth was open. He looked wrecked and hungry, not like a man hunting for a brake.

I climbed up anyway. My choice. I threw a leg over him and sat on his thighs and took his cock in my hand. I lined him up against my hole and pressed back.

The head popped in and the air left both of us.

I am tight. Not a line. A fact. He is thick. I had just had him on the edge in my throat. My ass closed around the head of his cock like a fist and he made a sound I had not heard out of him in either room.

"Oh fuck. Oh fuck I can't..."

I pushed down. One more inch. That was all it took.

He lost it.

His whole body locked and he dumped into me so hard I felt the first pulse before I was even sitting on him. Hot. Sudden. A lot. His cock kicked inside that tight stretch and he grabbed my hips like he was falling. I kept sinking because I was already doing it, and every inch I took milked another shot out of him. By the time my ass met his hips he was groaning through his teeth and still pumping.

"I came. I already came. I couldn't... you're too tight. I couldn't hold it."

I was sitting on him with his cock buried and his load already in me. Heat. Wet. The twitch of him trying to finish a climax his body had not gotten a vote on. My own dick was hard against his stomach.

"I know," I said. "I felt it."

"Don't move. Please. It's too much."

I stayed on him.

That was the first still minute. Not sex. Just weight. His cock was still inside me, but the urgent hardness had gone out of it. He was throbbing because he had just come, not because he was ready. I could feel the difference. The pulse slowing. The way he winced when I breathed too deep. His hands were on my hips and they were not pulling me down anymore. They were just there.

The highway kept going. His chest rose and fell under my palms. I was still hard against his stomach and he could feel that too. Neither of us got off. Getting off would have been the easy version of after. Staying on him was the choice.

"You don't have to keep going," I said.

"I know."

"You're not there."

"I know that too."

He swallowed. Looked at my mouth. Looked at where I was sitting on him.

"Stay anyway."

So I stayed. We sat like that long enough for the first heat to drain out of him. Long enough that I felt him soften a little inside me, still in, still slick with what he had left, not useless, just done for a minute. I rolled his balls once and he hissed and shook his head, not no, just not yet.

"Okay," I said.

A while after that his breathing evened. Then it didn't. His cock gave a small kick that was not leftover, just interest coming back in pieces. I felt him thicken by degrees. Not a switch. A slow return, like blood remembering where it had been. He exhaled through his teeth.

"That's... yeah. That's coming back."

"Tell me when it isn't too much."

He nodded. Another minute. Another small swell. I lifted a half inch and sat down again, testing. He grimaced, then his hands tightened.

"Again. Slow."

I gave him slow.

That was the work. Not bouncing like the first two seconds. Just riding the edge of what he could take, my ass still clenched around him because that is how I am, every small movement dragging through tightness and leftover wet. The bed made a quieter sound now. Slick. Steady. He stared at the ceiling, then at me, then at where he disappeared into me.

"You're still so tight."

"I know."

"It's different than before. Before I couldn't think. Now I can feel all of it."

I kept that pace until the wince left his mouth. Until his hips started answering without him deciding to. Until he was hard again inside me for real, filling back out, the sensitivity turning over into heat in longer and longer stretches.

"Okay," he said. "Okay. You can... you can move."

I planted my hands on his chest and started fucking myself on him properly. Still not rushed. Up until I almost lost the head. Down until his balls pressed against me. Hold. Again. The headboard tapped the wall in a slow count. Sweat cooled on my back and then didn't. My cock leaked onto his stomach and he wrapped a hand around it, clumsy at first, then matching the rise and fall.

Minutes went by that way. I do not mean two. I mean the kind of minutes where you stop pretending you are going to finish soon. His ring was cold on my skin. I felt it and I did not look at it. He kept making these low sounds that were not the first-night panic. They were effort.

"Don't stop," he said, and then later, "Wait, wait," and I waited, and then he nodded and I started again.

I reached back and rolled his balls when he could take it. He swore. I sat all the way down and ground until that spot inside me lit and my thighs started to shake, then I lifted and did it again. The wet sound got louder as he stayed hard and the first load made everything easier and filthier. He was watching my face now like looking away would let him off.

"How long," he said, wrecked.

"Doesn't matter."

"I'm not close. I thought I would be."

"Good."

I rode him through that plateau. Harder for a stretch, then slower when his breath went sharp, then harder again when he pulled me down. The room smelled like sweat and sex and leftover cologne. My legs burned. I kept going because stopping would have turned it back into the two-second version, and that version had already happened.

He started talking without meaning to. Little broken things. Your ass. Don't. Like that. Fuck. Eighteen months. I didn't let myself think about this. His hands left bruises I would find later. I leaned forward and the angle changed and we both made a sound that the hallway did not need.

"There," he said. "Stay there."

I stayed there and worked him in short drops, grinding at the bottom, using his cock, fucking myself on it while he thrust up in small helpless answers. Time stretched. The highway became background. I was dripping on him. He was stroking me in time and losing the rhythm and finding it again.

"I'm getting there," he said. It came out surprised. "Slow. Don't... don't rush it or I'll lose it."

I did not rush it. I kept the same ugly steady bounce until his stomach tightened and his balls drew up in my hand and his mouth fell open.

"Now. Now. I'm..."

He came the second time like a man who had been walked there. Not a collapse. A long breaking. His cock kicked inside that tight grip and he poured into me in pulses that went on while I kept moving, slower, keeping him deep so he felt all of it. Feeling him flood me again, after all that work, pulled me over. I came across his chest and throat, still seated on his cock, still clenched around him, still riding the last of it until my thighs gave out.

I stayed on him. Not collapsed this time. Just sitting, full of him, both of us shaking out the last of it. His heart was going under my palms. He was still inside me, softening for real now. The highway did not care.

Neither of us spoke for a while. That silence was different from the dark before. It had the sex in it. It also had the eighteen months. I could feel him running out of me when I shifted my weight and I still did not get off.

"I didn't come here for that," I said.

His hand stayed on my back.

"I lasted two seconds. Then I didn't."

"I know."

I lifted off him slow. His cock left me with a wet sound and a filthy little empty ache. I felt him run out of me when I moved to the side of the bed. No speech after that. He went to the bathroom. Water ran for a long time. When he came back I was already on my side again, which was a joke. He stood by the window first, looking at the highway light like it might tell him how to get back into the bed as just a brother. Then he got in anyway.

We lay there not touching. The air conditioner was too loud. I could hear him swallow. I could hear myself not asking if he regretted it, because the answer would not have helped either of us.

In the dark he said, "We still have two more nights."

"I know."

That was not a plan to run away together. That was a man counting the rooms he still had to sleep in before he drove back to his house.

In the morning we put clothes on and went downstairs and stood around coffee with family like the king bed had only ever been a booking error. He called his wife from the parking lot. I heard the tone, not the words. He did not look at me while he did it.