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Scott threw his forearm across his eyes to block out the grey November light that streamed in from the south-facing windows of his living room. His other hand gripped the back of the couch, squeezing so hard the frame creaked beneath the padding. It was a filthy, chilling day, spitting dribbles of snow that turned to brown slush as soon as they touched down on the streets of New York, and even that weak sunlight was too much, too stimulating, when Scott's entire body was a live wire, arcing beneath Kip's hands.
An hour ago Kip had asked, "Why are we in a hurry?" and Scott had said, "I have to …" and when he'd drawn a blank he'd felt foolish.
Recovery day. No game, no practice, strict orders from Coach not to train, because Coach knew by now he was the kind of fuckup who would run himself further into the hole trying to climb out. There were forty-eight hours until Scott had to be on a plane to Denver, Dallas, and Salt Lake.
Forty-eight hours to let Kip make good on some offers he'd made. I want to be good to you, as if he weren't already the best that Scott ever had. Forty-eight hours to scoop him out and fill the shell with the better material Kip brought along, the generosity and care and love love love that the man was brimming with, like a fountain that didn't empty no matter how wildly Scott splashed in it. It would start to seep out of Scott as soon as it went in, he knew, because Scott wasn't made well enough to hold much goodness in him for long. His weak seams couldn't help but leak. But Kip wasn't diminished by what he poured into Scott, not even if Scott wasted it.
Kip's lips were soft against Scott's bent knee, kissing the feathery green edges of a bruise so gently that it didn't twinge. His smooth cheek, freshly shaven, felt like a caress as he turned his head to look where he had two fingers inside of Scott. They moved leisurely, pumping in and out like slow dancers, twisting. Coring him, to make room for something better. Kip was dressed, sweatpants and a t-shirt, and the contrast made Scott feel more than just naked. It was like he was on display, the way he spent most of his life on display, but this was for one man alone.
"Can you take more?" Kip asked him, and he bit his lip but nodded. He could. He could take anything that Kip would give him.
The blue latex glove that Kip wore was unnaturally smooth, dripping with lube, and Kip withdrew his fingers to squirt more onto them before he gave Scott more. A sudden feeling of pinpoint cold made Scott shiver, as if Kip's two fingers in his ass had been heating him from the inside. The big cotton towel that Scott lay on would be soaked by the time they were through, lube and Scott's sweat and maybe, maybe cum, if Kip would let him. When Kip let him. His dick lay heavy and full against his stomach, flushed red like it was embarrassed. Like he should be embarrassed by how much he loved this, laid out lazy on his back, getting his ass fingered as if he had nothing better to do today.
He didn't. He really didn't.
He wished Kip hadn't worn the glove. It was better that he did. Easier, cleaner, and it let Kip be a little bit more confident in how he moved his fingers, not worrying about the nails. But Scott imagined feeling his calluses scraping against Scott's tender hole, the ridges of his knuckles forcing Scott to open, open up as they pushed inside.
Scott moaned as those fingers sank back into him, the long stretch of three thick digits, pointer-middle-ring. Stack them together at the tips and still they were rooted in Kip's broad hand. He wasn't shy with them. Pushed them in until the last knuckles themselves bumped up against Scott's hole, and didn't pause there. Pulled them out and in again, fucking him without any hurry and without any hesitation, that slow couple's dance now a trio. It chased the cold out of his body. He lay there naked and exposed, his legs sprawled apart for Kip to sit between, with a cold November morning glaring in from the windows, but he was warm inside and out, blood thrumming beneath his skin.
"You're beautiful, you know that?" Kip asked him, his voice low and rich. "Not just the way you look, which, wow. Just, wow. But how generous you are. The way you let me touch you. The way your body takes in mine. Can you feel the way you're sucking me in? Like you want me to go deeper." He kissed the side of Scott's knee again, and then his free hand took the back of Scott's thigh and pushed it up, folding the leg back against Scott's torso. And Scott's eyes flew wide, his arm unblocking his sight to grab the cushion above his head, because somehow it was deeper.
Kip's fingers made wet, arrhythmic slapping noises as he fucked Scott fast and hard with them, the big knuckles at the base thumping into Scott's body like they were knocking on a door, demanding he let them in. "Oh my God," Scott prayed, and he was closer to meaning it than he had been in twenty years. "Jesus, Kip, oh God that feels so good."
"Just that?" Kip asked. He sounded delighted. "You like getting fingered that much? I'm not even playing with your prostate." Then he pushed up onto his knees, so that he was leaning over Scott, his weight balanced on the hand on Scott's thigh, and he did something with his wrist so that he could still rock those fingers in and out of Scott while they curled up like they were demanding he come along and all of them rubbed right there, right at the roots of Scott's neglected dick, lighting it up from the inside out. "Now I am!"
Scott sobbed. Sobbed because too many sounds tried to crowd out of his throat at once. Yes and oh fuck and thank you thank you thank you. All he could do was hold on, tear at the cushions with his hands, stare up into Kip's beautiful face and watch the intense look, the way he held his tongue between his teeth, his eyes focused on Scott, entirely on Scott, watching the way Scott quivered and gasped, at the mercy of Kip's hands. That was the source of warmth, there, the fire in Kip's eyes, the way it roared brighter with every sound he wrung out of Scott.
And then he stopped. Eased his weight off of Scott and sat down, his hand now only petting Scott's thigh, not forcing it back. His fingers uncurled and took up their leisurely dance again, knuckles dragging sweetly past his rim. He looked at Scott's other leg, flung across the back of the couch, and seemingly on a whim leaned over and pressed a toothy kiss into the anklebone.
Scott's head thumped back to the cushion, dizzy. "When — when can I cum?" he asked. His hands were white-knuckled in the couch fabric until he noticed and forced them to relax.
Kip shook his head. "Whenever you want, sweetheart. Just tell me and I'll get you there. Anything you need. This isn't edging, though I think, uh — have you ever tried that? Because I'm really starting to think you'd like it."
He had no idea.
Touching himself during playoff season, when he knew he couldn't let himself finish? Yeah, he knew it was superstition, but he wasn't going to be the guy who jizzed and cost his team the championship. So he touched himself when he was restless, got his favorite dildo out and fucked himself until his mind cleared and his back unknotted, and then took it out out of himself and lay there open and empty until the urge to cum went away.
Did that count?
He ran a hand down his chest, trying to focus his mind. Kip's fingers didn't stop the simple dance, the slow twist. He was sweating all out of proportion to the little effort Kip had asked of him. A smear of wetness on his stomach marked where his cock had jerked, a little drooling line of precum produced while Kip played him like an instrument.
He thought, he'd seen porn of, men being milked like that. Their cocks were wrung out by hand sometimes, it wasn't always hands-free, but the fingers or the toy in their asses were the real deal. Relentless stimulation, pressure, sending pulses of cum out of cocks already satisfied and softening. He watched those videos with headphones in, even here at home. The sounds they made, astonished, overstimulated, nearly choking on so much pleasure applied so pitilessly, made his cheeks blaze and his stomach pucker with embarrassment and arousal.
How long did that take? When you weren't shooting at the pace of porn, holding it for the camera. Were forty-eight hours enough?
"Maybe," Scott said.
Kip grinned, bright in the silver-cold light. "Strong maybe? You've got all that stamina. I think you could take a lot."
Scott could think of few things he wanted more in life than to show Kip just how much he could take. Any of it. All of it. He was Scott fucking Hunter and he didn't quit halfway.
Maybe Kip knew somehow what Scott was about to suggest, because he shook his head. "You're supposed to rest today, you said. This is just supposed to feel good. Let me take care of you, and if you want a break, or an orgasm, or you just want me to get my fingers out of your ass and do something else, you tell me. Okay?"
Scott nodded his head. "Okay."
Get your fingers out of my ass. He couldn't imagine wanting that. He wanted a hand on his dick, a mouth, but he could — he could ask for that, later. Asking for what he wanted worked, with Kip. He could ask, whenever he wanted to cum more than he wanted to feel Kip moving in him, playing with him, smiling, teasing, like this was a game and they had all the time in the world. When he wanted to, he could ask, and Kip would make him cum. Give him an orgasm, like a gift. Just because Scott asked for it.
"I want to kiss you," Scott blurted. And quickly, "Don't stop. Don't."
He pushed himself up on his elbows and Kip leaned over him, and Kip's sweet lips pressed kisses to his suddenly slack chin and open mouth because the heel of Kip's hand was pressed up behind his balls and his fingers were making that come here motion again.
"There he is," Kip murmured. "That's getting it from the inside and the outside. I can just roll it around in my hand, like this. Gotta be gentle …" and smiled as Scott's thighs flexed, rocking down into his grasp.
Scott just wanted to touch him more, touch and be touched and not stop. So he pulled Kip down on top of him, but immediately regretted it when Kip removed his hand and the empty feeling twisted the pleasure in his guts into nausea. "No, wait, I —"
"Hold on, hold on," Kip shushed him, sitting up. Scott watched him through half-lidded eyes, spreading his legs a little more as a suggestion, and hoped the effect wasn't spoiled by the bruises on his legs or the scabs on his knuckles.
Kip pulled off his shirt, and that was very promising even though he did it awkwardly with just one hand. His body was indescribably gorgeous. Indescribable for Scott, at least. Probably there were art words that Kip knew which could capture it. Broad and rippling with muscle even in places Scott wasn't, solid as a steel beam, hairy, masculine, and powerful. Scott's mouth watered just to look at him.
Kip draped another towel across his lap and held out his ungloved hand to Scott. "Come here, I think this'll work."
Scott went, and the next few seconds were awkward shuffling and knocking of knees together, until he got spun around and slouched in Kip's lap, his back to Kip's bare chest, at a height where Kip could kiss his mouth from the side, messy and wet, more tongue than lips. "Good?" Kip asked, and Scott nodded fervently, clutching at the arm Kip had wrapped around his chest, and then those gloved fingers slipped back into Scott's hole, easy as anything, and Scott melted back into Kip's body.
"Oh. Like that, please, just like that."
Two summers ago he had laid on a beach at the edge of the Aegean and let the crystal water roll over him, warm, gentle, and relentless. Looking up into the clear blue sky as the tide came in, he'd felt the waves pushing and tugging at his body, reshaping him, reshaping the sand. As soon as one wave receded another would cover him, just his feet at first, then his legs, then higher and higher until he had to hold his breath when the water broke over his face. He'd breathed in time with the sea and understood how much power was behind the gentle waves. A sea and all the rivers that fed it, the rain, the oceans of the world all connected and touching Scott. He could enjoy it or he could leave; he couldn't stop it.
It felt like that, the way pure pleasure moved through his body from Kip's hand, one wave after another. No way to control it or stop it, unless he told Kip to stop touching him. All he could do was let Kip make him feel good. Let Kip hold him and mouth at his neck, and feel Kip's own cock pressing into the small of his back without Scott being able to do anything about it. Kip's fingers swirled through a golden pool of pleasure down in the middle of him, sending it rippling through his limbs.
"Don't you want to fuck me?" Scott asked, because he wanted to make sure Kip knew that Scott was willing, and he felt Kip's laughter more than he heard it.
"I absolutely want to fuck you," Kip said. "That's going to happen. But I want to see if I can get you off like this first, okay? I've been thinking about what it'd be like to have you all fucked out and relaxed, when you can just take my cock nice and slow."
He put his hand on Scott's chin, tilting his head back to rest on his shoulder, and from that angle they could kiss each other and Scott could see his lovely eyes until Kip squeezed them shut, groaning, his own hips grinding against Scott's lower back. "Or maybe I need to get off first, too. God, baby, you're so pretty it hurts to look at you."
Scott had no idea what to say to that, but the fingers in his ass kept stroking him, impossibly deep, ringing him like a bell. He lost track of himself there, cradled against a beautiful man's chest, being filled up with pleasure. The cold, grey sky gave no clue to the passage of time. Only the man with him mattered, the soft kisses on his neck and shoulders, the affectionate petting of a hand through his hair, the decadent feeling of being lazy and full.
That morning, Kip had asked, "What do you think about getting fingered?" while Scott loafed around in bed, drinking the coffee Kip had made. It was nice, was what Scott had said. He liked a little bit of stretching before getting fucked. It helped him relax. He handled it himself, usually, if he had the time, but he already knew that Kip wanted to help. The first time Kip had fucked him, Scott had started to do it, and when Kip knelt behind him he'd assumed that his time was up, until Kip touched the inside of his thigh and said, "Let me watch." Scott had never made a show of it before, and he thought at the time he might die of embarrassment, on his hands and knees with his fingers up his own ass, until Kip had touched him right there, right where he'd worked his hole open, and Scott accepted his imminent death then and there if that was what it took for Kip to keep doing that.
And now Kip wanted to do only that. Hold Scott against his body and caress him all over, inside and out, for no better reason than that they had the time to do it.
Scott measured sex in single digits. Two weeks in a warm country. Five minutes in a bathroom stall. An hour in a hotel bed, maybe two, a luxurious three. One eye on the door, every time. A clock ticking, counting down the minutes until it wasn't safe anymore, until he wore out his welcome, until his flight home.
Bottoming was hard for him. It was vulnerable. Risky. Just getting his mouth used hard and fast was easier and safer. He didn't like to be fucked right away, not even when he'd been waiting all night for the chance. He wanted to touch and be touched for a while, let his body get to know the other before taking it inside. He wanted to be in a bed, stretched out beside someone who would look him in the eye. God, he wanted to kiss, and that was maybe the hardest thing to ask for from a man he'd never see again.
The ticking clock forced a simple calculation: the longer he took, the less he could have. It was easier to use his mouth or his hands, or just to top himself. If the man who wanted his dick didn't want foreplay, Scott wouldn't force it on him. Scott was greedy for attention, he knew. He craved praise and recognition beyond what a normal person needed. It was why he was good at his job; he'd do anything for one more point, one more goal, one more chance to make the crowd go wild. Wanting tender foreplay from a hookup was like that. Other men were more temperate.
Scott had forty-eight hours before he had to go. The ticking of the clock was inaudible, drowned out by his rabbit heart. Tomorrow maybe it would be louder. The morning after that it would hound him out the door and he would leave Kip behind. Whatever they did between now and then would be all Scott had to take with him.
For four days.
Not for a season or a year. Not even for a week. He could call Kip from his hotel room every night, and by Thursday he would be home. Kip would be at home.
Scott drew a knee up to his chest, hooked an arm around it to open himself further, and let Kip fill him with every good thing he had to spare.