When I walk back up into the suite half an hour later, he’s still there, still bare, still waiting patiently. He might—he just might—have shifted slightly when he heard me in the doorway, but not enough that I could tell.
“I checked out the convention center," I say slowly, carefully, waiting to see how he responds. “I think I must have forgot my razor, though, so I’m going to run out and pick one up.” Nothing.
I shouldn’t have expected anything—a twitch of the ass, a plaintive little roll of the hips, an even more plaintive whimper or whine—but even though he’s better than that, past that, I’m still a bit surprised; I had him so close, for so long, before I went down for my first pass at the exhibition hall. I walk over to the bed, and there’s a moment of drawn out silence before I rest my hand on his ass; when I do, his skin’s hot, searing, even in the over-conditioned hotel air. He doesn’t respond, doesn’t move, so I move my hand, sliding my fingers across his skin and into his dark cleft. The very tip of my middle finger just grazes his hole, and I can feel the tight ring of muscle twitch against it; he can’t help that, though, and the rest of him remains impassive—un-passioned, but long-suffering. When I talk again, it’s not at all like I’m just one quick shove away from fingering him. “Do you need anything while I’m out?”
"No,” he says. “I’m fine.”
So I push my finger in, hard. There’s no lube, of course, and I can feel his ass catch at my finger and then clench at it in protest as I slide in. I can feel his body shake, and this time, my voice isn’t measured, guarded; there’s a smile in it. “Are you absolutely sure you don’t need anything?” I twist my finger in further, turn it to press unrelentingly up against the hard knot of his prostate. “Anything at all you really, really need?” He drops his head just as quickly as the clear spurt of precum drops down from his dick onto the bedspread.
“Yes,” he chokes out. “I need"—and he says this through gritted teeth, and my heart and my dick both swell at the thought of having won—"socks. Black. One pair.”
I pull my finger out, swat his ass. Part of me wanted to hear him break, hear him answer with “a long, hard dicking, sir.” That’s the part me that’s ready to go again even after the check-in blowjob he gave me, the part that wants so badly to be buried immediately inside him, the part that’s anxious to be able to say that he’s now given it up in Pittsburgh, too. But the bigger part of me—well, bigger in terms of judgement and magnanimity; the other part is currently clocking in at a solid 8” and straining across my thigh—is so fucking proud of him, too.