CSI: Lip Servicebymrwrong972©
"Don't say anything," Warrick said, unchaining the door briefly and then closing it and sliding the chain home behind them. He'd heard the key in the lock before he was even undressed from work.
"I mean it, I don't want to hear, well, anything." His voice was low, urgent, tired. He moved back into his living room without turning on a light. The only illumination came from under the door to his pantry, where he must have left the light on, and from the muted television.
The flickering blue of "Behind the Music" took away the golden highlights in his skin, and flattened the deep relief around his jaw, his eyes, his throat. The scene was surreal, almost hallucinatory, in it's monochromatic flash and fade. Only his voice, hypnotic and rich even at his breaking point, revealed any life in the apartment.
They crossed to the couch, and he collapsed into it. His hands fell impotently to his sides, palms up as if in supplication, and he closed his eyes and let his head fall back.
"I promised this was over." Warrick didn't quite whisper. A whisper would have been too confiding, too intimate. He rumbled softly as he spoke, allowing his belt buckle to be unfastened.
"I'm with Catherine now, you know that?" he asked suddenly, lifting his head even as he lifted his hips. His black Levi 550s slid down is thighs and pooled at his ankles. He didn't take off his shoes.
"I think it's important you know-" he said, his breath catching as his hardening cock slipped free from his briefs. He hissed a breath out at the feeling of pale cool fingers wrapping around the dusky flesh of his shaft. "-that you know, I want this thing with Cat to work, to go somewhere."
His eyes rolled back as soft lips, talented and supple, closed over the head of his cock. He ground his teeth together as the tip of a tongue laved the sensitive underside of his long slender shaft. The cool fingers were getting warmer, skinning his cock up and down in a counter-rhythm to the gentle licking and sucking.
"When I was just some young player, this was fun. But I promised myself this was over. You promised me." His hands still flexed and relaxed at his side, unwilling to touch, to hold, to participate in what was happening. What he told himself would never happen again, again.
His eyes squeezed shut, already. It was so wrong, and so dirty, and so damned good. Same as it ever was. Same as it ever was. There was something he had forgotten.
"Catherine," he gasped, "I'm with Cat now, you know that. And you fucking come over here... Oh fuck, yeah. Damn it."
Suddenly, with warm fingers wrapped around him, with warm moist lips sealed around his flesh, with one talented evil genius finger stroking lazy circles between his balls and his ass, Warrick was coming.
His abs crunched and his quads sang, lifting him up off the sofa, first folding almost double, then arching his back, touching only at the crown of his head and his heels. The semen didn't fly, it was injected, a hydraulic process that started with the shakras down his spine and finished with the rippling muscular reaction of orgasm. He shot, and again. And again. And the finger extended between his retracting testicles strummed his perineum like a bass string. And again. There was noting left, and still his body pulsed, one last time.
He collapsed into the sofa, knees drawing up and together. Already his body was defending, pushing away, making space. No lazy cigarettes, no holding. It was so good and so wrong and it was over before the last drop was licked from where it had fallen on his thigh. Little tip of the tongue, so pink, so soft, so sweet, little baby mouth that was so so so bad.
"I need you to go," Warrick said, finding his voice. He tried again, stronger. "I mean it. This thing with Catherine... fuck that, it's not that. It's me. This. I don't need this any more, and I'm tired of using you and feeling like shit about after. I don't want to do this any more."
He stood, stuffing his tender cock, still optimistically moist and firm, down his pant leg as he hiked his jeans up over his slender hips. He didn't bother adjusting his briefs, or fastening his fly. He just hung his pants on his hips and rolled over to the door with the cool glide he always had after a really solid cum.
He opened the door, standing back and to one side in his sweat-sheened disarray. He waited, and before closing the door, he said something he hadn't said before. He said something that over the last four years, through all the women, the cases, the fights, the drinking, the protestations of purity, or fidelity, or morality, he had never said, never seriously considered since the dorms, since college. He said something that told them both it really was over, such as it had ever been, and this was all of the goodbye they would have.
"Greg, I want my key."