Travelling Home Ch. 01

He bends over to peer into the minibar.

"What would you like?"

"A Coke, please."

He throws me a brief surprised look, but doesn't comment. He snags a beer for himself, opens it, and then walks over to me and hands me the can, his fingers sliding deliberately over my mine as he pulls his hand away.

"Take off your coat, stay a while," he murmurs, his smirk acknowledging the corniness of the line, and I grunt a nervous laugh. I start to shrug my coat off, then realize too late that I'm holding the drink, and the logistics seem beyond me, especially when he adds the complication of pressing his lean body against mine and sliding his arms around my waist, his rough cheek rubbing against mine as he nuzzles my neck in a move that sends heat to my groin and yet feels oddly tender at the same time.

"You're uncomfortable," he notes. "Why? Are you experimenting?" I try to find amusement or irritation in his voice, but he only sounds curious.

I sigh and put my hands on his hips, one flat against the light wool of his trousers, feeling the firm flesh and hard bone underneath, the other still holding the damn drink, so that I can only rest the heel of my palm against his belt.

"No," I tell him, my eyes on his loosened tie, then on the small patch of skin displayed by the open collar. I can see his pulse beating there, and I want to put my lips on the spot, lick it, feel if it's as smooth and soft as it looks.

"Are you in a steady relationship?"

Startled, I tear my eyes away from his throat and look into his eyes, then I frown and shake my head. I'm suddenly having a hard enough time with the idea of a one-night stand with David; I can't imagine the added baggage of a steady relationship, not least because I haven't actually been in one since grad school.

"No," I say out loud, and he slides his hands up and down my back and smiles.

"What then?"

"Nothing." I give into the temptation and bend my head. His skin really is that soft, and it tastes salty against the tip of my tongue. "Nothing," I repeat, and push his collar aside with my face, trying to find the curve of his shoulder.

He twists his head to the side, giving me more access, and his pulse flutters against my lips. He inhales sharply, then again in a kind of stuttered breath, and his hands clench on my shirt, and just like that, my awkwardness disappears.

"David," I mutter against his warm skin, and he grunts, ducking his head and shoving it against mine, forcing it up so that he can reach my mouth with his.

You watch sex scenes in the movies and it's either a perfect choreography and/or guys slamming each other into walls, leaving a trail of discarded clothes behind them. Real life isn't like that, especially not the first time. It's not elegant or graceful or smooth, and at some point you've got to get rid of your shoes and clothes (and the fucking Coke can), and you find out that he likes his nipples kissed and licked but not pinched, after you've been doing not enough of the first or second and way too much of the third, and you start to wonder if this is convenience or passion for him, because if it's only the first, it's been a long day since your shower this morning. So it's nice, sort of, and intriguing, and exciting, but not so much so that you want to be risking cracking the plaster or the back of your head.

He nearly knees me in the balls when we fall onto one of the beds, his body hard against mine, our mouths glued together, and I accidentally backhand him when he grabs my arms and tries to flip me over onto my stomach. He collapses onto his side, muttering something that sounds like a curse and laughing breathily at the same time.

"If you don't like to bottom, just say so."

Yeah, and there's figuring the part of who does what to whom, as well.

I stretch out on my belly, rest my cheek on a folded arm, and look at him as he lies next to me. There's still enough light coming in through the window that I can see the tangled hank of hair falling in his eyes, and I brush it back.

"How old are you?" I ask him, because his smile is that of a boy, and his hair is soft and silky between my fingers, and his body leanly muscled, but I can also just make out the silver in his stubble, and there are lines around his eyes and mouth that dig deeper than mere good humor, and a hint of spreading softness to his waist that I recognize only too well from my own body.

"Forty-six. Why?"

I shrug. I don't really know why, but I find it unsettling that this man can be my age and still flirt and throw himself into one-night stands, notwithstanding the fact that from his point of view, I'm doing exactly the same thing. For some reason I needed him to be younger, not because I find him any less attractive now that I know his age, but because now both of us are too old to be this impetuous, because we both know better. I wanted at least one of us to be young enough to honestly believe that this could lead somewhere.

He must see my withdrawal in my eyes and his mouth straightens. His brows knit together, like they did this morning when he was poring over his BlackBerry, and he pushes himself up off the bed. He walks to the closet and I think he's going to start pulling clothes on, but he only fumbles in the pocket of his jacket and then returns to bed, holding something in his hand.

"Here," he says, lightly tossing the object so that it lands near my hand. It's his wallet.

What the hell is he doing? Trying to pay me? I push myself onto my elbows, starting to get up, when he flops down next to me on his side again, then opens the wallet and holds it in front of my face, showing me a photo.

My eyesight isn't what it used to be, and I have to use one hand to push his wrist a little further away. In the gloom, all I can make out is that it's a blond boy.

"Who's this?"

"My son."

It takes a while for me to get my mouth working, not realizing that my fingers are tightening around his wrist until he twists it free, grimacing a little.

"Maybe I should have asked you. If you're experimenting. If you're in a relationship."

"Does it make a difference? You know what I want, and we'll only be here tonight."

If I admit it makes a difference, I also admit to a bunch of other stuff that I don't want to admit to, like the fact that can I imagine myself wanting more than a one-night stand with David, just on the basis of watching him exchange e-mails all morning and of his smile. I should get up. I should dress and leave. Instead I lie back down, pillowing my head on my arm again, trying to decide if I'm angry or disappointed or feeling anything real at all.

"Why did you show me his picture?"

He sighs, looking at the picture himself before flipping the wallet closed and twisting around to place it on the nightstand. He turns back towards me, and rests his palm on the small of my back.

"He's twenty. He hasn't spoken to me since he was fifteen, since his mother explained to him the real reason we were getting divorced."

He's silent for a while, his eyes seeming to follow the movements of his hand on my back as he rubs small circles. Maybe he started out trying to somehow soothe me, but I think he needs the comforting contact of skin against skin himself.

"It's his birthday today."

"Do you still try to talk to him?" I think of the morning spent on the BlackBerry, wondering if he was trying to e-mail his son.

His hand pauses for a second, then resumes, kneading a little at my muscles.

"No. I did at first, but I have to respect that he's an adult, that he knows what he wants."

I think of how absolutely and totally innocent and naïve and fucked up I was at twenty. I wonder why he's telling me all this. I feel guilty that I'm reminding him of stuff that, especially today, he maybe just wants to forget about.

"I'm not experimenting. I'm not in a relationship. I'm on the road three to four days a week, and I've been to almost every country in the world, except that I've seen nothing but hotel rooms and airports, and what's between the two. If I'm lucky, the trips will include a couple of dinners that aren't in the same hotel."

He speaks matter-of-factly, just describing his life. He's not asking me to feel sorry for him, and I don't, because otherwise I'd have to also feel sorry for myself, as that's pretty much been my life until now, and what it will go back to being after my assignment in Stockholm ends next year.

"I saw you looking at me all day, and then you came out of the hotel and stood next to me."

"I didn't see you," I say defensively.

"No, I know. But I recognized you."

"What do you mean? Recognized me from where?"

He shakes his head in frustration. "Maybe recognize is the wrong word. I saw you and I knew that we're alike."

My breath catches at that. He's wrong. He's extraordinary, full of energy and intensity and he burns brightly enough to make me focus on him, and nothing else, when he was just sitting there, and I'm none of those things.

"No," I whisper, trying to correct his impression, but he ignores me. He leans over and kisses my back, near where his hand was stroking, then licks a stripe up my spine and nuzzles into my shoulder, making me shiver.

"Maybe not," he concedes. "But I want you, anyway. I haven't wanted anybody in a long time, but I want you."

I don't resist him as he swings a leg over me, so that he's lying on top of me, pinning me down with his weight and grinding his dick against my ass, but I tense up and clench my butt. If we weren't the same size, or if at any point he'd shown actual aggression, I'd have shoved him off of me, but as it is, I'm willing to wait and see what he'll do.

"I don't bottom," I tell him, closing my eyes and pushing my face into the crook of my arm. It's actually not true. If for some reason I had to pick one for the rest of my life, I'd pick bottoming without a second thought. But it makes me feel vulnerable and out of control, and I don't want that right now, not with David.

"That's okay," he whispers in my ear, and I shiver, but he doesn't stop moving against me, his cock sliding against me, his chest slick with perspiration against my back. "Let me come like this, and then you can fuck me. Okay?"

He kisses my nape, and I moan. His body is warm against mine, almost burning me with its heat. I slowly relax under him and I focus on how his dick feels against my crack, on his damp, quick breath, on the strong fingers that are digging into my shoulders. I focus on my own dick, iron hard and trapped between my belly and the sheets, rubbing against them as his body forces mine into a slight rocking motion.

"Jordie," he mutters, and nobody except Benny has called me that since grade school, and the sound of it makes me arch up so that I can feel him better, so that he can settle against me more firmly.

He comes quietly, the changing rhythm of his movements and the liquid warmth pooling on my back the only evidence. He rests on me afterwards, and every so often I think I feel his lips moving on my shoulder. It should feel uncomfortable, because we're both sticky with sweat, saliva and his come, and it's way too hot in the room, and my erection is almost painful, but I find myself wishing that he'll fall asleep on me, so that I'll never have to move, so that this will last forever.

All too soon he gives a small groan and slides off of me, one leg still draped over my thighs, his hand between my shoulder blades.

"Are you going to move?" he asks, shaking me gently.

"Nuh uh." I miss him against my back, and every so often I flex my butt, rubbing my cock against the sheets.

"Lazy bastard," he laughs. I feel his body come up off the bed, and hear splashing in the bathroom, then I flinch away from cold water dripping on my back. He rubs my back with a washcloth, and I arch into his hand, sighing contentedly.

"Lazy bastard," he murmurs again.

I turn my face a little so that I can speak.

"Flattery will get you nowhere."

He's right. I am lazy. I'm even too lazy to do anything about my raging hard-on.

"Or maybe you're just too old."

"Hey!"

I've been running all my life, I love it, and I still hate those first steps, not because I don't want the pleasure that will follow, but because I know that bringing pleasure closer also brings its end closer. So I'm reluctant to turn to David, as if I can somehow control time, even make it stop, if I simply do nothing. Still, if he expects me to retaliate for being called old, I will. I don't back away from challenges.

Suddenly he jerks upright again, and a second later I hear him in the bathroom, and I'm pretty sure he's cursing in Hungarian.

"What's wrong?" I call out, but he ignores me. I roll onto my side, raising my head to brace it against my hand, looking at him as he walks into the bedroom and squats over his small case. He unzips it and rummages through pockets, still muttering. Finally he kicks the case with his bare foot and flops back onto the bed, lying on his back with his arm covering his eyes, his lips moving. It's the first good look I've gotten at his dick, and it makes me reconsider my decision not to bottom for David. I reach out and run my finger along its length, and it twitches and thickens a little against his thigh.

"What's wrong?" I repeat.

"I don't have stuff with me."

"Stuff?" I repeat stupidly, then I realize. "You're kidding me."

"No. I thought I might have had at least a condom somewhere, but... I really don't do this very often."

"Well, hell," I mutter.

He rolls into his side and grins at me as his fingers wrap around my cock and his thumb swipes across the tip.

"When's the last time somebody jerked you off?"

"Other than me, you mean?" I groan, my hips already pushing forward into his fist, and I drop my head and close my eyes. "Jesus, do that again," I beg, and he twists his hand, pressing his thumb into a spot right under the head before he moves it over the now leaking tip, again. I have to remember to try that myself some time. "A couple of months," I lie.

It's over embarrassingly quickly and much as I like hearing David laugh, I'd rather he wasn't at this exact moment. He wipes his hand on the sheet.

"Okay. Maybe you're not too old. What are you, fifteen?"

"I wish. Then I'd be ready for another round even as we speak."

He scoots over for a kiss, his hand cupping the back of my head.

"Will you stay? I'm flying at seven, so I need to leave here at five fifteen at the latest. Will you stay until then?"

I don't know if he's expecting a cuddle or more non-penetrating sex or just to hear someone breathing next to him. Whatever he wants is fine with me. I nod.

I wake up, just barely, to the smell of his minty fresh breath and aftershave and to the tickle of his tie against my back as he leans over to kiss me.

"I left my card on the desk. Don't be a stranger," he tells me, then his lips press against mine once more.

I snap fully awake when the door closes behind him a second later. He somehow managed to shower, dress and pack without my knowing a thing.

I've never seen the Stockholm subway really crowded, and Swedes are casual dressers for the most part; still, I think they're giving the guy in the wrinkled suit a wider berth than normal. My goofy smile probably isn't helping matters. It's only later, in the shower, as I wash the last of David's smell off of me, that my giddiness is replaced by a sense of loss, and before I have time to shut myself up, I admit that I'm lonely. I turn the water to cold and let it beat down on me, and I deliberately think about my schedule, and this morning's meeting with our auditors, and, ever so slowly, I slide back into my normal life.