(no subject)
Title: What Are You Doing New Year’s Eve?
Pairing: Andy Roddick/Roger Federer (I’m thinking this is going to be the standard for me, folks)
Summary: This isn't his scene.
Rating: NC-17.
Notes: This comes as a result of having absolutely nothing to do on New Year’s Eve. I had opted to stay in, don pyjamas, surround myself with junk food, and hide from the upcoming semester of University for the night when I decided, around 11 pm, “hey! Let’s write something!” You guys are probably getting tired of the Roddick/Federer pairing from me, I’m sure, but I think it’s going to be awhile before I can think of taking on the challenge of another couple. I’m not through with this one yet. This one is probably not as detailed as my previous efforts, though, but I think that 3 fics in the span of about a week can officially be considered a “roll” for me. I had every intention of posting this last night but, as usual, life got in the way. I’m sure this one is full of mistakes because I’m posting it as I run out the door on my way to dinner.
Disclaimer: Title comes from the song that, as far as I know, was first performed by a band called The Orioles in 1948 (someone correct me if I’m wrong). Inspiration, however, comes from the more recent Rufus Wainwright version of the same song. As always, no harm or infringment is intended by this. I’m just having some fun on an otherwise boring New Years.
“Ten!”
When your eyes meet across the room, you blink once, twice, to make sure you’re not seeing things. This isn’t his scene, at least that’s what he’d told you when you’d casually invited him; the girls are scantily clad and have been practicing in anticipation of midnight, planting sloppy, lipstick-coated kisses on the cheeks of anyone they can get their hands on. The alcohol has been flowing freely and copiously all night, partially responsible for the actions of the scantily clad girls you’re sure, and though the party’s going to continue on long after the ball drops, people are already stumbling around and clinging desperately to stationary objects. It’s loud - people shouting, the music pulsing and the air is heavy and thick with cigarette smoke that stings your eyes and makes it hard to breathe. No, this isn’t his scene at all, but you’re pretty sure that your eyes aren’t playing tricks on you. You’re also pretty sure that Mirka isn’t with him.
“Nine!”
You’re forced to tear your gaze away from Andy’s in order to brush off the amorous advances of yet another girl who’s baring far too much of her cleavage for you to be entirely comfortable with. You had been enjoying his look of shocked recognition, too. She pouts at you, lips a violent red, before making an indignant noise and flouncing off to find her next victim. When you look back at him, his eyes are following the girl. He’s glaring daggers at her back, fists clenched, posture stiff and you’re sure that, had she been a man, you’d have a fight on your hands. Possessiveness is coming off of him in waves and it frightens and thrills you at the same time.
“Eight!”
The urge to stake your claim on him here, in this crowded, loud, smoky room, is overwhelming. The girl he has just rebuked is already on the far side of the place, pressed between the wall and a man who you think is vaguely familiar, arching prettily and coyly batting obviously fake eyelashes. Roger’s disinterest is apparently not enough to overpower his allure, though, and as he takes a step towards you, another girl quickly intercepts him. This one is even more forward than the last and doesn’t seem to be taking no for an answer. You decide that this is it, your chance to be his knight in shining tennis shoes because he’s clearly out of his depth in this crowd. Before you can make a move to push through the writhing mass of people, however, he’s proving that he’s really not as naïve as you’d maybe like to think by grasping the girl gently, but firmly, around the arms and shaking his head in a way that leaves no room for argument. Like the last one, she too walks away in a huff to find another conquest and then his triumphant eyes are on you.
“Seven!”
You know that, even though he’d asked, and hoped that you’d say yes, Andy never really expected you to show up at this party. His wide eyes also tell you that he never expected something like that to happen, either, but then the little quirk of the corner of his mouth tells you that he’s glad it did and that you’re here. A very drunk man, so drunk that you can smell the liquor on his hot breath when he staggers up and leans close to speak to you, claps you on the shoulder from behind.
“Hey! Aren’t you Fed…Fedre…Feder…that guy? The tennis one. You know!”
“No.” Then you’re prying his hand off of you and beginning to navigate your way through the center of the dance floor, the quickest route, to get to Andy.
“Six!”
The man’s hand on his shoulder makes your blood boil, but you watch as Roger dispatches the drunk quickly and begins to forcibly make his way through the bodies on the dance floor. Your brain kicks in and you realize that meeting him halfway would probably make the wait shorter and you begin to use your broad shoulders to nudge through the crowd. Wandering hands grab at your biceps, shoulders, ass, but you ignore them and focus solely on the way the lights shine on his dark curls, the way his eyes reflect that he’s a man on a mission and won’t be stopped.
You meet somewhere in the middle and the air around you is electric. You’re so close you can feel his breath on your face, but when you speak you have to yell to be heard over the thump, thump of the bass, the girl with the high pitched giggle on your right, the man singing along loudly, and off-key, on your left.
“Hey.” It seems a good enough place to start.
“Hey.” Apparently he thinks so too.
“Didn’t think you were going to make it,” which translates, roughly, to ‘I don’t know what the hell you’re doing here, but I’m glad you came.’
“To tell you the truth,” he considers his next words carefully, “I didn’t think I was going to either.”
“Where’s Mirka?” and someday, you and your big mouth are going to learn when it’s a good idea to keep quiet. He frowns briefly and looks guilty for a moment.
“Not here.” That signals the end of that line of questioning.
“Five!”
You wish he hadn’t mentioned her name. You had been doing such a good job of making yourself forget. You’d had to lie to her to get here. You’ve never lied to her, not even at the beginning of this…whatever it is that you and Andy have together can be classified as.
“I won’t be gone for long. I’ll be there long enough to make an appearance and then I’ll leave,” you’d told her. “Trust me, darling. I just want you to have a good New Year’s Eve; you deserve it for putting up with me all year round.” She’d blushed, and chuckled, and told you not to be gone too long before kissing you gently and pushing you out the door.
As soon as it had closed behind you, you had considered just forgetting the whole thing (you knew he wasn’t expecting you to show up anyway) and going back to Mirka and your friends, where you really belonged. You knew, though, that you wouldn’t be able to stand the disappointment you’d see in his eyes the next time your paths crossed and had made it to the car before doubt began to cloud your mind again.
It was, by no means, a long trip from your hotel to the party but you had almost told the driver to turn around four times, getting as far as, “driver, I think that you should…” before deciding that you weren’t a coward and finishing off with a lame, “take a left here to avoid traffic,” the last time.
Looking at him now, though, you know you made the right decision.
“Four!”
You’re embarrassed that you were the one to upset him and ruin the moment. For a long minute it seems as though he’s considering walking away from you and you almost start to panic, deciding that you’re not too proud to beg, when the storm clouds that were gathering around him lift and he smiles. He glances at the people closest to you and decides that they’re thoroughly engrossed in their partners and the beat of the music before reaching down to tangle his fingers with yours. It’s an innocent enough gesture, but the fact that he’s willing to risk it in public makes you lightheaded with happiness and affection for him. He leans even closer, and for a split second you think that maybe, just maybe, he’s going to kiss you, right here on the floor.
“I wish we could dance, liebe. I think we would be good together.” You know you would be good together. You can almost feel him, solidwarm flesh, bruising fingers against your hips (you’d revel in the marks for as long as they’d last), hot mouth on your neck, not so much dancing as grinding together. Ghost sensations have you hard by the time a boisterous couple slams into him from behind, sending him sprawling on top of you. Somewhere between him standing on his feet and you holding the both of you up, confetti has started to fall from somewhere high above you. It’s hot, and the confetti collects on sticky flesh.
“Hi,” you say to him. You’re so close now that he’s looking at you a little cross-eyed when you reach up to brush confetti from his forehead. He doesn’t seem to intend to move anytime soon, content to let you bear the brunt of your combined weight. He smiles at you, a lopsided little grin that lets you know he feels the effect his proximity is having on you. You smile back when you feel his answering hardness against your thigh. For this brief moment in time, you can pretend you’re just like every other couple in the room.
“Three!”
You’re still grinning like idiots at each other when you notice that you’ve begun to attract some attention. There’s a rather large guy off to the side that’s staring at the both of you hungrily and two women directly in your line of vision who are giggling girlishly at what they’re seeing. You open your mouth to warn Andy, but his compulsive side has just decided to exert its dominance and he begins to rock his hips against yours in time to the music. Suddenly, you’re forgetting that you’re thisclose from being recognized, and outed, and ruined, and you’re helpless to do anything except tilt your head back, close your eyes, and pray to God that this can last a little longer. Just a little longer.
“Two!”
The small amount of friction you’re getting through the thick cloth of your jeans isn’t nearly enough and before either of you can truly grasp what’s going on, you’re catching his hand and dragging him toward the sign marked, “bathroom.”
The annoyed and angry calls of “hey!” and “watch where you’re going, idiot!” tell you that, had you cared, you’d be owing a lot of people drinks as you shoved carelessly through the crowd. Instead of stopping, however, you just lower your head and press onward, the sweat-damp skin of the fingers entwined with yours your motivation in getting him somewhere private so more of that flesh can be revealed. He tightens his grip on you so as not to get left behind when you quicken your pace and you smile when he hastily mumbles “sorry” and “pardon me” to the people you’re pissing off.
The silence in the mens room in comparison to out on the floor is almost unsettling and the sound of your heavy breathing echoes off of the tiled walls. The first three stalls already have the heady noises that accompany sex emitting from them and you’re fortunate that the last stall is empty this close to midnight. You don’t hesitate to pull him over to it; shoes unnaturally loud against the floor, push him inside and lock the door behind you before shoving him against it.
You swallow up his murmur of surprise with lips and teeth and use your hands to angle his head back so that you’re able to lick at the far reaches of his mouth. He tastes faintly of scotch and you wonder if he’d needed a bit of liquid courage to go through with this. His mouth is hot and you’re loathe to pull back from him but your lungs are screaming and you’re sure that, though the papers would love it, neither Dean or Mirka would appreciate you being found passed out on the floor of a mens bathroom due to oxygen deprivation.
You begin to work at his belt while he’s still gulping in greedy mouthfuls of air. When you begin the descent down to your knees, though, he stops breathing all together and his eyes go very dark very quickly as they follow your movement. By the time your knees hit tile, you have his belt unbuckled and pants open and the way he whimpers low in his throat and flexes his fingers, one cupped against your jaw and one tangled in your hair, tells you what he desperately wants you to do.
His head hits the metal of the door with a dull thud when your tongue touches him through the thin material of his briefs. Somewhere, in stall one, you think, a girl screams as she comes.
“One!”
You suppose that when Mirka told you to “not be gone long,” she’d meant that she wanted you back in time to give her the customary kiss at the stroke of midnight. It doesn’t look like you’re going to make it. The place erupts in a raucous burst of noise that echoes dimly off of the spotless tiling and modern fixtures of the bathroom and it’s with a detached sort of comprehension that the arrival of the New Year hits you.
He’d hadn’t been on his knees long before you were begging him wordlessly to rise to his feet and take you. He’d briefly struggled to get your pants off before realizing that getting rid of your shoes first would aid him in his quest and, once you were naked from the waist down, dropped his own trousers and underwear to pool around his ankles. Then he was hoisting you up against the metal, slicking himself with a little spit and encouraging you to wrap your legs tightly around his waist. There wasn’t much room for preparation and it was by Andy’s weight and sheer will alone that you had continued to be held up against the wall as he began to push into you. The lack of preparation had caused the burn to be more than you were used to but his trembling hand patting over your hair, your face, had helped you get passed the initial pain.
Now, sweat is trickling down your back in tiny rivulets that make you slip against the wall and cause the need for Andy to slow his thrusts every few moments to heave you back up into place. The couples in the other stalls have already signalled their releases and it seems as though the air is heavy with silence in anticipation of yours. You’re close. It should only take a few more thrusts before you’re coming all over both of you. He had lifted your shirts so the slick skin of your chests could be in contact at all times and you feel your cock being caressed by both of your bellies. Suddenly, you’re slipping down the wall again and it coincides with a particularly forceful thrust from Andy. The opposite motions have him pressing hard against that spot in you that he loves to find and stimulate until he has you begging and the world around explodes in white as you come harder than you have since the last time you were together. In your release, you miss his and when you finally come around he’s licking the sweat from your collarbone and whispering moist words against your skin.
Later, he’s slid out of you and cleaned you both up with the scratchy toilet paper found in every public washroom. You’re already dressed and you’re watching him as he smooths down his hair and rebuckles his belt, delaying your inevitable parting.
“I’ll see you in Australia?” and of course he’ll see you; there’s a better than good chance he’ll be playing you, but you know what kind of “see” he means. You smile and nod at him and he looks infintely relieved. He places his hand on the door, hesitates, and turns around again to back you into a wall still covered with beads of your sweat. The kiss he gives you is soft, sweet, and full of promises but is lacking none of the heat from before.
“Happy New Year’s, love.” Then he’s gone.
“Happy New Year’s,” you whisper to the air before leaving the bathroom and hailing a cab, still smelling of him and wondering how you’re going to explain your delayed absence and need for a shower to Mirka.
Pairing: Andy Roddick/Roger Federer (I’m thinking this is going to be the standard for me, folks)
Summary: This isn't his scene.
Rating: NC-17.
Notes: This comes as a result of having absolutely nothing to do on New Year’s Eve. I had opted to stay in, don pyjamas, surround myself with junk food, and hide from the upcoming semester of University for the night when I decided, around 11 pm, “hey! Let’s write something!” You guys are probably getting tired of the Roddick/Federer pairing from me, I’m sure, but I think it’s going to be awhile before I can think of taking on the challenge of another couple. I’m not through with this one yet. This one is probably not as detailed as my previous efforts, though, but I think that 3 fics in the span of about a week can officially be considered a “roll” for me. I had every intention of posting this last night but, as usual, life got in the way. I’m sure this one is full of mistakes because I’m posting it as I run out the door on my way to dinner.
Disclaimer: Title comes from the song that, as far as I know, was first performed by a band called The Orioles in 1948 (someone correct me if I’m wrong). Inspiration, however, comes from the more recent Rufus Wainwright version of the same song. As always, no harm or infringment is intended by this. I’m just having some fun on an otherwise boring New Years.
“Ten!”
When your eyes meet across the room, you blink once, twice, to make sure you’re not seeing things. This isn’t his scene, at least that’s what he’d told you when you’d casually invited him; the girls are scantily clad and have been practicing in anticipation of midnight, planting sloppy, lipstick-coated kisses on the cheeks of anyone they can get their hands on. The alcohol has been flowing freely and copiously all night, partially responsible for the actions of the scantily clad girls you’re sure, and though the party’s going to continue on long after the ball drops, people are already stumbling around and clinging desperately to stationary objects. It’s loud - people shouting, the music pulsing and the air is heavy and thick with cigarette smoke that stings your eyes and makes it hard to breathe. No, this isn’t his scene at all, but you’re pretty sure that your eyes aren’t playing tricks on you. You’re also pretty sure that Mirka isn’t with him.
“Nine!”
You’re forced to tear your gaze away from Andy’s in order to brush off the amorous advances of yet another girl who’s baring far too much of her cleavage for you to be entirely comfortable with. You had been enjoying his look of shocked recognition, too. She pouts at you, lips a violent red, before making an indignant noise and flouncing off to find her next victim. When you look back at him, his eyes are following the girl. He’s glaring daggers at her back, fists clenched, posture stiff and you’re sure that, had she been a man, you’d have a fight on your hands. Possessiveness is coming off of him in waves and it frightens and thrills you at the same time.
“Eight!”
The urge to stake your claim on him here, in this crowded, loud, smoky room, is overwhelming. The girl he has just rebuked is already on the far side of the place, pressed between the wall and a man who you think is vaguely familiar, arching prettily and coyly batting obviously fake eyelashes. Roger’s disinterest is apparently not enough to overpower his allure, though, and as he takes a step towards you, another girl quickly intercepts him. This one is even more forward than the last and doesn’t seem to be taking no for an answer. You decide that this is it, your chance to be his knight in shining tennis shoes because he’s clearly out of his depth in this crowd. Before you can make a move to push through the writhing mass of people, however, he’s proving that he’s really not as naïve as you’d maybe like to think by grasping the girl gently, but firmly, around the arms and shaking his head in a way that leaves no room for argument. Like the last one, she too walks away in a huff to find another conquest and then his triumphant eyes are on you.
“Seven!”
You know that, even though he’d asked, and hoped that you’d say yes, Andy never really expected you to show up at this party. His wide eyes also tell you that he never expected something like that to happen, either, but then the little quirk of the corner of his mouth tells you that he’s glad it did and that you’re here. A very drunk man, so drunk that you can smell the liquor on his hot breath when he staggers up and leans close to speak to you, claps you on the shoulder from behind.
“Hey! Aren’t you Fed…Fedre…Feder…that guy? The tennis one. You know!”
“No.” Then you’re prying his hand off of you and beginning to navigate your way through the center of the dance floor, the quickest route, to get to Andy.
“Six!”
The man’s hand on his shoulder makes your blood boil, but you watch as Roger dispatches the drunk quickly and begins to forcibly make his way through the bodies on the dance floor. Your brain kicks in and you realize that meeting him halfway would probably make the wait shorter and you begin to use your broad shoulders to nudge through the crowd. Wandering hands grab at your biceps, shoulders, ass, but you ignore them and focus solely on the way the lights shine on his dark curls, the way his eyes reflect that he’s a man on a mission and won’t be stopped.
You meet somewhere in the middle and the air around you is electric. You’re so close you can feel his breath on your face, but when you speak you have to yell to be heard over the thump, thump of the bass, the girl with the high pitched giggle on your right, the man singing along loudly, and off-key, on your left.
“Hey.” It seems a good enough place to start.
“Hey.” Apparently he thinks so too.
“Didn’t think you were going to make it,” which translates, roughly, to ‘I don’t know what the hell you’re doing here, but I’m glad you came.’
“To tell you the truth,” he considers his next words carefully, “I didn’t think I was going to either.”
“Where’s Mirka?” and someday, you and your big mouth are going to learn when it’s a good idea to keep quiet. He frowns briefly and looks guilty for a moment.
“Not here.” That signals the end of that line of questioning.
“Five!”
You wish he hadn’t mentioned her name. You had been doing such a good job of making yourself forget. You’d had to lie to her to get here. You’ve never lied to her, not even at the beginning of this…whatever it is that you and Andy have together can be classified as.
“I won’t be gone for long. I’ll be there long enough to make an appearance and then I’ll leave,” you’d told her. “Trust me, darling. I just want you to have a good New Year’s Eve; you deserve it for putting up with me all year round.” She’d blushed, and chuckled, and told you not to be gone too long before kissing you gently and pushing you out the door.
As soon as it had closed behind you, you had considered just forgetting the whole thing (you knew he wasn’t expecting you to show up anyway) and going back to Mirka and your friends, where you really belonged. You knew, though, that you wouldn’t be able to stand the disappointment you’d see in his eyes the next time your paths crossed and had made it to the car before doubt began to cloud your mind again.
It was, by no means, a long trip from your hotel to the party but you had almost told the driver to turn around four times, getting as far as, “driver, I think that you should…” before deciding that you weren’t a coward and finishing off with a lame, “take a left here to avoid traffic,” the last time.
Looking at him now, though, you know you made the right decision.
“Four!”
You’re embarrassed that you were the one to upset him and ruin the moment. For a long minute it seems as though he’s considering walking away from you and you almost start to panic, deciding that you’re not too proud to beg, when the storm clouds that were gathering around him lift and he smiles. He glances at the people closest to you and decides that they’re thoroughly engrossed in their partners and the beat of the music before reaching down to tangle his fingers with yours. It’s an innocent enough gesture, but the fact that he’s willing to risk it in public makes you lightheaded with happiness and affection for him. He leans even closer, and for a split second you think that maybe, just maybe, he’s going to kiss you, right here on the floor.
“I wish we could dance, liebe. I think we would be good together.” You know you would be good together. You can almost feel him, solidwarm flesh, bruising fingers against your hips (you’d revel in the marks for as long as they’d last), hot mouth on your neck, not so much dancing as grinding together. Ghost sensations have you hard by the time a boisterous couple slams into him from behind, sending him sprawling on top of you. Somewhere between him standing on his feet and you holding the both of you up, confetti has started to fall from somewhere high above you. It’s hot, and the confetti collects on sticky flesh.
“Hi,” you say to him. You’re so close now that he’s looking at you a little cross-eyed when you reach up to brush confetti from his forehead. He doesn’t seem to intend to move anytime soon, content to let you bear the brunt of your combined weight. He smiles at you, a lopsided little grin that lets you know he feels the effect his proximity is having on you. You smile back when you feel his answering hardness against your thigh. For this brief moment in time, you can pretend you’re just like every other couple in the room.
“Three!”
You’re still grinning like idiots at each other when you notice that you’ve begun to attract some attention. There’s a rather large guy off to the side that’s staring at the both of you hungrily and two women directly in your line of vision who are giggling girlishly at what they’re seeing. You open your mouth to warn Andy, but his compulsive side has just decided to exert its dominance and he begins to rock his hips against yours in time to the music. Suddenly, you’re forgetting that you’re thisclose from being recognized, and outed, and ruined, and you’re helpless to do anything except tilt your head back, close your eyes, and pray to God that this can last a little longer. Just a little longer.
“Two!”
The small amount of friction you’re getting through the thick cloth of your jeans isn’t nearly enough and before either of you can truly grasp what’s going on, you’re catching his hand and dragging him toward the sign marked, “bathroom.”
The annoyed and angry calls of “hey!” and “watch where you’re going, idiot!” tell you that, had you cared, you’d be owing a lot of people drinks as you shoved carelessly through the crowd. Instead of stopping, however, you just lower your head and press onward, the sweat-damp skin of the fingers entwined with yours your motivation in getting him somewhere private so more of that flesh can be revealed. He tightens his grip on you so as not to get left behind when you quicken your pace and you smile when he hastily mumbles “sorry” and “pardon me” to the people you’re pissing off.
The silence in the mens room in comparison to out on the floor is almost unsettling and the sound of your heavy breathing echoes off of the tiled walls. The first three stalls already have the heady noises that accompany sex emitting from them and you’re fortunate that the last stall is empty this close to midnight. You don’t hesitate to pull him over to it; shoes unnaturally loud against the floor, push him inside and lock the door behind you before shoving him against it.
You swallow up his murmur of surprise with lips and teeth and use your hands to angle his head back so that you’re able to lick at the far reaches of his mouth. He tastes faintly of scotch and you wonder if he’d needed a bit of liquid courage to go through with this. His mouth is hot and you’re loathe to pull back from him but your lungs are screaming and you’re sure that, though the papers would love it, neither Dean or Mirka would appreciate you being found passed out on the floor of a mens bathroom due to oxygen deprivation.
You begin to work at his belt while he’s still gulping in greedy mouthfuls of air. When you begin the descent down to your knees, though, he stops breathing all together and his eyes go very dark very quickly as they follow your movement. By the time your knees hit tile, you have his belt unbuckled and pants open and the way he whimpers low in his throat and flexes his fingers, one cupped against your jaw and one tangled in your hair, tells you what he desperately wants you to do.
His head hits the metal of the door with a dull thud when your tongue touches him through the thin material of his briefs. Somewhere, in stall one, you think, a girl screams as she comes.
“One!”
You suppose that when Mirka told you to “not be gone long,” she’d meant that she wanted you back in time to give her the customary kiss at the stroke of midnight. It doesn’t look like you’re going to make it. The place erupts in a raucous burst of noise that echoes dimly off of the spotless tiling and modern fixtures of the bathroom and it’s with a detached sort of comprehension that the arrival of the New Year hits you.
He’d hadn’t been on his knees long before you were begging him wordlessly to rise to his feet and take you. He’d briefly struggled to get your pants off before realizing that getting rid of your shoes first would aid him in his quest and, once you were naked from the waist down, dropped his own trousers and underwear to pool around his ankles. Then he was hoisting you up against the metal, slicking himself with a little spit and encouraging you to wrap your legs tightly around his waist. There wasn’t much room for preparation and it was by Andy’s weight and sheer will alone that you had continued to be held up against the wall as he began to push into you. The lack of preparation had caused the burn to be more than you were used to but his trembling hand patting over your hair, your face, had helped you get passed the initial pain.
Now, sweat is trickling down your back in tiny rivulets that make you slip against the wall and cause the need for Andy to slow his thrusts every few moments to heave you back up into place. The couples in the other stalls have already signalled their releases and it seems as though the air is heavy with silence in anticipation of yours. You’re close. It should only take a few more thrusts before you’re coming all over both of you. He had lifted your shirts so the slick skin of your chests could be in contact at all times and you feel your cock being caressed by both of your bellies. Suddenly, you’re slipping down the wall again and it coincides with a particularly forceful thrust from Andy. The opposite motions have him pressing hard against that spot in you that he loves to find and stimulate until he has you begging and the world around explodes in white as you come harder than you have since the last time you were together. In your release, you miss his and when you finally come around he’s licking the sweat from your collarbone and whispering moist words against your skin.
Later, he’s slid out of you and cleaned you both up with the scratchy toilet paper found in every public washroom. You’re already dressed and you’re watching him as he smooths down his hair and rebuckles his belt, delaying your inevitable parting.
“I’ll see you in Australia?” and of course he’ll see you; there’s a better than good chance he’ll be playing you, but you know what kind of “see” he means. You smile and nod at him and he looks infintely relieved. He places his hand on the door, hesitates, and turns around again to back you into a wall still covered with beads of your sweat. The kiss he gives you is soft, sweet, and full of promises but is lacking none of the heat from before.
“Happy New Year’s, love.” Then he’s gone.
“Happy New Year’s,” you whisper to the air before leaving the bathroom and hailing a cab, still smelling of him and wondering how you’re going to explain your delayed absence and need for a shower to Mirka.