Looking Glass
Title: Looking Glass
Pairing: Kris/Adam
Word count: 2700
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Maybe Kris is the complicated one. Maybe they switch.
Warnings: Mild angst
Disclaimer: Pure imagination. No disrespect intended.
Author's note: Precedes You Can Have Me, but both stories stand alone.
Happy Birthday, anya7lee! Beautiful Rose, magical realist, may your path to gloriousness be paved with Lindt squares. ♥ ♥ ♥
Looking Glass
“It’s not that I don’t want to have sex,” Adam says on the eve of Las Vegas, during their regularly scheduled bedtime call. “Because I really, really do.”
Kris’s gonna-get-laid smile slips and hangs on. “But?”
“But sneaking around hotels, it’s glamorous and fun, it’s torrid, but it’s . . . one-dimensional. It’s not . . . ” Real life, he’s thinking loud enough for Kris to hear. Kris lets the smile fall away. He says carefully, “Our relationship doesn’t just happen in hotel rooms. I talk to you more than anyone. It’s happening for me all the time.”
“For me, too,” Adam is quick to reassure him. “I’m not saying we don’t have the foundation. How can we not, when you’re my best friend? But that’s what makes it hard to be satisfied with less than everything.”
“Can’t you-- ” Kris is striving for the right tone. Understanding, non-defensive. “Can you try to think of this as a warmup for us? Sort of a honeymoon? We’ll have plenty of time later on to do the dishes and go grocery shopping and all that stuff.”
“I do think of it that way, usually. But today was such a crap day--all those conferences, all those people telling me, basically, to behave. And the worst part was knowing I didn’t have you to come home to at the end of it. Fuck it, I’ll be over it by tomorrow, don’t worry.”
Adam always bounces right back from the crap days, Kris reminds himself. They both do. As long as they keep their eyes on the future, they’ll be fine. “Adam, I just want to be with you. We can watch CNN all night, for all I care. Just don’t answer the door naked, and your virtue will be safe with me, I swear.”
Adam isn’t naked, it turns out, except for his face. Uncovered freckles and unconcealed joy. Despite their constant calls and texts, the happening-all-the-time thing, Kris’s first euphoric reaction is He’s real. The person he likes best in the world, the person who could never be just his friend. Kris greets him with a pitiful, “So I shouldn’t jump you?” Adam opens his arms, and he jumps.
“This is nice,” he says as Adam lowers him to the orgy-size bed. Over Adam’s shoulder, he glimpses a sumptuous corner of Sin City sky, high-drama black and white scattered with stark modern . . . objects. “They really hooked you up.”
“There’s a remote for the curtains.” Adam noses into his neck, sniffing, inspecting his property. “Multiple shower jets.” Kris gets out, “I like the disembodied hand thing,” and then Adam’s kissing him, ambitious, open-mouthed, all-tongue kisses. Gentleman that he is, Kris fends him off, some. “Wait, what about not having sex?”
“We can do that afterwards. If there’s time.”
“While we’re sleeping,” Kris suggests, punchy. He sprawls out snow-angel style, the better to appreciate the obligingly solid mattress. The evening went by so much faster once he started measuring it in cocktails. Not too many, and besides, Adam obviously doesn’t mind. “Mmm, sweet tea vodka . . . ” Kris licks back with equal craving and gropes down to the waist of Adam’s pants. Hopeless, you couldn’t shove a piece of paper in there, and why the hell is Adam wearing a belt, anyway? Failing the test of one-handed coordination, he settles for groping lower. “Mmm, sweet Southern boy,” Adam is murmuring, with the proprietary delight that just sort of opens him. “Are you going to let me put my cock in you, sweet Southern boy?”
“Might as well.” Kris goes back for another aggravated yank at the belt.
But when Adam finally gets around to retrieving the lube, stashed predictably under the pillow, he says, “I think we’ll save that for the encore, actually.”
“So what’s the main-- Oh, you’re--?” Kris suspects Adam of doing this on purpose, switching up on him when he’s least prepared, though Adam always pleads innocent. “Sometimes you just need a cock in your ass, you know?” he’ll say, breezy. And Kris knows, does he ever know, but he didn’t expect Adam to feel that highly specific need. Even now, he's not convinced it’s really that simple. With Adam, you have to wonder.
Casually, he asks, “Any particular reason?” Instinct is signaling him to proceed with caution. Suddenly he regrets his comfortably dulled edge.
“Welll, because,” Adam pouts at him outrageously, definitely not going anywhere serious with this, “I’ve got the sweetest hangover, I don’t wanna get over . . . ” He rubs absently at a small reddened patch on his chest, a sloppy tattoo of Kris’s greed. You’d never guess how easily marked he is, strong resilient Adam, how fragile he can be. Again Kris feels himself helplessly giving way. Adam owns so many keys to him, a huge jangly bunch swinging invisibly from his belt with the fluffy tail and bedazzled handcuffs.
“If there’s a cure for this, I don’t want it, don’t want it . . . ” Kris sings along as Adam straddles him and does a massage-parlor special with the condom, lots of unnecessary squeezing and stroking. Adam playing mistress is Adam in a volatile mood, but Kris can’t resist joining in. Can’t resist getting serviced, nothing to do but wallow in the obscenely silky sheets and gloat over Adam the way a pervy old rich guy gloats over his swimsuit-model girlfriend. A pervy old rich guy who’s ditched his white lie of a wedding ring. Slipping it off in the elevator, Kris spared a thought for the all-seeing security cameras capturing his cheap sleight of hand. One more secret for Vegas to keep. Mostly he thanked God he’d remembered, for Adam’s sake. How wrong is he for finding it guiltily hot, the illicitness, the red neon marquee flashing XXX over the bed?
“Think about it all the time, never let it outta my mind,” Adam solos happily. More showy fingerwork with the lube. Kris props himself up to watch. “Here, I can help with that,” he says, but Adam bats his hand away. “Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet . . . ugh, cold-- ” Adam’s frown of distaste uncrinkles at the sight of Kris slowly sliding horizontal. “Aww, look at you. Poor baby, no head for alcohol.”
“For alcohol, yes. For you, no.” Deprivation’s killed whatever tolerance Kris might’ve had, set him buzzing. Fingers tingling, cock nudging up determined between Adam’s thighs and twitching eagerly in his guiding hand. Adam teases, “Not even this one? I’d say this the perfect head, thick and ah-- ” He gives it a hard push inside. His face shows Kris everything, the shock of penetration, the inevitability, like falling--no, it’s Kris who’s falling, Adam’s sinking, smile spreading, OK, this is going to happen, oh, this is good. Taking it to the hilt and scoring all the style points, too, no bouncing in the saddle for Kris’s talented, gorgeous-- Adam’s saying earnestly, “Do you love it? I want you to love it.” He rises smoothly on Kris’s cock and lowers himself with a long surrendering exhale, a little labored. Labor of love.
“Oh, yeah. Yeah, ride it,” Kris pants, losing himself in the role, in the tightness that the really pervy part of his brain wants to call virginal. There’s no mistaking that practiced wave action, but he can pretend that Adam hasn’t done this with anyone else, never needed it from anyone else. “Oh, this is, this is really working,” Adam breathes, and Kris doesn’t have to imagine the note of pleased surprise. Kris knows all about that, too. Astride is amazing, if you don’t mind coming fast. “You have the best sex face,” Kris tells him, more drunk than it’s possible get on five--or was it six--Firefly cocktails. “Like you’re thinking these deep, noble thoughts.”
“Deep, anyway . . . ”
“And you laugh at your own jokes.” Kris wants to bite him all over. Wants to write him a song, words burnished to gold, a crown for him to wear. “You’re, the way it feels-- ”
“I know how it feels, remember?” Adam laughs again. Bottoming for Kris like he’s feeding him birthday cake. His cock is bouncing, distractingly. Kris closes a hand around it in self-defense. “But you,” he insists. Adam can’t possibly understand how uniquely blissful it is, this privilege that no platinum Amex can aspire to. Kris’s mind conjures an image from the tripping edge of consciousness: two Adams, two pairs of long sleek legs entangled--one pair parting to wrap around other-Adam’s waist--black-glossed fingertips caressing miles of fair skin. Maybe six drinks was too many, after all. “Why am I fantasizing about you while I’m--while you’re right here?”
“Tell me, baby. I’ll be your fantasy.” Adam purrs it at him, wiles set to stun, and Kris sobers slightly, recognizing the game. But the next move seems safe enough. “I’ll show you.”
They have their pick of mirrors, another reason to love Las Vegas. Adam tilts his head inquiringly. “Like this?”
“Closer,” Kris says. “No, don’t look at me, look at yourself. The way you’re looking at me.”
Adam puffs an admonishing breath at his inkspill bangs. He stares into his own eyes, smoky even without thick-drawn liner, summoning intrigue. His lids slip to half-mast as he angles in, bringing two pairs of slightly parted lips together. Kris’s own murmured yeah is the sleaziest thing he’s ever heard. “Maybe I’m crazy,” he says, pretty sure he doesn’t care.
Adam licks out at the glass, two identical pink tongues, the tips not quite touching. “We’re both crazy. Why else would we be here?” Which could be another way of saying that Kris is his best friend--or a spark of danger. Kris hurries to smother it just in case. “Are you crazy enough to do it if you really could?”
“I’m not my type.” Perversely, Adam flashes himself a seductive smile, friendly with an aggressive finish of Can you handle this? Kris has to laugh at the cheerful mindfuckery of it. “Come on,” he says, “this is Adam freaking Lambert we’re talking about. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t be curious.”
“I don’t think I’m high enough to have this conversation.”
“That’s not no,” Kris persists, and gets a raised eyebrow in return, an invitation to draw his own conclusion. He does. “How would you want it?”
Humoring him, Adam considers his double in the glass. Two speculative glances meeting. “Hands and knees?”
“But then you wouldn’t get to see your face. Not that your ass isn’t all kinds of cute.”
“Yours for the taking. Why are you hanging back like that?”
Good question. Kris isn’t too drunk to give that ass the attention it deserves. So he is crazy. Or else he’s hanging all the way back in last August, in--Cleveland? Where Adam said, “You’re a little kinky,” in the same tone he used for rhapsodizing about custom leather, just because Kris had pulled away to ask impulsively, “Got any lipstick in your bag of tricks?” Kris only shrugged. He didn’t know how to explain that it wasn’t--it wasn’t about going farther so much as going deeper. Whatever that even meant.
“All I brought is this really dark, Rocky Horror stuff,” Adam said apologetically. “Tomorrow I’ll run out and buy-- ”
“Wear the dark one.”
Adam got up, graceful, subtly transformed already. “Do you want to watch me put it on?” Making it sound like something you’d pay for behind a velvet curtain. But what Kris wanted was the illusion, intact.
They didn’t rate corner suites in those days, but the flick of a switch banished the beige walls into shadow. The bed, the stage, was the only thing that mattered anyway. Kris lay back mesmerized by strange beauty, by black garnet lips and eyes all brightness in contrast, quicksilver. By Adam’s cock pushing in, so big, stealing his breath and then centering him. From the first, sex was something they did together, rather than something Adam did to him. A simple merging. But here, together was energy shifting unpredictably back and forth. It was Adam moving above him, unattainable at his command, glowing in the spotlight of his riveted gaze.
Kris--Kris the spectator--reached down to jerk himself off to the performance, and abruptly Adam caught his wrist, No, and lay heavy on top of him, cradling his face in strong hands. A taste of perfume and candy, inescapable, Have it. Soft hair low on Adam’s belly whispering friction to his trapped cock, rubbing him to trembling sensitivity as Adam fucked him, Adam’s show now, Kris only receiving. When Adam finally paused, it wasn’t to let him breathe. “I don’t even have to touch you, do I,” he said lovingly, and Kris was coming in huge dizzy gasps, giving it up for the illusion and the reality. “You’re all smeared from me,” Adam whispered, in the longing seconds before he reclaimed his place in that deep, deep kiss.
Maybe Kris is the complicated one. Maybe they switch. “Maybe I just have a thing for your mouth,” he tells Adam’s reflection. The mouth of his fantasies purses contemplatively. Chances are good Adam’s revising the schedule to include blow Kris in front of mirror. But he stays focused. “Aren’t you ready to make this a threesome? We’ll let you do all kinds of unspeakable things to us.”
“You start.”
It’s surreal to watch Adam explore his own body like a new lover’s. Surreal and . . . Kris isn’t jealous, that would be absurd. Crazy for sure, to feel a restless prickling heat because Adam’s smoothing his hands over his own chest as though it belongs to someone else, someone he wants to possess. Pinching his own nipples experimentally, taking on the intent air that’s beyond concentration. Even when Adam’s slamming into him, Kris realizes with a jolt, he looks like he’s the one who’s getting fucked.
“Adam.” Kris’s voice is weird too, gravelly, bluesy.
Adam takes his cock in a loose grip, testing the heft of it before stroking his thumb along the shaft. He’s fully hard, into it. “Kris . . . ” His head drops back as Kris crowds into him. Kris’s hips thrust instinctively, but no, they haven’t tumbled into Wonderland, and he’s still five six and a half. “You must be this tall to ride,” he says regretfully. He should take Adam back to bed, give him what he needs. Just a little improvisation first, an easy slick entry, Adam’s hole tender and accepting around his fingers. I did that, he thinks, and he has to press his face to Adam’s shoulder blade, and lick the sweat-salt there, and then bite his way along the curve.
Adam turns his head, straining, for a messy offset crash of a kiss. “You’d really . . . rather watch me than fuck me?” Kris is rocking his fingers in and out, and in the mirror Adam is jerking himself off with no gentleness at all, tight push down the length of his cock, rough drag up, the head showing wet in his pumping fist. Adam's in that weakening final stretch, Kris can tell, sagging against his supporting arm, eyes sealed shut. His own eyes are feverish with vodka shine. “Never,” he answers.
Unsteady as he is, Adam manages to slink across the bed and balance on his hands and knees. Toppling him would be an act of vandalism. Kris does it anyway, and folds his legs high. A narrow flash of gray promises painstaking retribution, even as Adam grabs his ass to pull him deeper. Sometimes you just need a cock in you. And sometimes, Kris knows, you need a cock pounding in you.
“In a minute, babe.” He covers that soft, passionate mouth with his own, coaxing forgiveness. Adam isn’t made for hotel rooms, for the secrecy and the clock turned to the wall. The truth can’t be tucked out of sight along with Kris’s ring. But how sultry he is, bathed in red neon light. Kris murmurs, “Do you love it? I want you to love it,” and he does, of course he does, but he also wants to keep watching, to find out who Adam will be next.
--End--
Diana Ross--Love Hangover :)
Pairing: Kris/Adam
Word count: 2700
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Maybe Kris is the complicated one. Maybe they switch.
Warnings: Mild angst
Disclaimer: Pure imagination. No disrespect intended.
Author's note: Precedes You Can Have Me, but both stories stand alone.
Happy Birthday, anya7lee! Beautiful Rose, magical realist, may your path to gloriousness be paved with Lindt squares. ♥ ♥ ♥
Looking Glass
“It’s not that I don’t want to have sex,” Adam says on the eve of Las Vegas, during their regularly scheduled bedtime call. “Because I really, really do.”
Kris’s gonna-get-laid smile slips and hangs on. “But?”
“But sneaking around hotels, it’s glamorous and fun, it’s torrid, but it’s . . . one-dimensional. It’s not . . . ” Real life, he’s thinking loud enough for Kris to hear. Kris lets the smile fall away. He says carefully, “Our relationship doesn’t just happen in hotel rooms. I talk to you more than anyone. It’s happening for me all the time.”
“For me, too,” Adam is quick to reassure him. “I’m not saying we don’t have the foundation. How can we not, when you’re my best friend? But that’s what makes it hard to be satisfied with less than everything.”
“Can’t you-- ” Kris is striving for the right tone. Understanding, non-defensive. “Can you try to think of this as a warmup for us? Sort of a honeymoon? We’ll have plenty of time later on to do the dishes and go grocery shopping and all that stuff.”
“I do think of it that way, usually. But today was such a crap day--all those conferences, all those people telling me, basically, to behave. And the worst part was knowing I didn’t have you to come home to at the end of it. Fuck it, I’ll be over it by tomorrow, don’t worry.”
Adam always bounces right back from the crap days, Kris reminds himself. They both do. As long as they keep their eyes on the future, they’ll be fine. “Adam, I just want to be with you. We can watch CNN all night, for all I care. Just don’t answer the door naked, and your virtue will be safe with me, I swear.”
Adam isn’t naked, it turns out, except for his face. Uncovered freckles and unconcealed joy. Despite their constant calls and texts, the happening-all-the-time thing, Kris’s first euphoric reaction is He’s real. The person he likes best in the world, the person who could never be just his friend. Kris greets him with a pitiful, “So I shouldn’t jump you?” Adam opens his arms, and he jumps.
“This is nice,” he says as Adam lowers him to the orgy-size bed. Over Adam’s shoulder, he glimpses a sumptuous corner of Sin City sky, high-drama black and white scattered with stark modern . . . objects. “They really hooked you up.”
“There’s a remote for the curtains.” Adam noses into his neck, sniffing, inspecting his property. “Multiple shower jets.” Kris gets out, “I like the disembodied hand thing,” and then Adam’s kissing him, ambitious, open-mouthed, all-tongue kisses. Gentleman that he is, Kris fends him off, some. “Wait, what about not having sex?”
“We can do that afterwards. If there’s time.”
“While we’re sleeping,” Kris suggests, punchy. He sprawls out snow-angel style, the better to appreciate the obligingly solid mattress. The evening went by so much faster once he started measuring it in cocktails. Not too many, and besides, Adam obviously doesn’t mind. “Mmm, sweet tea vodka . . . ” Kris licks back with equal craving and gropes down to the waist of Adam’s pants. Hopeless, you couldn’t shove a piece of paper in there, and why the hell is Adam wearing a belt, anyway? Failing the test of one-handed coordination, he settles for groping lower. “Mmm, sweet Southern boy,” Adam is murmuring, with the proprietary delight that just sort of opens him. “Are you going to let me put my cock in you, sweet Southern boy?”
“Might as well.” Kris goes back for another aggravated yank at the belt.
But when Adam finally gets around to retrieving the lube, stashed predictably under the pillow, he says, “I think we’ll save that for the encore, actually.”
“So what’s the main-- Oh, you’re--?” Kris suspects Adam of doing this on purpose, switching up on him when he’s least prepared, though Adam always pleads innocent. “Sometimes you just need a cock in your ass, you know?” he’ll say, breezy. And Kris knows, does he ever know, but he didn’t expect Adam to feel that highly specific need. Even now, he's not convinced it’s really that simple. With Adam, you have to wonder.
Casually, he asks, “Any particular reason?” Instinct is signaling him to proceed with caution. Suddenly he regrets his comfortably dulled edge.
“Welll, because,” Adam pouts at him outrageously, definitely not going anywhere serious with this, “I’ve got the sweetest hangover, I don’t wanna get over . . . ” He rubs absently at a small reddened patch on his chest, a sloppy tattoo of Kris’s greed. You’d never guess how easily marked he is, strong resilient Adam, how fragile he can be. Again Kris feels himself helplessly giving way. Adam owns so many keys to him, a huge jangly bunch swinging invisibly from his belt with the fluffy tail and bedazzled handcuffs.
“If there’s a cure for this, I don’t want it, don’t want it . . . ” Kris sings along as Adam straddles him and does a massage-parlor special with the condom, lots of unnecessary squeezing and stroking. Adam playing mistress is Adam in a volatile mood, but Kris can’t resist joining in. Can’t resist getting serviced, nothing to do but wallow in the obscenely silky sheets and gloat over Adam the way a pervy old rich guy gloats over his swimsuit-model girlfriend. A pervy old rich guy who’s ditched his white lie of a wedding ring. Slipping it off in the elevator, Kris spared a thought for the all-seeing security cameras capturing his cheap sleight of hand. One more secret for Vegas to keep. Mostly he thanked God he’d remembered, for Adam’s sake. How wrong is he for finding it guiltily hot, the illicitness, the red neon marquee flashing XXX over the bed?
“Think about it all the time, never let it outta my mind,” Adam solos happily. More showy fingerwork with the lube. Kris props himself up to watch. “Here, I can help with that,” he says, but Adam bats his hand away. “Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet . . . ugh, cold-- ” Adam’s frown of distaste uncrinkles at the sight of Kris slowly sliding horizontal. “Aww, look at you. Poor baby, no head for alcohol.”
“For alcohol, yes. For you, no.” Deprivation’s killed whatever tolerance Kris might’ve had, set him buzzing. Fingers tingling, cock nudging up determined between Adam’s thighs and twitching eagerly in his guiding hand. Adam teases, “Not even this one? I’d say this the perfect head, thick and ah-- ” He gives it a hard push inside. His face shows Kris everything, the shock of penetration, the inevitability, like falling--no, it’s Kris who’s falling, Adam’s sinking, smile spreading, OK, this is going to happen, oh, this is good. Taking it to the hilt and scoring all the style points, too, no bouncing in the saddle for Kris’s talented, gorgeous-- Adam’s saying earnestly, “Do you love it? I want you to love it.” He rises smoothly on Kris’s cock and lowers himself with a long surrendering exhale, a little labored. Labor of love.
“Oh, yeah. Yeah, ride it,” Kris pants, losing himself in the role, in the tightness that the really pervy part of his brain wants to call virginal. There’s no mistaking that practiced wave action, but he can pretend that Adam hasn’t done this with anyone else, never needed it from anyone else. “Oh, this is, this is really working,” Adam breathes, and Kris doesn’t have to imagine the note of pleased surprise. Kris knows all about that, too. Astride is amazing, if you don’t mind coming fast. “You have the best sex face,” Kris tells him, more drunk than it’s possible get on five--or was it six--Firefly cocktails. “Like you’re thinking these deep, noble thoughts.”
“Deep, anyway . . . ”
“And you laugh at your own jokes.” Kris wants to bite him all over. Wants to write him a song, words burnished to gold, a crown for him to wear. “You’re, the way it feels-- ”
“I know how it feels, remember?” Adam laughs again. Bottoming for Kris like he’s feeding him birthday cake. His cock is bouncing, distractingly. Kris closes a hand around it in self-defense. “But you,” he insists. Adam can’t possibly understand how uniquely blissful it is, this privilege that no platinum Amex can aspire to. Kris’s mind conjures an image from the tripping edge of consciousness: two Adams, two pairs of long sleek legs entangled--one pair parting to wrap around other-Adam’s waist--black-glossed fingertips caressing miles of fair skin. Maybe six drinks was too many, after all. “Why am I fantasizing about you while I’m--while you’re right here?”
“Tell me, baby. I’ll be your fantasy.” Adam purrs it at him, wiles set to stun, and Kris sobers slightly, recognizing the game. But the next move seems safe enough. “I’ll show you.”
They have their pick of mirrors, another reason to love Las Vegas. Adam tilts his head inquiringly. “Like this?”
“Closer,” Kris says. “No, don’t look at me, look at yourself. The way you’re looking at me.”
Adam puffs an admonishing breath at his inkspill bangs. He stares into his own eyes, smoky even without thick-drawn liner, summoning intrigue. His lids slip to half-mast as he angles in, bringing two pairs of slightly parted lips together. Kris’s own murmured yeah is the sleaziest thing he’s ever heard. “Maybe I’m crazy,” he says, pretty sure he doesn’t care.
Adam licks out at the glass, two identical pink tongues, the tips not quite touching. “We’re both crazy. Why else would we be here?” Which could be another way of saying that Kris is his best friend--or a spark of danger. Kris hurries to smother it just in case. “Are you crazy enough to do it if you really could?”
“I’m not my type.” Perversely, Adam flashes himself a seductive smile, friendly with an aggressive finish of Can you handle this? Kris has to laugh at the cheerful mindfuckery of it. “Come on,” he says, “this is Adam freaking Lambert we’re talking about. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t be curious.”
“I don’t think I’m high enough to have this conversation.”
“That’s not no,” Kris persists, and gets a raised eyebrow in return, an invitation to draw his own conclusion. He does. “How would you want it?”
Humoring him, Adam considers his double in the glass. Two speculative glances meeting. “Hands and knees?”
“But then you wouldn’t get to see your face. Not that your ass isn’t all kinds of cute.”
“Yours for the taking. Why are you hanging back like that?”
Good question. Kris isn’t too drunk to give that ass the attention it deserves. So he is crazy. Or else he’s hanging all the way back in last August, in--Cleveland? Where Adam said, “You’re a little kinky,” in the same tone he used for rhapsodizing about custom leather, just because Kris had pulled away to ask impulsively, “Got any lipstick in your bag of tricks?” Kris only shrugged. He didn’t know how to explain that it wasn’t--it wasn’t about going farther so much as going deeper. Whatever that even meant.
“All I brought is this really dark, Rocky Horror stuff,” Adam said apologetically. “Tomorrow I’ll run out and buy-- ”
“Wear the dark one.”
Adam got up, graceful, subtly transformed already. “Do you want to watch me put it on?” Making it sound like something you’d pay for behind a velvet curtain. But what Kris wanted was the illusion, intact.
They didn’t rate corner suites in those days, but the flick of a switch banished the beige walls into shadow. The bed, the stage, was the only thing that mattered anyway. Kris lay back mesmerized by strange beauty, by black garnet lips and eyes all brightness in contrast, quicksilver. By Adam’s cock pushing in, so big, stealing his breath and then centering him. From the first, sex was something they did together, rather than something Adam did to him. A simple merging. But here, together was energy shifting unpredictably back and forth. It was Adam moving above him, unattainable at his command, glowing in the spotlight of his riveted gaze.
Kris--Kris the spectator--reached down to jerk himself off to the performance, and abruptly Adam caught his wrist, No, and lay heavy on top of him, cradling his face in strong hands. A taste of perfume and candy, inescapable, Have it. Soft hair low on Adam’s belly whispering friction to his trapped cock, rubbing him to trembling sensitivity as Adam fucked him, Adam’s show now, Kris only receiving. When Adam finally paused, it wasn’t to let him breathe. “I don’t even have to touch you, do I,” he said lovingly, and Kris was coming in huge dizzy gasps, giving it up for the illusion and the reality. “You’re all smeared from me,” Adam whispered, in the longing seconds before he reclaimed his place in that deep, deep kiss.
Maybe Kris is the complicated one. Maybe they switch. “Maybe I just have a thing for your mouth,” he tells Adam’s reflection. The mouth of his fantasies purses contemplatively. Chances are good Adam’s revising the schedule to include blow Kris in front of mirror. But he stays focused. “Aren’t you ready to make this a threesome? We’ll let you do all kinds of unspeakable things to us.”
“You start.”
It’s surreal to watch Adam explore his own body like a new lover’s. Surreal and . . . Kris isn’t jealous, that would be absurd. Crazy for sure, to feel a restless prickling heat because Adam’s smoothing his hands over his own chest as though it belongs to someone else, someone he wants to possess. Pinching his own nipples experimentally, taking on the intent air that’s beyond concentration. Even when Adam’s slamming into him, Kris realizes with a jolt, he looks like he’s the one who’s getting fucked.
“Adam.” Kris’s voice is weird too, gravelly, bluesy.
Adam takes his cock in a loose grip, testing the heft of it before stroking his thumb along the shaft. He’s fully hard, into it. “Kris . . . ” His head drops back as Kris crowds into him. Kris’s hips thrust instinctively, but no, they haven’t tumbled into Wonderland, and he’s still five six and a half. “You must be this tall to ride,” he says regretfully. He should take Adam back to bed, give him what he needs. Just a little improvisation first, an easy slick entry, Adam’s hole tender and accepting around his fingers. I did that, he thinks, and he has to press his face to Adam’s shoulder blade, and lick the sweat-salt there, and then bite his way along the curve.
Adam turns his head, straining, for a messy offset crash of a kiss. “You’d really . . . rather watch me than fuck me?” Kris is rocking his fingers in and out, and in the mirror Adam is jerking himself off with no gentleness at all, tight push down the length of his cock, rough drag up, the head showing wet in his pumping fist. Adam's in that weakening final stretch, Kris can tell, sagging against his supporting arm, eyes sealed shut. His own eyes are feverish with vodka shine. “Never,” he answers.
Unsteady as he is, Adam manages to slink across the bed and balance on his hands and knees. Toppling him would be an act of vandalism. Kris does it anyway, and folds his legs high. A narrow flash of gray promises painstaking retribution, even as Adam grabs his ass to pull him deeper. Sometimes you just need a cock in you. And sometimes, Kris knows, you need a cock pounding in you.
“In a minute, babe.” He covers that soft, passionate mouth with his own, coaxing forgiveness. Adam isn’t made for hotel rooms, for the secrecy and the clock turned to the wall. The truth can’t be tucked out of sight along with Kris’s ring. But how sultry he is, bathed in red neon light. Kris murmurs, “Do you love it? I want you to love it,” and he does, of course he does, but he also wants to keep watching, to find out who Adam will be next.
--End--
Diana Ross--Love Hangover :)