The words are slightly muffled by his lips on yours – devouring, seeking. Your own lips taste and tease, almost of their own volition. His chin scrapes yours, a mild burn that shocks your senses, spurs your system into overdrive. The hard, lean body pressing yours against your hotel door isn't what you want – it's too angular, too rough, too muscled. And the scratchy bristles that groove over your hands when you grab the back of his head are obscenely wrong. This is wrong. That might be why you're doing it. "Of course not," he murmurs, cultured accent making you think of tea parties and PBS specials. It's not a voice you would've ever associated with clever fingers burrowing under your waistband, under too-tight boxers. It's not a voice you would've ever associated with a rolling tongue flick against your ear that makes your breath shudder, your hips hitch forward. You really don't want this. Not that you wanted it three years ago, either. But now – now you're married again – now he's married. The production's not as big. And this cast and crew, unlike last time, are exceptionally tight. Gossip is bound to get around. Not that you care. Not with cool fingers wrapped tight around your cock. You're so hard you're dizzy with it. Your hand trembles when you fist his t-shirt and yank him impossibly closer, burying a long, drawn-out moan in the back of his throat. He tastes of nicotine and baking powder. His toothpaste hasn't changed. Neither has the taste of him – something dark and dangerous that always reminded you of too-crowded dance floors and sweaty, anonymous sex. Which is, now that you think on it, entirely perfect for him. For the two of you. For whatever the hell this is.
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