Problem Solved

He sat in his truck watching them check into the motel room. So casual, so uncaring. Both of them entering the small reception area, smiling as they scribbled what had damn well better be fake names in the register.

They didn't even look around as they went into the room, third along, in the row of nine, the grey haired man stepping back and letting the younger, brown haired man go first, his hand resting for a moment on the man's broad shoulders before slipping down for a possessive, indiscreet squeeze of a well-shaped ass.

Jesus. Get a room, will ya?

Except, they had, and by the looks of them, he didn't have much time…

He knew the layout of the rooms and he wanted the one to the left of theirs. That way, the connecting wall would be the one with their bed directly behind it. His bed would be on the opposite wall, of course; the motel's sole nod to privacy as the curtains were paper-thin and the walls not much better.

Didn't matter. He'd pull up a chair.

He'd hear them. He'd know what they did.

He got the room he wanted. Took some glaring, as the man, to his credit, was trying to give the guys some space and there were plenty of empty rooms this early, and when that didn't work -- must be losing his touch -- an extra twenty bought him the key.

He slipped inside, eyes scanning the parking lot without making it obvious, the interior getting a closer scrutiny. Had to make it fast, though…

He hunkered down on the floor in the end, back to the wall, head turned sideways in an awkward, aching, angled twist. Ear to the wall, as well.

They'd stripped. He'd missed that. The walls weren't so thin he'd have heard zips scratching down, maybe, or the soft tug and pop of buttons, the slither of cotton on skin, but he'd have known…

"Been so long..."

That was the older guy, he'd bet, a groan in his voice. So they'd been doing without? It really was going to be fast this first time. He knew what that was like, the feast after famine, when every touch left you trembling, breath catching, throat hurting with the need to -- need to --

Kissing. Words broken, interrupted, muttered, muffled against lips. Had to be kissing. His hand came to his mouth, pressing lightly against his lips. He liked kissing. Wouldn't have admitted it to many people, but he liked it a lot when it was with someone he wanted. Liked the intimacy of it, the infinite variety. Liked to have his mouth taken, bitten soft, licked bruised, liked the endless, edible kisses, wet and hot and slow until his cheeks and chin were damp with spit and they were both laughing with heat, not humour, exchanging smiles, secret, fierce, challenging.


He slid his hand inside his T-shirt in a rough scrabble of nails, his palm damp enough to catch at his skin, drag and pucker it as he found a nipple, beaded hard, and pinched it until his cock was jerking out the beat of the trapped blood, and the captured skin was singing with pain.

He squeezed until he couldn't bear it and his fingers slackened, merciful, weak, wanting there to be someone to make him take it for longer, someone to tie him down and smile a no, kissing the beg from his lips, smothering the plea with a gag; hand, cloth, cock; he didn't care which.

Behind him, they fell to the bed in a tortured, comical screech of springs.

He was losing it now, picturing them, both lean, muscular, in good shape. They'd strip and look good, look real. He guessed they were around fifty and forty, a long way from the sleek shiny twenty-year olds in the porn mags, the ones he stared at with a distant, objective lust, the ones who never drifted into his head when he lay in the hot, empty darkness, his hands full, cupping ripe, needy flesh.

He wanted what they had, those men next door. His hands on a body that smelled of clean sweat in the humid summer air, imperfect in places, secret, scattered scars for his tongue to map, his lips kiss better.

A body he hadn't paid for, didn't walk away from with worry and guilt weighing him down.

One body. One man.

Behind him, the younger man, his voice clear, as it had been in the parking lot, uncaringly distinct, was telling the other man to kneel, spread wide, wider, command sharpening his voice, all the earlier affection distilled, purified, intensified into absolute certainty that he was giving his lover what he wanted.

Had to feel good, that, the giving and the getting.

His hand was digging into his jeans, pushing past the frustrating folds of bunched fabric when a flattened hand met a curved ass.

Okay, now that… He hadn't expected that. He hesitated and then pushed his jeans down enough that his cock was freed, taking it in his hand just as the second slap cracked out.

He came with a hot jolt, come jetting up, staining his T-shirt, the second and third spurts almost as strong, his surprised yelp of dismay and shock lost in the continuing cause and effect noises from next-door.

Breathing in short, choppy pants, he rode out the climax, his body lax and warm, lazy and replete.

Too soon, though. Waste of sixty bucks.

He cleaned up, ignoring the deeper moans that told him someone was getting their ass nailed, deep and hard, and checked out, his jacket buttoned over his wet T-shirt, his shades in place.

O'Neill liked wearing them, even at night. And it wasn't really that dark; the late-setting summer sun was shining right in his eyes.

He blinked away the dazzle of tears and turned the key.

Home. Shower. Because, yes, he felt fucking dirty and ashamed of himself, but so fucking what?

It kept Daniel safe from him.

Kept both of them safe.

Nothing in the regs about checking into a room by yourself.

Nothing. He'd looked.

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