Lavish Didi Stories - Heat in the Resort - Chapter 3
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Author’s note: All my characters are consenting adults (18+). All sexual acts depicted are consensual between the adult characters.
Chapter 3
He texted at 10:17
Activities club until noon. she’s at the spa. My room is 214. Come if the hall is empty. Need to see you
I stood outside 214 with the ice bucket I didn’t need. The corridor smelled like expensive air freshener and other people’s sunscreen. I knocked once. He opened before the second.
Hank in a white shirt, two buttons already wrong, glasses on, barefoot on hotel carpet. He looked past me, left, right, pulled me in by the wrist and shut the door with his shoulder.
“Hi,” he said, and then, because he talks: “She’s at the spa. I’m fucking nervous. I want you on a bed. I need you on a bed.”
“Hank. Breathe…”
“I know. Breathe. I’m breathing. I’m lying.”
The room was a family room trying not to be. Two queen beds. Suitcases open. A child’s floatie drying on a chair. Her suitcase on the left bed — neat, zipper closed, a silk robe across the pillow. His bed was the rumpled one. Glasses case. A crime novel paperback face-down. The AC too cold.
He saw me look at her bed.
“You can—” He stopped. Started again. “I was going to say don’t sit there. That’s ugly. Sit wherever. It’s a bed. I’m the one who made it complicated.”
I sat on her side on purpose. Not to be cruel. To see if he’d flinch.
He flinched. Then he came over and sat beside me, close enough that the mattress dipped, and put his hand on my knee.
“I keep thinking about two strokes,” he said. “I keep thinking you walked back with me leaking out of you and I went upstairs to a wife who doesn’t care about me. That’s the sentence I live in now. I feel like you care about me, but I don’t even know you.”
“I care about you, Hank. You’re allowed to want the next sentence.”
“I want a lot of sentences I don’t get to keep.”
He took the glasses off, set them on her nightstand, hated that he’d used her nightstand, left them there anyway. “Can I kiss you in my room? Do you want something from the mini-bar?”
I laughed hard.
“Yes, Hank you can kiss me. I just want you, not a drink or peanuts.”
He kissed me like the beach, careful, then not. I opened his shirt the rest of the way. Buttons. The trimmed hair. The chest that still made my hands stupid. He made the same hiss when I found his nipples. His cock was already a problem in the shorts.
“Wait,” he said against my mouth. “If we start standing I will finish standing. I want you on a bed. I want to last long enough that it counts as something. I have been practicing. That is a humiliating sentence and it’s true. I practiced in the shower this morning and I still came thinking about your—”
“Hank.”
“Right. Bed.”
We took her side of the bed because I was already on it and because he didn’t stop me. He laid me down on the silk robe and then pulled the robe out from under me, folded it, put it on the chair, a little apology to a woman who wasn’t in the room. Then he came back over me, shirt open, shorts shoved down, that long uncut fact hard against my stomach, and he looked at my face like he was going to apologize again and chose not to.
“Tell me if I hurt you.”
“You won’t. You didn’t.”
“Two strokes doesn’t count.”
“Then make it count.”
He laughed into my throat. Got me out of the shorts. Got his mouth on me the way he’d been on the beach — unsure, then hungry — but this time it was my cock, brief, embarrassed, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to want that too. He pulled off.
“That’s— I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“You’re doing fine.”
“I want to be inside you. That’s the only sentence I trust.”
He spat. Fingers. The head. He pushed in slower than the rocks. I felt every inch because he made me feel it, stopping, breathing, forehead on my shoulder.
“Okay. Okay. That’s you. That’s all of it. Don’t move. If you move I am a two-stroke man again.”
I didn’t move. The AC hummed. A cart went by in the hall. He started to rock. Small. Counting under his breath, I swear he was counting. Four. Five. Six. His mouth open on my neck. The glasses left on her table watching us like a joke.
“Eli.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m going to last. I’m going to last. Don’t you dare say something nice.”
I said nothing. I put my heels on his back. He made a broken sound and went deeper and the count fell apart on eight, nine, and then he was fucking me for real, still scared, still trying, the bed whispering against the wall he was trying not to hit. His chest hair on my chest. His beard on my jaw. A year of not being touched coming out in the way his hands shook on the pillow.
He lasted.
Not a movie. Not long enough for a song. Long enough that I got to feel him lose the panic and find a rhythm, long enough that I came first with my teeth in his shoulder so the floor wouldn’t get me, long enough that he felt it and said oh like he’d been given a prize he hadn’t earned, and then he buried and came with his whole body, pulsing, a lot, the same rush as the shower except this time he stayed in me and shook and didn’t run.
We lay there. Him still inside. Her pillow under my head. His mouth on my temple.
“I didn’t pull out.”
“I know.”
“I should have asked.”
“You asked on the beach.”
“That doesn’t make me decent.”
“Relax, Hank. You’re all I want right now.”
He pulled out slow. The leak. He looked at it, looked away, looked back, and grabbed a towel from his own bag, not hers. Wiped me like he was allowed to be careful. Then he sat up against the headboard — her headboard — and reached for me.
“Come here.”
I went. He pulled me into his lap, my back to his chest, his arms around my middle, his chin on my shoulder. Bare. Sticky. The white shirt still on him. He held me, his hands were shaking again and his mouth was at my ear.
“I’m already afraid of what I’m going to feel when we go home,” he said. Quiet. No joke in it. “You get on a plane to England. I get on a plane to a house that doesn’t have you in it. I have to be a husband in that house. I have to be glue. And I already know I’m going to stand in a grocery store and think about your mouth and this bed and the fact that I let you lie on her side and I liked it. That’s not a pretty thing to say to an eighteen-year-old. I’m saying it anyway.”
I turned my face into his neck.
“You don’t have to feel that today. We still have more than a week.”
“I know. I talk when I’m nervous.” He tightened his arms. “This is the part where I should tell you to go before the activities club lets out. I don’t want you to go.”
“How long.”
He looked at the clock. Hated the clock.
“Twenty minutes if I walk slow to pick them up. Fifteen if I’m honest.”
“Then hold me for fifteen.”
He held me. He didn’t apologize. He kissed the side of my head once, small, and I felt him get soft and human and terrified under me, a married man on his wife’s bed with a boy in his lap, already grieving a week that hadn’t ended.
“Same rocks tonight,” he said into my hair. “If you want. If you don’t, wave at dinner.”
“I’ll be there.”
He nodded against me. Didn’t say thanks. Didn’t say sorry.
When I left, he buttoned the shirt himself. I saw him look at the bed we’d used and then straighten the robe on the chair, a little late, a little useless.
In the corridor the ice machine hummed. I walked to the elevator with him still in me and his sentence in my mouth.
He was already afraid of the grocery store feelings.
So was I.
Author’s note: All my characters are consenting adults (18+). All sexual acts depicted are consensual between the adult characters.
Chapter 3
He texted at 10:17
Activities club until noon. she’s at the spa. My room is 214. Come if the hall is empty. Need to see you
I stood outside 214 with the ice bucket I didn’t need. The corridor smelled like expensive air freshener and other people’s sunscreen. I knocked once. He opened before the second.
Hank in a white shirt, two buttons already wrong, glasses on, barefoot on hotel carpet. He looked past me, left, right, pulled me in by the wrist and shut the door with his shoulder.
“Hi,” he said, and then, because he talks: “She’s at the spa. I’m fucking nervous. I want you on a bed. I need you on a bed.”
“Hank. Breathe…”
“I know. Breathe. I’m breathing. I’m lying.”
The room was a family room trying not to be. Two queen beds. Suitcases open. A child’s floatie drying on a chair. Her suitcase on the left bed — neat, zipper closed, a silk robe across the pillow. His bed was the rumpled one. Glasses case. A crime novel paperback face-down. The AC too cold.
He saw me look at her bed.
“You can—” He stopped. Started again. “I was going to say don’t sit there. That’s ugly. Sit wherever. It’s a bed. I’m the one who made it complicated.”
I sat on her side on purpose. Not to be cruel. To see if he’d flinch.
He flinched. Then he came over and sat beside me, close enough that the mattress dipped, and put his hand on my knee.
“I keep thinking about two strokes,” he said. “I keep thinking you walked back with me leaking out of you and I went upstairs to a wife who doesn’t care about me. That’s the sentence I live in now. I feel like you care about me, but I don’t even know you.”
“I care about you, Hank. You’re allowed to want the next sentence.”
“I want a lot of sentences I don’t get to keep.”
He took the glasses off, set them on her nightstand, hated that he’d used her nightstand, left them there anyway. “Can I kiss you in my room? Do you want something from the mini-bar?”
I laughed hard.
“Yes, Hank you can kiss me. I just want you, not a drink or peanuts.”
He kissed me like the beach, careful, then not. I opened his shirt the rest of the way. Buttons. The trimmed hair. The chest that still made my hands stupid. He made the same hiss when I found his nipples. His cock was already a problem in the shorts.
“Wait,” he said against my mouth. “If we start standing I will finish standing. I want you on a bed. I want to last long enough that it counts as something. I have been practicing. That is a humiliating sentence and it’s true. I practiced in the shower this morning and I still came thinking about your—”
“Hank.”
“Right. Bed.”
We took her side of the bed because I was already on it and because he didn’t stop me. He laid me down on the silk robe and then pulled the robe out from under me, folded it, put it on the chair, a little apology to a woman who wasn’t in the room. Then he came back over me, shirt open, shorts shoved down, that long uncut fact hard against my stomach, and he looked at my face like he was going to apologize again and chose not to.
“Tell me if I hurt you.”
“You won’t. You didn’t.”
“Two strokes doesn’t count.”
“Then make it count.”
He laughed into my throat. Got me out of the shorts. Got his mouth on me the way he’d been on the beach — unsure, then hungry — but this time it was my cock, brief, embarrassed, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to want that too. He pulled off.
“That’s— I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“You’re doing fine.”
“I want to be inside you. That’s the only sentence I trust.”
He spat. Fingers. The head. He pushed in slower than the rocks. I felt every inch because he made me feel it, stopping, breathing, forehead on my shoulder.
“Okay. Okay. That’s you. That’s all of it. Don’t move. If you move I am a two-stroke man again.”
I didn’t move. The AC hummed. A cart went by in the hall. He started to rock. Small. Counting under his breath, I swear he was counting. Four. Five. Six. His mouth open on my neck. The glasses left on her table watching us like a joke.
“Eli.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m going to last. I’m going to last. Don’t you dare say something nice.”
I said nothing. I put my heels on his back. He made a broken sound and went deeper and the count fell apart on eight, nine, and then he was fucking me for real, still scared, still trying, the bed whispering against the wall he was trying not to hit. His chest hair on my chest. His beard on my jaw. A year of not being touched coming out in the way his hands shook on the pillow.
He lasted.
Not a movie. Not long enough for a song. Long enough that I got to feel him lose the panic and find a rhythm, long enough that I came first with my teeth in his shoulder so the floor wouldn’t get me, long enough that he felt it and said oh like he’d been given a prize he hadn’t earned, and then he buried and came with his whole body, pulsing, a lot, the same rush as the shower except this time he stayed in me and shook and didn’t run.
We lay there. Him still inside. Her pillow under my head. His mouth on my temple.
“I didn’t pull out.”
“I know.”
“I should have asked.”
“You asked on the beach.”
“That doesn’t make me decent.”
“Relax, Hank. You’re all I want right now.”
He pulled out slow. The leak. He looked at it, looked away, looked back, and grabbed a towel from his own bag, not hers. Wiped me like he was allowed to be careful. Then he sat up against the headboard — her headboard — and reached for me.
“Come here.”
I went. He pulled me into his lap, my back to his chest, his arms around my middle, his chin on my shoulder. Bare. Sticky. The white shirt still on him. He held me, his hands were shaking again and his mouth was at my ear.
“I’m already afraid of what I’m going to feel when we go home,” he said. Quiet. No joke in it. “You get on a plane to England. I get on a plane to a house that doesn’t have you in it. I have to be a husband in that house. I have to be glue. And I already know I’m going to stand in a grocery store and think about your mouth and this bed and the fact that I let you lie on her side and I liked it. That’s not a pretty thing to say to an eighteen-year-old. I’m saying it anyway.”
I turned my face into his neck.
“You don’t have to feel that today. We still have more than a week.”
“I know. I talk when I’m nervous.” He tightened his arms. “This is the part where I should tell you to go before the activities club lets out. I don’t want you to go.”
“How long.”
He looked at the clock. Hated the clock.
“Twenty minutes if I walk slow to pick them up. Fifteen if I’m honest.”
“Then hold me for fifteen.”
He held me. He didn’t apologize. He kissed the side of my head once, small, and I felt him get soft and human and terrified under me, a married man on his wife’s bed with a boy in his lap, already grieving a week that hadn’t ended.
“Same rocks tonight,” he said into my hair. “If you want. If you don’t, wave at dinner.”
“I’ll be there.”
He nodded against me. Didn’t say thanks. Didn’t say sorry.
When I left, he buttoned the shirt himself. I saw him look at the bed we’d used and then straighten the robe on the chair, a little late, a little useless.
In the corridor the ice machine hummed. I walked to the elevator with him still in me and his sentence in my mouth.
He was already afraid of the grocery store feelings.
So was I.
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