Climb the Ocean
By Ephemera and Byrne
London
Part Twelve
By Ephemera
Oversleeping had put paid to any thoughts of leisurely wake up sex, playful shower sex, and for that matter breakfast, but waking up with Oliver still had the morning way up there in his top three. Of course now that the door had swung shut behind his handsome, if flustered, lover, Tom was missing him already. He'd finished up in the shower while Oliver shaved, and the grand plan was for him to be studying for his final presentation while Oliver got through the day's meetings. Worked perfectly well as a plan, that, but it was doing nothing to stop him roaming the hotel room like a dissatisfied donkey.
Deciding that the first point of action was to get some clothes on, Tom sat on the edge of the bed to root through his back pack. Oliver kept telling him that he could unpack some, but it wasn't just laziness that kept most of his gear in the bag. It just seemed weird to be unpacking into what had to be a three star hotel in Mayfair - weird enough to be being here at all. There was a sort of plushy silence to the place that now he was alone in the room was starting to get to him a little. The remote was still on the bedside table from the night before, and a bit of clicking got him to a fairly inoffensive music channel. He turned the volume right down so it was just background sound, and went bag-hunting for clothes again.
The first thing his hands found though was one of Oliver's t-shirts - the under shirt he'd peeled off of Oliver's long body the night before, in fact. Soft white cotton jersey, and for some reason his fingers lingered, petting it. Cursing himself for a sentimental idiot he gave in, and buried his face in it, inhaling the Oliver-scent of it. Of course that did nothing to calm his automatic reaction to the mental image of it being removed, revealing Oliver's skin to his touch, his lips. He'd had more sex in the past few days than in most of a year before that, and there he was, getting hard because he'd found Oliver's t-shirt caught up in his own jeans. He had it so bad.
One hand found his cock more or less on autopilot, and he couldn't quite think of a convincing reason why not to go with it, alone in this room full of Oliver memories, wriggling back onto a messed up bed still warm in patches from the two of them sleeping together in it. The pillow on this side had some of that spicy soap scent of Oliver's shampoo on it, and that was enough to have him close his eyes and remember nuzzling into that hair while burying himself deep inside his lover.
Tom's hand tightened around his hardening cock as his legs fell wide, giving himself space to run fingers over his balls and remember the distinct sensation of Oliver's fingers, Oliver's mouth even. He bit his lip and his hand moved a little faster.
He let his memories direct his other hand, touching the marks Oliver had left on his chest, tickling past still-sensitive nipples, then returning to his balls, then tracing the lines of his hipbones and finding tender spots where Oliver's fingers had been.
Every time he closed his eyes he flashed images of Oliver - his Oliver - face gentle, or teasing, or contorted in pleasure. His Oliver with hands that looked so tanned on his own pale hidden skin, with his mouth and his hands and his beautiful heavy prick. His Oliver pulling him close, holding him and wanting him and loving him.
His Oliver sending him flying even half a hotel away, because Tom's hand was slick and the pleasure building in his balls was demanding more and faster, and it was Oliver's name, near silent on his lips, as he arched and came.
Embarrassment began to set in as soon as his breathing levelled out, and Tom wiped himself off on the bath towel, and pulled on boxers and jeans before padding across to the bathroom to drop it in the laundry basket. He even straightened the bed before finding a dark green T-shirt of his own to wear, and then dug out his notes. Ten minutes in he got up again to set Mortimer and Brad on separate surfaces and to check that the lube had all gone back in the drawers.
When the maid knocked some half an hour later Tom jumped, and he found that however hard he tried to ignore her quiet and efficient movements around the room, he was still blushing hard enough to make his ears burn. At this rate he'd still be blushing like a schoolboy when Oliver got back.