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Room 239

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Coletto dug the fingers of his free hand into Marc’s hip, grunting as he tried to get enough leverage to fuck up into that perfect, muscular ass. Marc rode him hard, slamming down with enough force that the bed beneath them protested, alerting the neighbors of what was happening, if this motel had been the type of place with neighbors who cared.

He could feel his orgasm within reach, spurred on by the bite of the handcuff around his wrist and the contrast between Marc’s scarred, naked body and the dark blue of his own uniform . There was a damp spot on his shirt where Marc’s cock was dribbling precome, and his slacks were wrinkled beyond repair from being bunched up just enough to free his own cock. “Fuck, Officer,” Marc growled, rolling his hips so Coletto’s cock rubbed his prostate, “that’s good. That’s real good.”

Coletto couldn’t respond, as his whole awareness had narrowed down to his cock in Marc’s ass, the hard grip of heat, and the climax barreling toward him like a bullet. He watched as Marc took his own cock in hand, and with three rough strokes spattered Coletto’s navy blue uniform shirt with come, and that was enough. Coletto threw his head back into the flat, dirty pillows and felt himself fall apart.

He floated in that warm space after orgasm for a few moments, only coming to when Marc climbed off him with a barely-suppressed wince. His cock gleamed wetly in the dim light, still half-hard, but Coletto forced himself to watch Marc dress instead, morphing from a hard-bodied thug into a respectable businessman with each piece of his suit he wore. Finally, he buttoned his coat, and turned to Coletto, every inch Gentleman Marc O’Loughlin.

He reached into the breast pocket of his coat and pulled out a tiny silver key, which he tossed toward the bed. It landed unerringly in the pool of cooling come on Coletto’s shirt. “Until next time, Officer,” he said, voice low and dangerous, then walked out the door.