Victor is on his knees on the thin hotel carpet, god knows what stains have been steam-cleaned away, god knows how many have been his fault. On his knees with Chris's cock down his throat, too deep, his jaw aching but he doesn't want to stop, doesn't want Chris to come, not until Victor can't take it any more. And Victor can take a lot.
"Fuck," Chris says and blows the air out of his lungs down onto Victor's face. He's leaning on the edge of the hotel desk next to an open bottle of wine, naked, eyes closed, dark brush of his pubic hair in Victor's face. "Fuck, Victor." He used to have a wider repertoire, playful phrases to tell Victor how good it felt. But these days, it's just "fuck" and the low groans that Victor can half feel as well as hear.
Saliva runs down Victor's throat and he chokes a little as it goes. He wishes Chris would put his hand on Victor's head and push himself deeper, fuck Victor's mouth until Victor's gagging, shaking. But whenever Victor drags Chris's hand there, Chris just lets it rest or strokes Victor's hair.
Instead Victor reaches down for Chris's ankle, runs his palm over Chris's foot, fingers sliding down between the toes, spreading them wide. Chris's feet are beaten up, they're skater's feet, and if Victor hadn't been in such a hurry to swallow Chris's cock, he would have taken Chris's toes into his mouth, one by one, those calluses rougher on his tongue than the carpet on his knees. Licked his way up Chris's instep, rubbed his cheek against Chris's heel. Later he will.
For now, Victor gets his fingers under Chris's sole and lifts.
"Victor..." Chris says, like Victor is having one drink too many when Chris has had one too few. But he raises his foot and presses it onto Victor's cock, up against Victor's belly. He rubs it slowly, hands down on the desk to steady himself, closing his eyes again.
Victor pushes against Chris's foot, god, the pressure is better than a hand, the heavy friction, the drag of the curling toes. The strength in Chris's thigh, the beautiful balance of his stance.
If Victor believed in heaven, this is what it would be: Chris's cock in Victor's mouth, Chris's foot on Victor's dick, filling the hotel room with the smell of their sex.
Victor doesn't want either of them to come, not ever, but it's too late for that now. Chris's balls are lifting and his foot stops moving as he tenses.
"Fuck," Chris says, "fuck, fuck." And he jams his hips, finally, perfectly, and ejaculates, hot and sliding down Victor's throat, too far back to taste.
Victor grabs Chris's ass, holds him there, heaven, and he's rising too, coming onto Chris's foot and his own belly, shaking with pleasure.
After a few moments, Chris puts his hands on Victor's head and moves him down, back. Away.
Victor spits onto the floor, a last gob of saliva. He wants to rub his cum there too, to mark the day, but he can't quite bring himself to do that in a room someone else has to clean.
"Victor," Chris says again. He steps away and picks up his shirt from the floor.
Victor stretches out his neck and jaw. "Stay." He stands, reaches out. "Chris, stay."
A shadow passes over Chris's face, a twist of pain on his mouth. "I'm sorry, I'm not going to change my mind," he says. "I should have just called instead." He moves like he wants to turn away but he keeps facing Victor as he pulls on his clothes.
"Next month." Victor doesn't move, he has that much discipline at least. "I have a reservation."
"Not with me," Chris says.
Victor doesn't speak again, just stands there, naked and aching, while Chris does up the last buttons. He still doesn't move, he's not going to. Let Chris skirt around him or bump his shoulder on the way out.
But Chris steps in and catches Victor in a hug, long and close, Chris's head bowed into Victor's shoulder and Victor's arms trapped inside of Chris's.
Then Chris walks out of Victor's hotel room, a smear of Victor's cum on the front of his shirt.
When the door clicks shut, Victor picks up the wine. He sags down on the end of the bed, on the unrumpled duvet. And he pours the whole bottle onto the carpet.