Blue Motel Room

by Tymber Dalton

  Or if he did want to fuck them, he didn’t want to actually give them his real phone number, because they were annoying as fuck outside of bed.

  Sigh.

  He stepped into the shower and quickly soaped up and rinsed off. Then he grabbed the bottle of lube he kept in there and dumped some into his hand.

  This fantasy would be of the last guy he’d fucked—who’d also liked to be spanked—but had ended up getting back together with his old boyfriend.

  That took him out of contention for Ron, despite the two men volunteering to swing with him.

  He wanted a guy of his own, not multiple guys.

  Guy had been hot, not a twink, but with a slender, lithe build that had felt perfect writhing along his own body as Ron had stretched out on top of him. His perfect bubble butt had already been hot and red from the bare-handed spanking Ron gave him, feeling delicious against his flesh as he’d slid his cock inside the guy and ground into him while biting the back of his shoulder.

  Yeeeaah.

  He closed his eyes and tipped his head back against the shower wall, slowing his strokes and twisting his hand when he reached the head of his cock, around the crown, back down again. With his other hand, he cupped his balls and gently tugged on them to slow things down.

  He wanted to ride this fantasy for a little while.

  Maybe for as long as he’d ridden the guy in real life.

  He’d been a hot fuck, nice tight ass clamping down on his meat as Ron hooked his arms under the guy’s shoulders and used that grip for leverage to plow him.

  “Fuck,” he whispered into the steamy air.

  Maybe I should reconsider my objections to swinging.

  Being wrapped in a condom meant he’d lasted longer fucking him, too. Finally, Ron pulled out, flipped him over, and draped the guy’s legs over his shoulders to plow him rough and deep.

  Flesh slapping against flesh, the guy had begged Ron to fuck him harder, faster. When he’d tried to pull on his own cock, Ron had slapped his hand away.

  “Not yet. I’m driving.”

  That had made the guy whine and a soft, needy look developed in his brown eyes.

  A needy look that turned Ron’s crank even more. Allowed him to slow down and take a breath, pull back to a simmer for a few shallow thrusts.

  Making it last.

  Really need to get a cockring.

  The guy had started begging then, and Ron dug in deep, ball-slapping thrusts that finally ended with him exploding and filling the condom inside the guy. Only then did he reach down and jerk the guy off, loving the way his ass had squeezed his cock when he finally exploded all over himself.

  And it was that thought on which Ron finally let himself tip over the edge, ropes of cum spilling between his fingers as his eyes fell closed with a satisfied grunt.

  He stood there leaning against the wall, a soft breath escaping him.

  Fuck, I’m so alone.

  He rinsed off and nuked some leftovers, then dragged his laptop into his bedroom and pulled up some gay bondage porn to jerk off to. If he was going to be lonely tonight, by god, he’d be lonely with empty balls.

  He watched a video of a hunky blond bear covered with tats spank, beat, and then fuck a twink. While Ron didn’t personally want a barely-legal guy, he’d be lying if he tried to deny that body type didn’t turn him right the fuck on.

  It absolutely did.

  This time, it took him a little longer to build up a load, and when he finally let loose and covered his own abs with cum, the bear was pulling out for his own money shot all over the twink’s tight ass.

  And he was still home alone.

  Ron closed his eyes. Fuck.

  Maybe I can meet someone this weekend.

  He hoped.

  He went to clean up and then return to bed, hopefully to fall asleep now that he’d jerked off twice, and hopefully not lie there all night feeling lonely and full of self-pity.

  * * * *

  “Hello, Mr. Sagafin. How are we this evening?”

  The sixty-eight-year-old man’s eyes widened as he stared up at Ivan from his hospital bed. “Jesusfuck, kid. How old are you?”

  Dr. Ivan Mercado forced a smile. “Old enough that if I had a dollar for every time I heard that line, my med school tuition would finally be paid off and I could afford something besides ramen noodles for dinner six days a week.”

  Ivan pulled up the patient’s latest labs and quickly scanned them. No sign of post-op infection, which was good. The massive heart attack on top of his pneumonia had nearly killed the man. It would suck if complications from Mr. Sagafin’s emergency triple bypass surgery late yesterday finished what Ivan had fought so hard to prevent. This had been the first time he’d actually “met” his patient, although he had operated on the man.

  His previous contacts with the gentleman, the patient had either been sedated in his ICU bed, or unconscious on his OR table.

  “Isn’t it past your bedtime?” Mr. Sagafin hit the button to raise the head of his bed a little.

  Another forced smile. “I might actually be able to afford a house payment if I had a dollar for every time I heard that one, too.” Ivan preferred making another cycle of rounds before going home, even if he’d been in the OR late, or up early. Putting eyes on his patients and their latest labs and making sure there wasn’t anything he’d overlooked.

  Wasn’t like he had anyone waiting for him at home.

  This kinda was his home. He sure as hell spent more time here than he did at home.

  Since this was his last patient of the evening to check on, once he’d finished listening to two more of the guy’s threadbare lines (I’ve got underwear older than you, and Are you even old enough to drink yet?) Ivan had a quick discussion with the man’s night nurse before grabbing his stuff and heading home.

  In his ten-year-old Mazda, which he’d bought used two years ago after his old beater died, the car he’d had since high school and had nursed through college and med school.

  So when does the whole being a “rich doctor” thing kick in?

  Sure, he was only thirty-four, but he felt a metric fuck-ton older than that most days, despite being blessed with good genes and getting carded every time he wanted to buy a scratch-off, much less rum.

  His studio apartment was a recent upgrade four months ago. The complex wasn’t the best, but it beat sharing a house for the past two years with a guy he’d found to room with through Craigslist. That guy had been…well, okay, but Ivan had told the man very little about himself personally.

  Even though, courtesy of paper-thin walls, he knew all about the guy’s sex life, and the technique preferences of the women the man brought home.

  Living alone cost him a little more now than that arrangement had, but at least his studio apartment was on the second floor and at the far end of the building, so he only shared one wall with a relatively quiet neighbor.

  And he had a great view of the complex’s pool.

  Which, since it was nearly dark out, was only populated by a few older residents and families just wrapping up their evening.

  No cute guys.

  Darn.

  He grabbed a chicken pot pie from the freezer and dumped it onto a paper plate to nuke it. Didn’t even have to look at the instructions because he ate them so often.

  Maybe the daily ramen was an exaggeration, but only a little. He lived austerely not so much by choice as by necessity. He dumped nearly every extra penny he had, which wasn’t much, into his retirement and savings accounts. He only had one splurge he indulged himself in, which he also looked at as self-care.

  Mental health care.

  A desperately needed way to dump a little stress and get away for some R&R once or twice every couple of months, and he spent less on it than some people spent on Starbucks every month. In fact, he was going this weekend, Saturday night, and not a moment too soon.

  He felt…stretched almost to the breaking point.

  Dark.

  Empty.
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  The mental static growing louder.

  After downing the pot pie he stripped and hit the shower, even though he’d had a shower at work after his last surgery when changing from surgical scrubs into jeans and his Adventure Time T-shirt under his white coat before making his final rounds.

  Fuck normalcy, it wasn’t like he was trying to impress the board of directors or something.

  But a long, hot shower at home, at the end of a long-ass day, was one of his ways to decompress. His routine kept him reasonably sane.

  Self-care.

  Another shower in the morning upon waking would help him get his head on straight and pull his Dr. Ivan Mercado mask firmly into place so he could function.

  Lather, rinse, repeat.

  Is this all there is?

  Something he thought all the time and yet tried to keep himself from thinking.

  He wanted to believe there was more.

  Something more.

  Someone more.

  Someone for him.

  Except he’d yet to find that someone and strongly doubted he ever would at this point.

  He had work, which was…okay.

  He saved lives, usually.

  And when he didn’t…

  Well, those were the darkest days for him.

  In more ways than one.

  Chapter Two

  “Thanks for coming with,” Ron said. He was doing the driving this weekend and had just picked up Kimbra at her place.

  “What happened to Wynn and Meri?”

  “He’s in a lot of pain right now. I know he doesn’t look like it, because of how he’s built, but he deals with a lot of chronic pain from an auto accident years ago. Comes and goes, especially if he does too much around the house, or we’re having screwy weather.” This Saturday, Ron wore sunglasses against the bright afternoon glare and didn’t look anything like a Viking.

  Well, he wasn’t dressed like one. But he was pretty damn tall, and with his blond hair and blue eyes, he sure could pass for a Viking.

  “No problem, sugar. Might try to find my own joy, if I’m lucky.”

  He didn’t respond, at first. “Not sure if I’m supposed to cheer you on or talk you out of it.”

  “It’s all right. Not sure I know myself.” She checked to make sure her phone was on silent and slipped it into her purse. “I’m sliding more toward the ‘cheer me on’ end of things, I think.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Nothin’ to be sorry about.” She flashed a smile she didn’t feel as she fluffed up her curls. “I went from a decent husband who was too clingy in some ways, and we butted heads all the time because we’re both bossy, to a woman who can’t make herself commit but who will let me take charge…when she can find time to spend with me. Apparently my picker is fucked. I need to unfuck it. I’m tired of sleepin’ by myself more nights than not.”

  “You’re a catch.”

  “Damn right I am.”

  “I meant…” He sighed. “I know she’s Ev’s sister, but I’ve never seen her at our Viking events he attends. I’ve only met her one time, when she was with you, and I didn’t really speak to her long enough to get to know her.”

  “And that’s the problem. One of.” The more she talked about this, the more things were starting to—slowly—come together in her own mind. “She’s reluctant to come out with me to events unless they’re lifestyle events. And even then…” She didn’t finish.

  She didn’t have to.

  “Is it a quick death, then, or a long, slow demise?”

  She shrugged. “Does it really matter?” She hated admitting it out loud to someone else.

  That made it more…real.

  Kimbra snorted. “Or I might just spend the weekend drinking and staring at more hot people I can never have.” Then she could draw it out and not face it.

  Yet.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Oh, come on,” she said. “Mostly gay men there, honey. I have better chances of hitting the lottery than I do getting laid this weekend.” Another sad truth.

  “Are you all right?”

  “No, but sitting around my place and staring at the walls isn’t going to make me feel any better.” She coiled a curl around her finger, tugged it, then let it spring back.

  Tried not to think about Eve doing the exact same thing the last time they’d spent the night together a few weeks earlier. Eve loved to play with her hair.

  And Kimbra loved to play with her.

  “Why don’t you let the Frightful Five take a shot at matching you up?” she asked Ron. “They hit it out of the park for Meri and Wynn.”

  “Yeah, they did. And yeah, I’ve already talked to Eliza and Cali. They’ve got feelers out. But I’m not putting my eggs all in one basket. If nothing else, I’d like to at least get fricking laid this weekend.”

  She offered him up a fist-bump, which he returned. “Amen,” she said.

  * * * *

  Their rooms were located right next to each other, two single kings on the second floor, poolside, in the southern building. Ron dumped his stuff and immediately headed over to Kimbra’s room, where he perched on the end of her bed. Her walls were painted a greyish shade of blue while his were green, and somehow, it seemed to suit her better.

  “What do you want to do first, sweetie?” he asked. “Lunch? Pool? Lunch by the pool?”

  She smiled. “Better than lunch ending up in the pool, I s’pose.”

  He noted the faint sadness in her gorgeous blue eyes. With her dark, golden brown skin and her hair a playful explosion of naturally curly dark brown ringlets, if he wasn’t gay and she wasn’t a Dominant, he’d totally do her.

  Well, he supposed she was dominant, little d, not a Dominant. One of the reasons marriage didn’t work out between her and Walt, because Walt was a Dom. But they were still close friends. Ron knew Walt even did ASL interpreting for Kimbra’s clients from time to time, and he and his new wife, Holly, attended family functions with Kimbra’s family.

  “You brought that gorgeous bikini, right?” he asked.

  Her left eyebrow arched. “Why?”

  “You need to package the merchandise right, honey.”

  “Ah.” She smirked. “I thought maybe you were asking for you.”

  “Sorry. It’s not you, babe. It’s totally me.”

  She sat next to him on the end of the bed. “I suppose I should spend the day getting totally drunk. That way, I can spend tomorrow recovering, and be ready to face Monday head-on, right?”

  He draped an arm around her shoulders. “Sounds like a plan.”

  Kimbra tipped her head over onto his shoulder. “You ever tell a soul about me being a sensitive, wishy-washy woman right now, they’ll never find your balls. You know that, right?”

  Ron laughed. “Do I look stupid?”

  “No, you look like a hunk.” She turned her face toward his. “And you’re a catch,” she said, her voice taking on a suddenly quiet, serious tone. “Any guy who doesn’t want you’s an idiot.”

  “Hey, hey, hey. Why the sad face? I specifically said no sad faces this weekend. This is happy-getting-laid weekend, right?”

  “I just…” She sighed. “Maybe I should take my own advice and talk to Eliza and them, but I’m not really full-time…”

  She waved her hand at the room. “I’m not full-time kink. I want to have fun in the bedroom, but I ain’t got time for someone who needs their life run for them, and I’m not looking for someone to grovel under me. Being in charge? Okay, I’ll own that. It makes my life easier. That’s where me and Walt always butted heads. We both took charge, and we both assumed the other would let us. I need someone who’ll let me take charge, but that don’t mean I want to be capital-K kinky all the time.”

  “Not everyone who’s kinky needs that all the time,” he reminded her. “Plenty of people are happy only doing that in the bedroom. Or if they like it outside the bedroom, they make their own way with it. Doesn’t have to be dungeon time all the
time.”

  She flopped back on the bed. “I guess lunch. I can gorge myself and then fall asleep in a lounger by the pool.”

  “That’s my girl.” He worried about her, about how…unhappy she seemed. When around others, their friends, Kimbra always put on a sassy smile, quick with a laugh. She didn’t air her drama, not around most people, and damn sure not at work.

  “At least I’m somebody’s girl.”

  * * * *

  During lunch either Kimbra’s mood improved, or she was doing a damn good job of trying to fool him into believing she was cheering up a little. They sat at a table in the restaurant’s covered patio area and watched cuties from behind the safety of their sunglasses.

  “How about that guy over there in the blue Speedo?” she said.

  Ron looked where she was surreptitiously pointing at a dark-haired twink. “He’s cute. I’ve seen him a couple of times around here. Or someone similar.”

  “All twinks look alike to me, sugar. Least the white ones do.” Her wicked smile slid his opinion toward maybe her mood was improving.

  Ron tipped his head back and forth as he studied the guy. “Still, he looks barely legal. I’d like one who doesn’t get carded every time I take him out, or makes it look like I’m robbing the damn cradle.”

  “Or that he’s your son?”

  Ron shuddered. “Yeah, let’s not go there, please.”

  “Then how come you ain’t wigged out over Wynn and Meri?”

  “He’s only nine years older than her. He was barely out of college when he taught us, and she was nearly eighteen back then. But I’m thirty-six, and the thought of dating an eighteen-year-old creeps me out.”

  “Ah. That is different.”

  “Right?” He glanced around, his eyes settling on the twink again before moving on. He couldn’t tell what color the guy’s eyes were because he wore sunglasses. If his memory was correct they weren’t blue, but not brown. Ron suspected the twink’s tan complexion was more natural than sun-kissed, and he had brown hair just slightly shaggy, but which probably laid down perfectly if he ran a comb through it.

  He didn’t allow himself to think about if the nameless guy had ruffled his own hair or another hand had done it for him. Wasn’t an option, anyway.