Who Knows When (Joger/Dealor)

Chapter 53

John rolled his eyes and got settled between my legs again, this time lining himself up with my entrance. Relief washed over me as he finally slid inside me, and I pulled his face down for a kiss that wasn't a kiss at all; rather, it was just the two of us breathing heavily into each other's mouths.

Once John was fully seated inside of me, he paused and stared right into my eyes. We stayed like that for a few moments, enjoying the moment and the feel of our bodies joined together, but also making sure that we were ready to continue. There was no turning back now, though, and so I gave him a hasty nod of approval, which prompted him to start shallowly thrusting into me.

I hooked my legs around his waist and dug my heels into his back, encouraging him to go deeper. "Ugh...Deaky," I drawled, arching my back. He abruptly stopped moving and looked down at me, cocking an eyebrow.

"Did you just call me Deaky? I thought you hated that nickname," he grinned.

"Oh, shove it," I groaned, kicking his ass with my heel.

"Don't mind if I do," John laughed.

My snarky retort was cut off by a high-pitched moan, punched out of me as John slammed into me with a pleasant roughness I wasn't prepared for. He maintained a fast, ungraceful rhythm, causing a thin sheen of sweat to gather on both of our bodies. I pushed my hips back into his as he pounded into me and, with the alcohol still faintly buzzing in our minds, we both knew we wouldn't last long.

"I'm close, Roger," John whispered, his voice strained, "C-Can I finish inside you?"

My cock twitched at John's words and I tried my best to formulate a response as our bodies continued to rock together. "Yes, please," I finally breathed out, John instinctively wrapping his hand around my length.

It only took a few strokes before I reached my release with John's name on my lips, letting out a deep moan as I felt John simultaneously finish inside of me, flopping down on me shortly after. I carded my hand through his hair and pressed a kiss to his forehead as we laid together, trying to catch our breaths.

Minutes passed before John reluctantly rolled off me and reached over to grab a tissue from the nightstand, wiping both of us off before standing up and disappearing into the bathroom.

I silently reached a lazy hand out to him in an attempt to bring him back, but as soon as the door shut behind him, my hand dropped, and I turned over onto my stomach. My face was buried in the sheets, my eyelids heavy with exhaustion, and my heart trying to slow itself down. As I began to doze off, I developed an acute awareness of my surroundings—the cool night's breeze that cut through the room and danced across my bare back, the smell of alcohol on my breath that filled the air every time I exhaled, and the sound of running water, mixed with the sound of giggles and whispers that grew and faded as their source passed by the hotel room. It was all very calming, and I didn't know how long I was out before I was startled by the sound of a lighter trying to be ignited.

I lifted my head that felt heavier than normal and drowsily glanced over to the balcony where I found John standing naked on the balcony, cigarette in one shaky hand and a lighter in another. I watched in silence as he finally got the end of the white stick to burn, setting aside the lighter just as quickly as he brought the cigarette up to his lips and inhaled deeply to calm his evident nerves.

"I hope that wasn't mine," I grumbled, attracting John's attention for but a second, his gaze returning to the city below us as he allowed the smoke he'd been holding in his mouth and throat to slip past his lips.

"Go back to sleep, Roger," he murmured in response, going for another drag.

I folded my arms underneath my head and whined tiredly, "But I don't want to."

He heaved a sigh and wrapped his hands around the balcony's edge, the burning stick pinched between his two fingers as his thoughts manifested themselves into the dying night, "What do you think's going to happen when we go back?"

I pondered the situation for a little bit, my exhausted mind struggling to avoid distractions like the yearning of a cigarette for myself, before I answered sleepily, "We're gonna finish the album and become rock stars."

A wistful chuckle cut through the silence, followed by the sound of John breathing in that tantalizing puff of nicotine I craved more and more with every passing second, even in my semi-conscious state. He let it out slowly and muttered, "You really think so?"

"I know so," I assured him, my words slurred as I buried my face back into the sheets.

The two of us stayed like that for a while longer, John standing alone on the balcony while I took up most of the bed, falling in and out of consciousness. In my slumber, I missed the looks that the bassist kept sending my way, studying every part of my body in excruciating detail as if to take a mental snapshot of me to remember forever. I neglected to acknowledge the sorrow and regret that glistened in his tearful eyes, torn between the two roads ahead of him. Although I'm sure he'd deny it if ever interrogated about it later on, he'd already made up his mind that night, which was why he tried so hard to make it special. It was his idea to stay at the nicer hotel; it was his idea for him and me to room together. He didn't want me to remember this night as something awful; he wanted me to remember it for this—the connection we had, the love we made, the memory of him before I saw him as a traitor.