Chapter 12: Playing Hooky
The knock came just as Matthew was buttoning his shirt, his skin still damp and smelling of the Wynn’s verbena soap. He knew it was Oliver without asking. The adjoining door opened, and there he was, already dressed in dark jeans and a fitted gray tee, his smile a thing of lazy, possessive warmth.
“Don’t bother finishing that,” Oliver said, crossing the room in three strides. His hands slid around Matthew’s waist, palms flat against his stomach, pulling him back into the solid heat of his body. He nuzzled the damp spot below Matthew’s ear. “Fuck the workshop. Let’s bail. One last day. Just us.”
Matthew’s fingers stilled on the button. “We’ll get noticed.”
“Let them notice.” Oliver’s breath was warm against his neck. “Come on. Be reckless with me.”
It was the with me that did it. That fragile, collective pronoun. Matthew leaned back into him. “Okay.”
They played tourist with the fervor of converts. Oliver’s hand was a constant, claiming pressure—guiding Matthew through the casino chaos with a palm on the small of his back, curling around his hip as they waited for coffee, threading their fingers together as they walked past the absurdly dancing fountains. The contact was electric and terrifying. Matthew felt seen, paired, in a way that made his chest ache. They laughed at the overpriced souvenir shops, took a selfie with a weary-looking Elvis impersonator, and shared a slice of grotesquely huge cake in a patisserie where the gold leaf probably wasn’t.
“It feels real, doesn’t it?” Oliver murmured, his thumb stroking Matthew’s knuckle on the tabletop.
Matthew just nodded, his throat tight. It felt more real than anything in months.
The midday sun became a hammer. They fled back to the cool, silent sanctuary of the hotel tower. The moment Oliver’s room door clicked shut, the pretense of sightseeing dissolved. They didn’t make it to the bed. Oliver pressed him against the wall, his mouth hot and demanding, and Matthew kissed him back with a frantic energy, clawing at Oliver’s shirt.
“Need you,” Oliver grunted, tearing at Matthew’s belt. “Now.”
They fucked right there, on the floor, with the desert light slicing through the blinds. Oliver was relentless, pulling Matthew’s jeans down just enough, spitting into his palm before pushing into him with a deep, ragged groan. Matthew cried out, his forehead against the wall, his fingers scrambling for purchase on the smooth paint. It was raw, and fast, and breathtakingly obscene—the slap of skin, Oliver’s filthy encouragement in his ear, the sheer wrongness of it making his climax tear through him like a shockwave.
It was just the beginning.
They lost count. In Oliver’s room, on the disheveled bed, with Matthew riding him, sweat dripping from his chin onto Oliver’s hairy chest. In Matthew’s room, bent over the cool marble of the bathroom vanity, watching their frantic reflection. In the shower again, water sluicing over them as Oliver fingered him open and then fucked him slowly, agonizingly, until Matthew was sobbing with pleasure.
It was a manic attempt to consume the experience, to memorize each other by taste and touch and sound. The rooms blurred. Time dissolved. There was only the next touch, the next gasp, the next desperate union.
Later, swathed in the soft robes, Oliver looked at him, his eyes dark. “Dinner. A proper one. My treat.”
He took Matthew to a steakhouse off the Strip, all dark wood and intimate booths. They shared a bottle of rich Cabernet. Oliver ordered for them both. They talked about everything except the things that mattered—work, movies, music, their stupid college mistakes. Oliver’s foot hooked around Matthew’s ankle under the table. It felt like a date. A real, breathtakingly perfect date. Matthew felt a glowing, dangerous happiness settle in his ribs.
Walking back through the casino, the noise felt distant. Oliver’s hand was in his again. This is the best day of my life, Matthew thought. The truth of it was absolute and devastating.
Because tomorrow they would fly home. To San Francisco. To Toby. To Conrad. To the ruin they had casually architected.
Back in Oliver’s room, the high from the wine and the night began to fray at the edges. Oliver was pouring a nightcap, his sleeves rolled up. The suite was quiet, just the low hum of the city beyond the glass.
Matthew sat on the edge of the bed, the weight of it all crashing down. He couldn’t carry this back on the plane unexamined.
“Oliver,” he said, his voice sounding strange in the quiet.
“Hmm?” Oliver handed him a glass of amber bourbon.
“We need to talk. About… what this is. What happens at SFO tomorrow.”
Oliver’s easy smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. He took a slow drink, avoiding Matthew’s gaze. “Let’s not ruin it tonight.”
“We have to. I need to know what you’re thinking.”
Oliver set his glass down on the side table with a deliberate click, the sound final in the quiet room. He ran a hand through his hair, his gaze fixed on the city’s distant lights, and when he finally spoke, his voice was stripped of its usual playful ease. “Toby and I… it hasn’t been right for months. Maybe a year.” He let out a short, hard breath. “We’re just… roommates who fuck sometimes. Polite strangers who share a mortgage.”
Matthew’s chest tightened. He stayed silent, holding his breath.
“It was already there,” Oliver continued, turning to face him. His eyes were starkly honest. “The thought of ending it. It was on the table. And you… fuck, Matt, you were part of that thought. The way you’d laugh at my stupid jokes in meetings, the way you’d bite your pen when you were thinking. I noticed. Of course I fucking noticed.”
He crossed the room and knelt in front of Matthew, his hands on Matthew’s knees. “But this? Here? This wasn’t some planned exit affair. This blew every circuit I had. I’m not just thinking about ending it with Toby now. I’m done. Because I am head over heels for you. This can’t end when we land. I won’t let it.”
The words hung in the air, immense and terrifying. Oliver’s thumbs stroked the denim over Matthew’s knees. “Your turn. Conrad. Tell me.”
Matthew’s mouth was dry. He looked into Oliver’s face, seeing the hope and fear there, and knew he could only offer the same brutal honesty. “Conrad is… good. He’s stable. He’s kind. He wants something real with me.” He swallowed, the confession aching as it left his throat. “I have feelings for him. And I don’t want to be the asshole who smashes that for a conference fling.”
He leaned forward, their foreheads almost touching. “But I would. Oliver, I would throw it away in a heartbeat. For this. For you. Right now.”
A shudder went through Oliver’s body. He surged up, capturing Matthew’s mouth in a kiss that was more relief than passion, a soft, grateful meeting of lips. “Then we’ll figure it out,” he whispered against Matthew’s mouth. “Tomorrow. We’ll talk, we’ll make a plan. But tonight… tonight is still ours. Let me just have this.”
“Yes,” Matthew breathed, the word lost as Oliver kissed him again, deeper this time.
The kiss unfolded slowly, a deliberate mapping of familiar territory made new by their spoken truths. Oliver’s tongue traced Matthew’s lower lip before seeking entry, a languid exploration that spoke of hours, not minutes. Matthew’s fingers slid into Oliver’s hair, holding him there, anchoring himself to the moment. When they broke apart, their breathing was uneven, their eyes locked.
Without a word, Oliver stood and began undressing Matthew with a solemn slowness. Each button of the shirt was a revelation, the pop of the jeans fly a quiet promise. He peeled the fabric away, his warm, calloused palms following the path of exposed skin—shoulders, chest, hips. Matthew did the same, pushing Oliver’s tee up, finding the coarse, dark hair on his stomach, unfastening his jeans to free his already hardening cock.
They moved to the bed, a tangle of limbs and silent understanding. Oliver nudged Matthew onto his back and settled between his legs, but he didn’t rush. He just looked, his gaze traveling over Matthew’s body as if committing it to memory. Then he bent and took Matthew’s cock into his mouth, not with hungry fervor, but with a slow, wet suction that made Matthew arch and moan.
“Oliver… please…”
Oliver released him with a soft pop, kissing his way up Matthew’s sternum to his mouth. He reached for the lube on the nightstand, and the sound of the cap clicking open was absurdly loud. He coated his fingers, his eyes never leaving Matthew’s. “Watch me,” he murmured.
Matthew watched as Oliver’s slick fingers circled his hole, pressing gently, working him open with a patient, rhythmic pressure that was almost meditative. There was no frantic scissoring, just a gradual, relentless stretch that bloomed pleasure through Matthew’s lower belly. He was panting, his heels digging into the sheets, by the time Oliver added a second finger, curling them just right.
“Ready?” Oliver whispered, his voice rough.
“Yes. God, yes.”
Oliver slicked himself, his jaw tight with restraint, and then he was guiding his cock to Matthew’s entrance. He pushed in with one long, continuous slide, burying himself to the hilt, and they both cried out—a synchronized sound of sheer, overwhelming connection. He held himself there, fully sheathed, forehead pressed to Matthew’s, their breath mingling.
Then he began to move.
It wasn’t the punishing, frantic pace of the afternoon. It was a deep, rolling rhythm, a withdrawal almost to the tip followed by a smooth, full-bodied thrust that made Matthew feel utterly filled, utterly claimed. Each drive was punctuated by a soft grunt from Oliver, a gasped “yes” from Matthew. Oliver braced himself on one forearm, his other hand cradling the side of Matthew’s face, his thumb stroking his cheekbone.
“You feel… you feel like fucking heaven,” Oliver gritted out, his rhythm never faltering. “So tight. So perfect for me.”
Matthew could only wrap his legs around Oliver’s waist, pulling him in deeper, meeting each thrust. The pleasure built not in a frantic spike, but in a warm, spreading tide, coiling tighter and tighter in his core. He came without warning, a silent, seizing climax that ripped through him, painting his stomach in stripes of white. Oliver watched him fall apart, his own control snapping.
“Fuck, Matt… I’m gonna—” Oliver’s thrusts lost their rhythm, becoming short, desperate jerks. With a choked-off groan, he came, pulsing deep inside Matthew, his body shuddering violently.
He collapsed, careful not to crush him, but immediately gathered Matthew against him. They stayed locked together, sweat-slick and spent, Oliver’s come leaking between them. Matthew turned his head, his ear pressed to Oliver’s chest, listening to the frantic, slowing drum of his heart.
Oliver’s arms tightened around him. No words came. The neon glow from the Strip bled around the curtains, painting vague, shifting shapes on the ceiling. Matthew closed his eyes. He focused on the weight of Oliver’s arm across his back, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the faint, clean scent of his skin beneath the sweat and sex.
Hours slipped by. The city’s noise became a distant lullaby. They didn’t sleep. They just lay there, entwined in the dark, holding the dawn at bay with the sheer force of their silence.