Lap of Luxury, Part 2

II. Room Service

“Vichyssoise.”

Matt laughed his fool head off.

“What’s wrong with vichyssoise?”

“What language is that? Is that Frenchish?”

“You have no class whatsoever.”

“You wouldn’t have me any other way. C’mon, what else is on the menu?”

They were lying on the bed, naked but for Mohinder’s reading glasses perched earnestly on his slim nose. The scent of sex was still heady in the air, and Matt was tangling himself in the sheets like a big, lazy dog, occasionally bursting out with something along the lines of “Have I mentioned I love this? God, look at me! I’m in a bed at the motherfucking Plaza! The Plaza!”

“How about braised tilapia with a winter vegetable ragout?”

“Ragu? Isn’t that spaghetti sauce?”

Mohinder snorted. “I don’t know what’s worse– that I get the joke, or that you’re probably not joking.”

Matt pressed a kiss on the inside of his thigh. “How about this. Get me the steak. There’s no way they don’t have steak.”

Mohinder shivered and reflexively grabbed his hair. “Mmm,” he sighed. “All right, filet mignon it is. As for me, I think I will stick with the salad.”

“The alien salad?”

Mohinder cocked his head to the side. “How exactly is it an alien salad?”

“Look, doc.” Matt scowled and sat up straight, white sheets wrinkling around him. “Where I come from, salads have lettuce, tomato, and when you want to get really fancy, maybe some cucumber. Not, what was it, fennel, and capers, and argulala…”

“Arugula,” Mohinder corrected patiently.

“Whatever. The point is, are they even vegetables?”

Mohinder laughed a full, rich laugh. “Yes, Matt. When it gets here I promise you will think it looks just like a regular, normal salad.”

“Yeah, right.” Matt scrambled to his feet, grabbing his pants from the side of the bed. “That’s the thing about aliens, they’re always in disguise.” Mohinder broke into half-snorting giggles. “You ought to think about getting some pants on if we’re going to have someone at our door. Too bad, but that’s life.”

“Indeed.” Mohinder pulled his pants off the unlikely spot they’d flown to earlier. “I’ll have to order first, however.”

“You do that,” waved Matt, wandering back into the sitting room. It was still as indescribably beautiful as before. The whole thing ought to be behind a velvet rope in a museum somewhere, not beneath his big, ugly, bare feet.

He imagined Molly’s reaction to seeing this room. She’d be clambering over the couches and admiring the brass-plated knobs on the desk drawers, declaring herself a princess of her domain. Either that or, knowing Molly, she’d play adventurer, braving the strange new world of Planet Plaza. It made Matt wish she was with them for a moment.

But fifteen minutes later, the doorbell rang and Mohinder strode confidently across the room in only his pants, and Matt promptly thanked his lucky stars she wasn’t there. Mohinder was sex walking.

When dinner was safely on the living room table, Mohinder pressed a bill into the busboy’s somewhat sweaty palm and closed the door again. It clicked shut, and he immediately leaned against the back of the door, grinning. “The busboy was ogling you,” he said.

Matt hadn’t paid attention. “He was what?”

“He was checking you out.” Mohinder’s smile was lopsided; he was biting down on the inside of his cheek to keep from dissolving into laughter.

“What, my beer gut?”

“That and your open zipper, yes.” Mohinder couldn’t keep it in any longer and he burst out laughing as Matt’s eyes turned to dots and his hands flew to his waist.

“Why didn’t you say something?” he hissed.

“Perhaps I was enjoying the view as well.” Wiping his eyes, Mohinder sat down. “Shall we eat?”

Still glowering, Matt looked down at the two silver-domed platters. “Sure,” he said in the tone of voice that always made Mohinder dread what was coming next. In one motion, he scooped up both ofthe domed covers from the platters and clashed them together like cymbals. The noise was horrendous; Mohinder shrieked and covered his ears. “Come and get it!” sang Matt before a throw pillow, living up to its name, hit him in the gut.

The food was brain-meltingly good, and Matt even accepted a bite of arugula after being forced to admit that yes, it did pretty much look like a normal salad. He checked his fly nervously as Mohinder called downstairs to have the busboy collect the empty plates.

When the kid came back, Matt paid attention. He wasn’t just looking at him, Matt realized, but shifting his gaze uncomfortably between the two of them. Matt sighed a little and went back into the bedroom. He was having too good of a time to let one glance ruin his night. Better to just leave it be.

Mohinder appeared shortly in the bedroom doorway, carrying a silver bucket and a small platter covered with another dome. “Compliments of the hotel,” he said sunnily.

“That guy wasn’t checking me out,” Matt said darkly. He was lying on the bed, legs crossed, arms folded behind his head. “He was checking us out.”

Mohinder started to cross the room, his eyes on the table near the window. “Oh.”

“I mean, what’s his deal?” Matt watched him pass along the foot of the bed, scowling. “How can he be working in New York and still be so surprised?”

Stopping and turning to stare at Matt across the length of the bed, Mohinder heaved a heavy sigh. “There are people out there like that. You just have to accept that you’ll run into them.”

“Yeah, but still!” With almost childish indignation. “Like he’s never seen an interracial couple before!”

The bucket went clattering to the ground, followed by the platter, followed by Mohinder in fits of hysterical laughter. Matt shimmied down to the foot of the bed, then vaulted over onto the carpet beside him. “Gotcha,” he grinned, putting his arms around him and pulling him down onto the floor beside him.

Mohinder’s laughter sublimated into a rain of desperate, hot kisses on Matt’s face. “You’re always surprising me,” he whispered into his mouth.

“Glad I haven’t lost my touch then.” Matt threaded a finger through his hair.

“I adore your touch.” There was a world of big, solid, inescapable man next to him, and Mohinder was aching for him again, even so soon after they’d sated each other on the big bed. But there was also a bucket of ice with a bottle of champagne in it, and a platter of lord knows what, and that was too good a deal to pass up.

He sat up and pulled the bottle from the bucket. It was frigid in his hand. A small silver corkscrew hung from the side of the bucket, and Mohinder fumbled with it as Matt got up and grabbed two glasses from the counter atop the bar. “I don’t know anything about champagne, I’m afraid,” Mohinder confessed as he worked the screw into the cork.

“I’m a beer guy myself.” Matt gave the easy smile that Mohinder loved so well, settling back down next to him. “Hey, look, our bed has feet.”

Still wrestling with what seemed to be a particularly stubborn cork, Mohinder looked down. The footboard of the bed was chestnut, and at each corner the wood tapered down into a rounded sort of paw that curved up and over at the end. The scalloping pattern etched into the crest of it really did resemble a set of toes. Mohinder leaned in. “Hm, you’re r–”

Then, with a gush, the cork came out, and fizz flew high in the air, dousing the two men (and a good portion of the carpet) in sweet-smelling champagne. Matt’s hair was soaked. Mohinder’s eyes stung. He hurried to replace the bottle in the bucket, then stared at Matt. They were a pair of drowned rats.

It was a full five minutes before they could stop laughing.

“It’s your fault, you know,” Mohinder accused through threading breaths and fresh rounds of giggles. “If you hadn’t made me drop it on the floor…”

“Are you kidding me?” The voice was very quiet and very low. Mohinder looked up.

The look on Matt’s face silenced him, and suddenly he had to swallow a lump in his throat. Matt’s eyes were blazing. He gingerly touched one of Mohinder’s soaked curls, squeezed it slightly, then brought the wet fingers to his mouth and sucked on them. Watching him, Mohinder shivered.

Matt leaned in to him. “This,” he said in a scorching voice, “is the best idea you’ve had all day.” Mohinder couldn’t move, couldn’t even breathe. Matt’s head dipped to his neck, and his tongue darted out to dance across a rivulet of champagne that had been pooling there. Mohinder heard himself make a perfectly obscene noise. He grabbed Matt’s face with both hands and pulled it up to meet his.

The kiss tasted of filet mignon and champagne and the high life. He couldn’t get enough of his tongue, the sweetly accented taste and texture of it. He pulled on Matt’s face with his palms, willing him even closer, trying to fuse them together even more firmly. Matt knocked him to the floor, where he writhed, made of champagne bubbles and passion.

“You’re delicious,” Matt groaned, soft and law in his ear. He licked at the ball of his shoulder, running fingers down his arm. Mohinder shuddered. He was straining against Matt’s oh-so-methodical body now, trying to create friction but being reduced to helpless shudders whenever Matt’s mouth disappeared from his sensory landscape only to appear again at his navel, a nipple, the palm of his hand. When he heard the familiar rip of a zipper and felt warm, wet, wine-soaked hands close around his erection, he cried out.

“Close your eyes,” Matt said low into his thigh. Mohinder shuddered at the proximity and complied. He heard the rattle of silver and a short silence. Then, abruptly, something was probing against the edges of his mouth. A point, opening to a slightly prickly surface.

A strawberry. Mohinder bit into it and felt the sugary sweetness flood his mouth. Matt dangled another one to his lips, and Mohinder surged forward, widening his jaw to take in both the fruit and the fingers that offered it. Matt made a noise of surprise, then delight, to feel teeth and tongue nipping at his fingers. He drew back on the berry to allow Mohinder to bite the flesh away from the stem, then placed his index finger on Mohinder’s lips. Mohinder sucked in the finger and swirled his tongue around its tip, making Matt shudder. His other hand pulled tighter on Mohinder’s cock, his lips buried in his hair, shoulders pinning the other man down. And he was growling in a voice that didn’t seem human, “God, I love you. I love you so damn much.” Mohinder could feel his groin, pulsing hot hardness against his thigh.

His blood was pounding in his ears. Without even knowing what he was doing, Mohinder pulled himself out of his pants and gripped the footboard of the bed, one fist turning white atop the scalloped, bulbous paw that had fascinated Matt before. He was naked, sitting against the foot of the bed, eyes begging at Matt.

What Matt did then was almost unbearable. He leaned back onto his knees and his eyes slowly– oh, so slowly– traveled the length of Mohinder’s body. Mohinder felt the heat of the gaze like a touch, from bare toes to trembling thighs, stiff cock jutting at the ceiling, curved stomach and hunched shoulders, neck, chin, lips, eyes. And Matt’s face was dead serious, the whole time. Mohinder felt as though he were being slowly devoured. All this, just from a look.

And then Matt reached into the bucket and pulled out the champagne bottle. He took one of the still-unused flutes and poured a glass, tipped his head back, took a sip, and thrust it in Mohinder’s direction. Mohinder reluctantly let go of the footboard and took the stem between shaking fingers. Matt’s eyes were expectant on his. He raised the flute to his lips and tilted it back.

Then Matt was on him, kissing champagne off his lips, and the glass went tumbling to the side, splashing bubbly liquid all over Mohinder’s stomach. It seeped down around his core, ran between his thighs. And then Matt knelt to lick away the spill inch by torturous inch, murmuring happily into his stomach, and Mohinder’s hands went right back to the footboard because it was like getting eaten alive by fire, roaring outward from the inside and inward from the skin.

And when the fizz was licked up between his legs, Matt’s mouth moving up from the base of his balls through their swell, soft licks and then one, then the other, in Matt’s huge hot mouth, Mohinder could hear nothing but his own ragged breaths and the small sucking and popping and smacking sounds below, and it was so maddeningly obscene that he broke out into several throaty noises he didn’t know he could make.

Then Matt swallowed him down, so very, very deep and warm, and Mohinder thought he’d gone deaf altogether. Deaf and blind and only able to feel, aware of his throat scratching beneath his own cries and the sheer overwhelming pleasure that burned orange-hot where hip and tongue and breath seared him. He ground his head back against the footboard, trying to stay upright, sane, alive. It was too incredible.

Then he felt something against his lips again. Matt had grabbed another strawberry from the plate and was pushing it against his mouth. Mohinder licked at the fingers bearing the offering and elicited a little grunt in return.

But when he bit into it, juice filling his mouth, Matt’s hand dropped the stem and fell immediately to tweak one of his nipples hard. And with the sweetness in his mouth and the tartness at his chest and the wetness at his center, Mohinder roared as he came, so hard and so fully Matt couldn’t catch it all and had to withdraw as he spilled all over them both, yet another layer of stickiness and sweetness and pulsing beauty.

He clutched the footboard, looking down at the mess of skin and semen and strawberry stem and champagne, and the glowing eyes and licking lips that regarded him from deep in that valley. “Oh, my,” he heard himself say, and he laughed shakily at how prim and proper it sounded after such a delightfully hedonistic interlude.

“Yes.” Matt nuzzled his thigh. “All yours.”

Mohinder threw his head back, giddy. Stars were flying across his vision. The world was a galaxy of champagne studded with big, ripe strawberry planets. He could feel Matt’s eyes on him, knew without looking that his expression was one of amusement. “How do you feel?” he heard Matt say.

“Oh. Oh.” He forced his head back down. “Marvelous.” He pulled Matt to him, kissed him, tasted himself and champagne. One hell of a mixed drink.

“You look so incredible.” Matt caressed his jawline with one hand. “I love seeing you like this.” His voice was husky.

“Mm-hm.” Mohinder was still dazed, too ecstatic to say anything intelligent. “I think I might be rather sticky.”

“I could draw you a bath,” Matt suggested.

“That sounds lovely,” Mohinder said. “But I don’t think I can quite… walk.”

Matt laughed briefly and murmured into his neck, “Then I’ll draw us a bath. You can come when you’re ready.

Mohinder pressed ardent kisses into his hair. “Yes. You’re sticky, too. And I don’t envy whoever has to clean the carpet.”

“But it was worth it, right?”

“Oh. Oh, hell, yes,” Mohinder groaned, his smile so wide he thought it might break his face apart.

“Good. Take your time.” Matt lumbered to his feet, swearing halfway up. “Shit, my back is gonna need that bath.” He took a few steps toward the bathroom door.

“Matt?”

He turned. “What?”

“This. This is why I brought you here.”

“To get a blow job?” Matt scrunched up his face, making Mohinder laugh.

“Because you make my world such an amazing place to be. Every day.”

Matt smiled. A moment passed between them that needed no words.

“See you in the bath,” he finally said, and disappeared through the door.

:to be continued: