He knew it was maybe not the most responsible decision, doing a scene before an interview, but in his defense, the interview wasn't supposed to be until that evening, and they'd started early just to make sure. Michael was going to be out of town for the next two weeks in China, and his flight left that evening. And with his schedule, it had been a while, almost a week since he'd been able to feel someone's hands on his body like that. Feel the way his body sings in the midst of that pleasure and pain, that feeling of restraints, being bound, giving up control, being told what to do and that whispered praise that hit something inside of him when he did it just right.
Except he's in the middle of the scene when his phone rings, Michael's the snap of a riding crop hard against his ass, turning pale white skin red. They let it go to voicemail, but soon the restraints are off and he's calling back to confirm, and he's shaking, not really in his own body. Michael does what he can: makes him a cup of tea, makes sure he eats something, presses soft whispering kisses to his forehead and his throat. But having to go from that vulnerable place of trust and pleasure to camera-ready in an hour just isn't possible.
Tom can't seem to stop apologizing, even as Michael reassures him that it's okay, that they both have the sort of jobs where these things happen, that he hasn't done anything wrong. Tom still ends up on his knees, with Michael's girth between those lips, needing to feel something, something tactile, like the act of it can anchor him, but then he's stumbling out the door.
If not for Robert, he thinks he might have died. And he can feel the knowledge in it. The first time that he looks up at him in the middle of answering a question, needing that reassurance, that reminder that he's doing okay, and he meets his eyes, gives him what he needs, he can sense that Robert knows just what's wrong. But that physical contact, that way that his hand presses against him is like an anchor. And he eases in, not quite relaxed, but not as tense as before.
Until he moves his hand, anyway. Tom isn't even thinking about it when he starts to move, grabbing for Robert's hand like it's a desperate need, the only thing keeping him inside of himself. The rest of the interview passes much as the beginning, until they're shaking hands and giving pleasant goodbyes, and Tom lingers in that reassuring contact of Robert's hand against him, the way he holds that flicker of control in his eyes. They both know what this is, he knows that they'll have to talk, and he'd prefer sooner rather than later.
However, the fact is that there's not a lot of places for private conversations, and so he murmurs a soft excuse to Robert, and then he's slipping off to the bathroom, and hoping that he'll follow. He's still nervous, not quite himself without that contact, without that look in Robert's eyes, but he splashes some cold water on his face, but it doesn't help much.
His eyes are dilated, and his skin is faintly flushed, and there's something on edge about him, like his slim body is a live wire.
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Except he's in the middle of the scene when his phone rings, Michael's the snap of a riding crop hard against his ass, turning pale white skin red. They let it go to voicemail, but soon the restraints are off and he's calling back to confirm, and he's shaking, not really in his own body. Michael does what he can: makes him a cup of tea, makes sure he eats something, presses soft whispering kisses to his forehead and his throat. But having to go from that vulnerable place of trust and pleasure to camera-ready in an hour just isn't possible.
Tom can't seem to stop apologizing, even as Michael reassures him that it's okay, that they both have the sort of jobs where these things happen, that he hasn't done anything wrong. Tom still ends up on his knees, with Michael's girth between those lips, needing to feel something, something tactile, like the act of it can anchor him, but then he's stumbling out the door.
If not for Robert, he thinks he might have died. And he can feel the knowledge in it. The first time that he looks up at him in the middle of answering a question, needing that reassurance, that reminder that he's doing okay, and he meets his eyes, gives him what he needs, he can sense that Robert knows just what's wrong. But that physical contact, that way that his hand presses against him is like an anchor. And he eases in, not quite relaxed, but not as tense as before.
Until he moves his hand, anyway. Tom isn't even thinking about it when he starts to move, grabbing for Robert's hand like it's a desperate need, the only thing keeping him inside of himself. The rest of the interview passes much as the beginning, until they're shaking hands and giving pleasant goodbyes, and Tom lingers in that reassuring contact of Robert's hand against him, the way he holds that flicker of control in his eyes. They both know what this is, he knows that they'll have to talk, and he'd prefer sooner rather than later.
However, the fact is that there's not a lot of places for private conversations, and so he murmurs a soft excuse to Robert, and then he's slipping off to the bathroom, and hoping that he'll follow. He's still nervous, not quite himself without that contact, without that look in Robert's eyes, but he splashes some cold water on his face, but it doesn't help much.
His eyes are dilated, and his skin is faintly flushed, and there's something on edge about him, like his slim body is a live wire.