FIC: All Over Me (AI: Ryan/Simon, NC-17)
May. 13th, 2010 02:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
the_water_clockAuthor: Clio
Title: All Over Me
Pairing: American Idol: Ryan Seacrest/Simon Cowell
Rating: NC-17
Summary: When Simon Cowell met Ryan Seacrest it wasn't love at first sight, but it was certainly something at first sight.
Length: 3000 words
Disclaimer: People sort of own themselves, don't they? Which means this is a work of fiction.
Notes: Their first meeting has been referred to a few times in some of my other stories, including High Art. Here's the whole story, which obviously takes place during season 1. Contains a reference to So Much Depends Upon a Blue Honda Civic.
Thanks toignazwisdom and dana_kujan for the beta and the support! All errors are my own.
Simon Cowell had been to America before, but of course he'd never been to the middle bit. He'd thought of the States as being like Australia, with all the things that mattered on the coasts and the middle bit only interesting to outdoor sport enthusiasts and the odd survivalist. But apparently they were to travel to Chicago and Dallas, of all places, and Simon was not particularly excited about that. At least they were starting in Los Angeles, so he could immerse himself in America slowly.
It appeared that his traveling companions would be not entirely insufferable. Randy he'd met casually a few times before, and he was a good man who laughed at Simon's jokes. Simon had known many women like Paula, though few of them had her drive; she'd been working hard behind the scenes since her pop star had faded, choreographing high-profile shows like the Oscars. Though of course to betray that he was in any way impressed with her would be to lose the upper hand, and with a girl like Paula that simply wouldn't do. The production staff were mostly old hands from Pop Idol of course, so the only real unknowns were the two hosts, whom he had yet to meet. Though why they needed two hosts he wasn't sure; the hosts of Pop Idol, despite appearances, were not actually two different people, but a single entity called "Antindec."
The first to arrive was Brian Dunkelman, who was supposed to be a comedian, though apparently he was the sort who was only funny for pay. He had a petulant disposition and looked as though he were smelling something unpleasant. Simon immediately pegged him as a man to be ignored as completely as possible.
The "professional host" half of the duo was a radio personality, who Simon assumed would come complete with a rather loud voice, brisk efficiency, and a face not made for television. So he was surprised, though not unpleasantly, when a slight young man with very high cheekbones came into the room and made a beeline for Paula.
"Ryan!" she squealed, and wrapped her arms around him.
"Hello, darling," he said in a voice deeper than Simon would have thought. "How are you?"
As Ryan Seacrest made it around the room, Simon had ample opportunity to observe him. Fake tan, far too many even white teeth in an overly large grin, that congenial American manner, a good body under an absurd t-shirt and hundred-dollar jeans that fit like a glove. And of course, spiky blond highlighted hair. Helloooooo, America.
It wasn't until Ryan was standing in front of him that he noticed Ryan's eyes, a deep gray-green note of authenticity in the midst of all that artifice. Simon returned his firm handshake and, needing to know what he was dealing with, asked, "Is that your natural hair color?”
Ryan looked him up and down, the motion of his handshake slowing, and then raised one eyebrow. “Is that your natural cup size?” he asked.
Simon's cigarette almost fell out of his mouth. The room was silent, all of them waiting for his reaction, and Ryan showed no sign of backing down. So Simon did the only thing he could think to do: He threw his head back and laughed.
Ryan smiled again, winking, and Simon was pretty sure the rest of the room was laughing as well, but all he could see in that moment was Ryan.
Paula Abdul was the one Simon had pictured himself fucking when he'd thought about it beforehand, like the sexy girl one makes time with over a summer holiday. She was rather good-natured for a diva and therefore fun to tease, though her usual reaction was to squeal and smack his arm. To be honest that was usually enough for Simon—get noticed by the pretty girl, but look uninterested, and soon they'll be begging for it.
But Ryan was like the clever girl in class whose pigtails one couldn't help but pull. It only took a week for him to catch on to Simon's sense of humor, not only getting his jokes and references but anticipating them and then goading Simon into reacting. Then Ryan would then retaliate, at times even in front of the camera, which raised the ante. Ryan's quick wit had taken Simon by surprise at first, but they soon fell into a rhythm, a mutual give-and-take. The constant sniping certainly made the cross-country trip more enjoyable, becoming so engrained that once they were live on-air the remark about matching panties came out of Simon's mouth before he'd even thought about it.
"If you'd stop checking me out," Ryan replied, and Simon blinked. He'd been doing no such thing, and when he called Terri later he told her so.
"You absolutely were and you know it," she said, laughing.
"I think I know when I'm interested in someone," Simon replied.
"So do I," she said. "Ever since you met it's been 'Ryan this' and 'Ryan that.' You haven't noticed?"
"At present I'm devoting my energy to this show," Simon said.
"Yes, a new show with a new host who is as clever as you are," Terri said. "And I know how you feel about that."
Simon changed the subject.
When he saw Ryan the next day, he forced himself to look at the matter dispassionately. He'd certainly fucked men in the past, usually the sort of vapid pretty boys that Ryan superficially resembled. But talking to them and getting them into bed—or really, talking them into bed—had been reserved for women. He didn't want to ask Ryan out for cocktails, but it wasn't much different.
Then suddenly Ryan looked up from his notes, and his mouth was moving. "What?" Simon asked.
"I said, 'Take a picture, it lasts longer.'" He grinned. "Am I too much of a distraction for you, Cowell? Can't keep your mind on the job?"
"Don't flatter yourself," Simon replied. "I was merely trying to imagine a t-shirt less attractive than the one you're wearing, but I couldn't."
Ryan chuckled—or actually, giggled, for Ryan was a giggler—and wandered away. Oddly Simon didn't feel too embarrassed for having been caught staring. On the contrary, that giggle told him that Ryan was his for the taking, when the time was right. He was absolutely in the driver's seat on this one.
Simon let it play out for another month, enjoying the tension—no, relishing it—and he could see that Ryan wasn't in any hurry, either. After all, they weren't going anyplace all summer.
And then suddenly, right after he'd given his crit to Kelly, Ryan jumped off the stage and walked down to their desk, calling Simon a "pretty boy" as he went, and grabbed him by the shoulders. It was actually to cover some obscene gesture Simon was inadvertently making that Ryan wanted to hide from the camera, but in the moment it was strange and overwhelming, all that activity and touching on camera, and Simon was a bit shaken up by the whole thing. First, the idea that Ryan would think of him as a "pretty boy" was too absurd to be believed. And second, while it was far from the first time they'd casually touched, Simon's instinct wasn't to stiffen up, to recoil, but to just let Ryan do whatever he wanted. It took him a beat to actually react properly and flinch away from his hands.
Clearly, steps needed to be taken.
Performance night meant dinner, a bunch of them around a big table in the back room of some restaurant or another, running off their adrenaline together. Randy was telling some joke about Clive Davis, American radio formats, and space travel that Simon didn't quite understand well enough to get the punch line, but Ryan of course laughed loud and long. Not laughing himself, Simon was able to just watch Ryan: the teeth, the green eyes screwed shut, the adam's apple bobbing under the tanned skin, and he had to cross his legs.
Ryan turned to him, still laughing a bit, and Simon lost any pretense of restraint. He leaned into Ryan's ear and whispered, "You're coming home with me tonight."
When he sat back, Ryan wasn't smiling anymore, just staring. Good, Simon thought. You should be surprised.
After a moment, Ryan blinked, then nodded his head slowly. Simon smiled, then turned around and tuned back into the general conversation. But he could see out of the corner of his eye that it took Ryan a bit longer to recover.
Simon wasn't sure how they got into his car without any teasing; perhaps it was that Ryan was often getting rides, as his own car was far from reliable. Simon was renting a Boxter that summer, all sleek black lines like a panther, and it was practically purring as Ryan sunk into it. They rode away to the condo Simon was renting, a nice penthouse with an ocean view.
Ryan hadn't said a word since they got into the car, and Simon was beginning to wonder if he'd need some careful handling. He decided to take advantage of the empty elevator and rest his hand on Ryan's perfect little ass, which had been tempting him all evening, and Ryan actually turned red. Simon was trying to remember what alcohol was in stock as he let them in the door, because Ryan looked like he could use a nightcap to calm him down.
But no sooner had he locked the door behind them, Ryan pounced, pushing Simon up against the door with his hands and keeping him there with his kiss. Simon was startled but relieved, and it took him but a second to respond with all due enthusiasm. He grabbed that ass and ground their crotches together, and he could tell that Ryan was as ready to go as he was. (Not that he hadn't noticed in the car—those expensive jeans left very little to the imagination.)
Ryan proved to be a much better kisser than Simon had imagined, better than Simon thought he'd had in a long time, and he was perfectly happy for the time being to just snog against the door like teenagers. But Ryan had other ideas and began to walk backwards into the living room, pulling Simon with him but brushing up against the hall table as he went. He pulled away.
"Where's the bedroom?" he asked.
"The what?" Simon said, willing his synapses to start firing again.
Ryan, however, was uninterested in waiting, and turned around to look for the door, dragging Simon along by the hand. He pulled and pushed at Simon until he was standing near the foot of the bed, gave him another of those too-wicked kisses, and then began stripping him. Off went the shirt, down went the trousers, while Simon was still distracted by Ryan's aggression and skill. Really, he should have known, but he just hadn't expected it. Not at all.
"Commando, huh?" Ryan asked between kisses.
Simon found his voice this time. "I never wear pants with jeans," he said. "Too much fabric."
"Pants with jeans?" Ryan asked. "That doesn't even make any sense."
Simon opened his mouth to protest ridiculous American words for articles of clothing when he felt himself being pushed down onto the bed, and managed not to "oof" as he landed. He propped himself up on his elbows, wondering what Ryan was planning.
Apparently Ryan was planning on putting on a show. His movements weren't slow—it was well past time for teasing—but deliberate, revealing his skin a bit at a time. His jacket and t-shirt landed on the floor and Simon all but licked his lips to see that naked chest, fit but not ridiculously so. Jeans were next, and while he'd gotten a sense of what he'd be dealing with when Ryan was pressed up against him, seeing his cock hard and swaying did make Simon bite his lip in anticipation. Ryan grabbed condoms and lube from his jacket pocket, and Simon couldn't wait for Ryan to lube up and sink down onto him.
But Ryan did no such thing. Instead, he dropped to his knees in front of the bed and pushed Simon's jeans the rest of the way off, divesting him of socks and boots in the process. He did roll a condom onto Simon's cock, stroking him just a bit as he did, and then wrapped those very talented lips around it. Simon gasped at the wet heat surrounding the head of his cock and forced his eyes open so he could watch. He was rewarded with the sight of Ryan's wide mouth stretching around him, taking him in bit by bit, and breathing him in, too. One of his hands was wrapped around Simon's cock, stroking what wasn't in his mouth, and the other had moved between his legs to brush gentle fingertips across his balls. Ryan glanced up and their eyes locked, dark and hot, and Simon found himself tipping up just a bit, giving Ryan freer access.
He hadn't expected Ryan to let go then, but for a moment there was nothing but his mouth, moving steadily up and down and taking a little bit more of Simon's cock each time. After a rustling, Ryan's hands were back, this time slick with lube. While it occurred to Simon where this was going, he couldn't be bothered to care. What were a few fingers in one's arse when one's cock was most of the way down Ryan Seacrest's throat? And what got him hot almost more than the feel and sight of it was the sound Ryan's suckling was making, complete with the occasional hum as though Ryan really loved the taste of latex.
Simon had to give it to Ryan. He was quite good, knew every technique in the box and was sparing none. It was as though he had several hands, fingers touching Simon's cock, his balls, not to mention the ones sliding into his arse and rubbing that sweet spot. He was glad he wasn't standing, for the sensory overload was making him dizzy. Before he knew it he was coming, Ryan's name on his lips.
When Simon opened his eyes again, he was lying flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, and had somehow slid further up the bed. Ryan was straddling him, his arms on either side of Simon's head, smiling a bit. Simon looked from his face, to his hard cock, to the condom in his left hand, and opened his legs. "Do what you will," he whispered.
Ryan grinned, broadly, and dipped down for another of those wicked kisses that had got Simon into this position in the first place. He moved his legs inside Simon's, then sat back on his haunches and slid the condom on, staring into Simon's eyes the whole time. He slicked it up with the lube still on his other hand, and Simon tipped his hips up, tossing Ryan a pillow to put under his arse for a better angle. Ryan positioned himself, then slid in slowly, which Simon appreciated; though he'd been prepared pretty well during that blow job, Simon hadn't actually been on the receiving end in a good ten years and needed a bit of time to get used to the stretch and burn of a dick in his arse. But Ryan Seacrest, he was beginning to realize, was a patient and deliberate man, willing to wait for his chance and then take it.
Even once he was fully seated he took his time with long, slow strokes. He'd found Simon's sweet spot with his fingers earlier, and now he was testing the right angle to rub against it with his cock, blunt instrument though it was. Simon shifted so he could put his hands back on that sweet arse he'd been coveting, feeling him flex and relax, push and pull, and damn but Ryan made lying there and taking it a good place to be. Ryan's brow was furrowed in concentration, and by the look of things he was trying to make this last, which was probably another reason for the leisurely pace. But hell, they had all night. No reason to hurry.
Actually it wasn't too long before Ryan got serious, taking pleasure for himself now, and it looked good on him. The flush on his face went well down his neck and onto his chest, and his arms were strong and solid, holding him up above Simon. Ryan was still staring at Simon—apparently they were ones for eye contact—and if he hadn't already come those deep moans would be making him hard as a rock. They sped up as Ryan did, faster and faster until it was one long moan, one long last stroke and he was pushing into Simon, coming.
Ryan was panting just a little, his head very close to Simon's now, and he smiled. They kissed, sloppy and affectionate, and then Ryan slipped out of Simon and onto his back beside him.
He reached for a tissue on the bedside table and used it to remove his condom, rolling it into a neat little ball and chucking it into the bin. "I hope I passed the audition," he joked.
"You're through to the next round," Simon said, grinning.
"Welcome to Hollywood," Ryan said. He sat up on his elbows.
"You know, you could stay," Simon said, before he could think about it too much.
Ryan turned to him and raised an eyebrow. "You only want me to stay so you can get yours back in the morning.”
Simon laughed then. "Undoubtedly," he replied.
Ryan stared at him, considering. "All right," he said.
"All right," Simon replied.
The next day, after a nice fuck and a good breakfast, Ryan took a cab back to the studio and got his car. Simon took a long bath, still a bit achy from the night before, then picked up the phone.
"Hello?" Ryan said, and Simon could hear that clunker of a Honda engine in the background.
"I guess your car started after all," Simon said.
Ryan giggled. "I know, I need to get a new car," he said, "but I kind of promised her I wouldn't sell her."
"You promised the car?" Simon asked.
"Long story," he replied. "So, last night, that was fun."
"As was this morning," Simon said.
"We should do it again sometime."
"How about tonight?" Simon asked.
"Yeah," Ryan replied. "How about tonight?"
Title: All Over Me
Pairing: American Idol: Ryan Seacrest/Simon Cowell
Rating: NC-17
Summary: When Simon Cowell met Ryan Seacrest it wasn't love at first sight, but it was certainly something at first sight.
Length: 3000 words
Disclaimer: People sort of own themselves, don't they? Which means this is a work of fiction.
Notes: Their first meeting has been referred to a few times in some of my other stories, including High Art. Here's the whole story, which obviously takes place during season 1. Contains a reference to So Much Depends Upon a Blue Honda Civic.
Thanks to
ignazwisdom and dana_kujan for the beta and the support! All errors are my own.Simon Cowell had been to America before, but of course he'd never been to the middle bit. He'd thought of the States as being like Australia, with all the things that mattered on the coasts and the middle bit only interesting to outdoor sport enthusiasts and the odd survivalist. But apparently they were to travel to Chicago and Dallas, of all places, and Simon was not particularly excited about that. At least they were starting in Los Angeles, so he could immerse himself in America slowly.
It appeared that his traveling companions would be not entirely insufferable. Randy he'd met casually a few times before, and he was a good man who laughed at Simon's jokes. Simon had known many women like Paula, though few of them had her drive; she'd been working hard behind the scenes since her pop star had faded, choreographing high-profile shows like the Oscars. Though of course to betray that he was in any way impressed with her would be to lose the upper hand, and with a girl like Paula that simply wouldn't do. The production staff were mostly old hands from Pop Idol of course, so the only real unknowns were the two hosts, whom he had yet to meet. Though why they needed two hosts he wasn't sure; the hosts of Pop Idol, despite appearances, were not actually two different people, but a single entity called "Antindec."
The first to arrive was Brian Dunkelman, who was supposed to be a comedian, though apparently he was the sort who was only funny for pay. He had a petulant disposition and looked as though he were smelling something unpleasant. Simon immediately pegged him as a man to be ignored as completely as possible.
The "professional host" half of the duo was a radio personality, who Simon assumed would come complete with a rather loud voice, brisk efficiency, and a face not made for television. So he was surprised, though not unpleasantly, when a slight young man with very high cheekbones came into the room and made a beeline for Paula.
"Ryan!" she squealed, and wrapped her arms around him.
"Hello, darling," he said in a voice deeper than Simon would have thought. "How are you?"
As Ryan Seacrest made it around the room, Simon had ample opportunity to observe him. Fake tan, far too many even white teeth in an overly large grin, that congenial American manner, a good body under an absurd t-shirt and hundred-dollar jeans that fit like a glove. And of course, spiky blond highlighted hair. Helloooooo, America.
It wasn't until Ryan was standing in front of him that he noticed Ryan's eyes, a deep gray-green note of authenticity in the midst of all that artifice. Simon returned his firm handshake and, needing to know what he was dealing with, asked, "Is that your natural hair color?”
Ryan looked him up and down, the motion of his handshake slowing, and then raised one eyebrow. “Is that your natural cup size?” he asked.
Simon's cigarette almost fell out of his mouth. The room was silent, all of them waiting for his reaction, and Ryan showed no sign of backing down. So Simon did the only thing he could think to do: He threw his head back and laughed.
Ryan smiled again, winking, and Simon was pretty sure the rest of the room was laughing as well, but all he could see in that moment was Ryan.
Paula Abdul was the one Simon had pictured himself fucking when he'd thought about it beforehand, like the sexy girl one makes time with over a summer holiday. She was rather good-natured for a diva and therefore fun to tease, though her usual reaction was to squeal and smack his arm. To be honest that was usually enough for Simon—get noticed by the pretty girl, but look uninterested, and soon they'll be begging for it.
But Ryan was like the clever girl in class whose pigtails one couldn't help but pull. It only took a week for him to catch on to Simon's sense of humor, not only getting his jokes and references but anticipating them and then goading Simon into reacting. Then Ryan would then retaliate, at times even in front of the camera, which raised the ante. Ryan's quick wit had taken Simon by surprise at first, but they soon fell into a rhythm, a mutual give-and-take. The constant sniping certainly made the cross-country trip more enjoyable, becoming so engrained that once they were live on-air the remark about matching panties came out of Simon's mouth before he'd even thought about it.
"If you'd stop checking me out," Ryan replied, and Simon blinked. He'd been doing no such thing, and when he called Terri later he told her so.
"You absolutely were and you know it," she said, laughing.
"I think I know when I'm interested in someone," Simon replied.
"So do I," she said. "Ever since you met it's been 'Ryan this' and 'Ryan that.' You haven't noticed?"
"At present I'm devoting my energy to this show," Simon said.
"Yes, a new show with a new host who is as clever as you are," Terri said. "And I know how you feel about that."
Simon changed the subject.
When he saw Ryan the next day, he forced himself to look at the matter dispassionately. He'd certainly fucked men in the past, usually the sort of vapid pretty boys that Ryan superficially resembled. But talking to them and getting them into bed—or really, talking them into bed—had been reserved for women. He didn't want to ask Ryan out for cocktails, but it wasn't much different.
Then suddenly Ryan looked up from his notes, and his mouth was moving. "What?" Simon asked.
"I said, 'Take a picture, it lasts longer.'" He grinned. "Am I too much of a distraction for you, Cowell? Can't keep your mind on the job?"
"Don't flatter yourself," Simon replied. "I was merely trying to imagine a t-shirt less attractive than the one you're wearing, but I couldn't."
Ryan chuckled—or actually, giggled, for Ryan was a giggler—and wandered away. Oddly Simon didn't feel too embarrassed for having been caught staring. On the contrary, that giggle told him that Ryan was his for the taking, when the time was right. He was absolutely in the driver's seat on this one.
Simon let it play out for another month, enjoying the tension—no, relishing it—and he could see that Ryan wasn't in any hurry, either. After all, they weren't going anyplace all summer.
And then suddenly, right after he'd given his crit to Kelly, Ryan jumped off the stage and walked down to their desk, calling Simon a "pretty boy" as he went, and grabbed him by the shoulders. It was actually to cover some obscene gesture Simon was inadvertently making that Ryan wanted to hide from the camera, but in the moment it was strange and overwhelming, all that activity and touching on camera, and Simon was a bit shaken up by the whole thing. First, the idea that Ryan would think of him as a "pretty boy" was too absurd to be believed. And second, while it was far from the first time they'd casually touched, Simon's instinct wasn't to stiffen up, to recoil, but to just let Ryan do whatever he wanted. It took him a beat to actually react properly and flinch away from his hands.
Clearly, steps needed to be taken.
Performance night meant dinner, a bunch of them around a big table in the back room of some restaurant or another, running off their adrenaline together. Randy was telling some joke about Clive Davis, American radio formats, and space travel that Simon didn't quite understand well enough to get the punch line, but Ryan of course laughed loud and long. Not laughing himself, Simon was able to just watch Ryan: the teeth, the green eyes screwed shut, the adam's apple bobbing under the tanned skin, and he had to cross his legs.
Ryan turned to him, still laughing a bit, and Simon lost any pretense of restraint. He leaned into Ryan's ear and whispered, "You're coming home with me tonight."
When he sat back, Ryan wasn't smiling anymore, just staring. Good, Simon thought. You should be surprised.
After a moment, Ryan blinked, then nodded his head slowly. Simon smiled, then turned around and tuned back into the general conversation. But he could see out of the corner of his eye that it took Ryan a bit longer to recover.
Simon wasn't sure how they got into his car without any teasing; perhaps it was that Ryan was often getting rides, as his own car was far from reliable. Simon was renting a Boxter that summer, all sleek black lines like a panther, and it was practically purring as Ryan sunk into it. They rode away to the condo Simon was renting, a nice penthouse with an ocean view.
Ryan hadn't said a word since they got into the car, and Simon was beginning to wonder if he'd need some careful handling. He decided to take advantage of the empty elevator and rest his hand on Ryan's perfect little ass, which had been tempting him all evening, and Ryan actually turned red. Simon was trying to remember what alcohol was in stock as he let them in the door, because Ryan looked like he could use a nightcap to calm him down.
But no sooner had he locked the door behind them, Ryan pounced, pushing Simon up against the door with his hands and keeping him there with his kiss. Simon was startled but relieved, and it took him but a second to respond with all due enthusiasm. He grabbed that ass and ground their crotches together, and he could tell that Ryan was as ready to go as he was. (Not that he hadn't noticed in the car—those expensive jeans left very little to the imagination.)
Ryan proved to be a much better kisser than Simon had imagined, better than Simon thought he'd had in a long time, and he was perfectly happy for the time being to just snog against the door like teenagers. But Ryan had other ideas and began to walk backwards into the living room, pulling Simon with him but brushing up against the hall table as he went. He pulled away.
"Where's the bedroom?" he asked.
"The what?" Simon said, willing his synapses to start firing again.
Ryan, however, was uninterested in waiting, and turned around to look for the door, dragging Simon along by the hand. He pulled and pushed at Simon until he was standing near the foot of the bed, gave him another of those too-wicked kisses, and then began stripping him. Off went the shirt, down went the trousers, while Simon was still distracted by Ryan's aggression and skill. Really, he should have known, but he just hadn't expected it. Not at all.
"Commando, huh?" Ryan asked between kisses.
Simon found his voice this time. "I never wear pants with jeans," he said. "Too much fabric."
"Pants with jeans?" Ryan asked. "That doesn't even make any sense."
Simon opened his mouth to protest ridiculous American words for articles of clothing when he felt himself being pushed down onto the bed, and managed not to "oof" as he landed. He propped himself up on his elbows, wondering what Ryan was planning.
Apparently Ryan was planning on putting on a show. His movements weren't slow—it was well past time for teasing—but deliberate, revealing his skin a bit at a time. His jacket and t-shirt landed on the floor and Simon all but licked his lips to see that naked chest, fit but not ridiculously so. Jeans were next, and while he'd gotten a sense of what he'd be dealing with when Ryan was pressed up against him, seeing his cock hard and swaying did make Simon bite his lip in anticipation. Ryan grabbed condoms and lube from his jacket pocket, and Simon couldn't wait for Ryan to lube up and sink down onto him.
But Ryan did no such thing. Instead, he dropped to his knees in front of the bed and pushed Simon's jeans the rest of the way off, divesting him of socks and boots in the process. He did roll a condom onto Simon's cock, stroking him just a bit as he did, and then wrapped those very talented lips around it. Simon gasped at the wet heat surrounding the head of his cock and forced his eyes open so he could watch. He was rewarded with the sight of Ryan's wide mouth stretching around him, taking him in bit by bit, and breathing him in, too. One of his hands was wrapped around Simon's cock, stroking what wasn't in his mouth, and the other had moved between his legs to brush gentle fingertips across his balls. Ryan glanced up and their eyes locked, dark and hot, and Simon found himself tipping up just a bit, giving Ryan freer access.
He hadn't expected Ryan to let go then, but for a moment there was nothing but his mouth, moving steadily up and down and taking a little bit more of Simon's cock each time. After a rustling, Ryan's hands were back, this time slick with lube. While it occurred to Simon where this was going, he couldn't be bothered to care. What were a few fingers in one's arse when one's cock was most of the way down Ryan Seacrest's throat? And what got him hot almost more than the feel and sight of it was the sound Ryan's suckling was making, complete with the occasional hum as though Ryan really loved the taste of latex.
Simon had to give it to Ryan. He was quite good, knew every technique in the box and was sparing none. It was as though he had several hands, fingers touching Simon's cock, his balls, not to mention the ones sliding into his arse and rubbing that sweet spot. He was glad he wasn't standing, for the sensory overload was making him dizzy. Before he knew it he was coming, Ryan's name on his lips.
When Simon opened his eyes again, he was lying flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, and had somehow slid further up the bed. Ryan was straddling him, his arms on either side of Simon's head, smiling a bit. Simon looked from his face, to his hard cock, to the condom in his left hand, and opened his legs. "Do what you will," he whispered.
Ryan grinned, broadly, and dipped down for another of those wicked kisses that had got Simon into this position in the first place. He moved his legs inside Simon's, then sat back on his haunches and slid the condom on, staring into Simon's eyes the whole time. He slicked it up with the lube still on his other hand, and Simon tipped his hips up, tossing Ryan a pillow to put under his arse for a better angle. Ryan positioned himself, then slid in slowly, which Simon appreciated; though he'd been prepared pretty well during that blow job, Simon hadn't actually been on the receiving end in a good ten years and needed a bit of time to get used to the stretch and burn of a dick in his arse. But Ryan Seacrest, he was beginning to realize, was a patient and deliberate man, willing to wait for his chance and then take it.
Even once he was fully seated he took his time with long, slow strokes. He'd found Simon's sweet spot with his fingers earlier, and now he was testing the right angle to rub against it with his cock, blunt instrument though it was. Simon shifted so he could put his hands back on that sweet arse he'd been coveting, feeling him flex and relax, push and pull, and damn but Ryan made lying there and taking it a good place to be. Ryan's brow was furrowed in concentration, and by the look of things he was trying to make this last, which was probably another reason for the leisurely pace. But hell, they had all night. No reason to hurry.
Actually it wasn't too long before Ryan got serious, taking pleasure for himself now, and it looked good on him. The flush on his face went well down his neck and onto his chest, and his arms were strong and solid, holding him up above Simon. Ryan was still staring at Simon—apparently they were ones for eye contact—and if he hadn't already come those deep moans would be making him hard as a rock. They sped up as Ryan did, faster and faster until it was one long moan, one long last stroke and he was pushing into Simon, coming.
Ryan was panting just a little, his head very close to Simon's now, and he smiled. They kissed, sloppy and affectionate, and then Ryan slipped out of Simon and onto his back beside him.
He reached for a tissue on the bedside table and used it to remove his condom, rolling it into a neat little ball and chucking it into the bin. "I hope I passed the audition," he joked.
"You're through to the next round," Simon said, grinning.
"Welcome to Hollywood," Ryan said. He sat up on his elbows.
"You know, you could stay," Simon said, before he could think about it too much.
Ryan turned to him and raised an eyebrow. "You only want me to stay so you can get yours back in the morning.”
Simon laughed then. "Undoubtedly," he replied.
Ryan stared at him, considering. "All right," he said.
"All right," Simon replied.
The next day, after a nice fuck and a good breakfast, Ryan took a cab back to the studio and got his car. Simon took a long bath, still a bit achy from the night before, then picked up the phone.
"Hello?" Ryan said, and Simon could hear that clunker of a Honda engine in the background.
"I guess your car started after all," Simon said.
Ryan giggled. "I know, I need to get a new car," he said, "but I kind of promised her I wouldn't sell her."
"You promised the car?" Simon asked.
"Long story," he replied. "So, last night, that was fun."
"As was this morning," Simon said.
"We should do it again sometime."
"How about tonight?" Simon asked.
"Yeah," Ryan replied. "How about tonight?"
