Liam is being good.
He only had the quickest of washes in the shower, enough to clean his body of the sweat from his workout, but not long enough for him to derive pleasure from the feeling of his own fingers on his balls, on his cock. He dries off with a similar haste, and slides into bed, fists clenched and bottom lip between his teeth.
He’s hard. Liam’s cock is achingly, gloriously hard, has been ever since he answered his phone on the way back up to his room and the voice in his ear asked if he had been a good boy. “Yes,” he’d answered.
It’s hard, sometimes, to be good.
Now is one of those times, Liam’s traitorous dick tenting the sheets, chilly air somehow not cool enough against his overheated skin. Liam aches with the need to touch himself, to wrap a hand around his cock and -
No. Liam’s being good. He huffs, turning over onto his front, as if that’ll remove the temptation to touch himself. He curses, realizing his mistake as his sensitive dick rubs against the soft linen of the sheets. Liam’s hips buck, instinctive, and he turns his face to yell into the pillow, soft and giving underneath his head. Wait.
Liam’s face heats. Could he - could he use the pillow?
He scrambles to his knees. He watches his hands tremble as he folds the plump hotel pillow in half, positioning it under his hips. Liam takes a deep breath, and lowers himself down into position. The touch of cool linen and firm pressure against his cock makes him moan, and his hips twitch again, and again. They’re unconscious movements that betray how wound up he is - he’s been hard for nearly an hour now, mad with the need to get off, that much harder for the denial.
And now he’s rubbing off against a bloody pillow, like a dog. Liam hangs his head, settles himself on all fours more firmly and fucking down against the pillow. He feels like a kid again, a teenager just discovering what his dick is for, humping something - anything soft in lieu of an actual bed partner.
Liam’s panting now, face slack as he rides the pillow, crushing it under him as he bucks his hips in earnest. The friction is just the right side of too much, not-quite-rough against the skin of his cock. He’d thought he was stronger than this, had prided himself on not needing it, on being able to control his impulses, but all it takes is that voice in his ear and he’s desperately hard, needy in the pursuit of his own pleasure. He drops down onto his forearms and starts to hump frantically, so very, very close to orgasm, to what he’s been denying himself -
Before he’d left London two days ago, before Paddy had whisked him into the waiting car and he’d headed across the ocean - before he’d left, there’d been a soft, gentle kiss, a murmur, "You’ll be good for me, won’t you, Liam?"
And he’d said, "Yes, of course, you know I will,” and gotten a smile in return, a reply of, “You won’t touch yourself until I’m there, will you?” His expression must have given something away at that, because there’d been a clarification, "You can come, Liam, but only if you’re a good boy. Only if you can come without touching yourself."
Alone in his hotel room in Toronto, Liam sobs, and comes, all over white linen and his own stomach, hands clenched in the bedsheets.
Liam is a good boy.