Hours of what exactly? Lovemaking? Fucking? Something in between? Damned if he knew. He turned his head, and could just barely imagine her curvy outline under the sheets. She was definitely one of the better ones he'd been with lately. No strings, and only casual, superficial emotion. So, not lovemaking, he decided.
He puzzled at the small tinge of sadness that thought invoked in him. Had he really never made love to anyone? Ever? Thinking back, he realized that no, he hadn't. He'd had feelings for girls before, sure, but sorting though the memories, he could only find early adolescent crushes. He had never gotten anywhere with any of those; he had been too young. When he did enter into his first relationship, he had been unable (or unwilling?) to really connect. Sure, he'd liked the girl and treated her well and all that, but it hadn't cost him much to get up and leave. He had had the distinct feeling that it would cost him a lot more to stay.
Making love. To his understanding it meant that you really laid your heart on the line, if only for a few moments. Making love should signify a connection, however briefly, between two souls, hearts, essences or whatever the hell you wanted to call it. It meant that you invested something of yourself in the process. Making love was not for him. He kept his heart and soul to himself; it was the only place they were safe.
While listening to the regular breathing next to him, he sent a hand over to the bedside table, questing for a smoke and a lighter. A few moments later, he sighed contentedly as the nicotine seeped through him. He thought back at what he'd been up to for the past few hours, and smiled to himself. It wasn't just fucking, that was for sure. While a good hump now and then did wonders for his mood, he preferred to have more time. Hairtrigger females were very few and even furhter between. Mostly it took time to really get a girl going, and more time still to wear her out.
He liked wearing them out; liked to believe that his women didn't fake on him, and that he'd notice it if they did. Even though the female mind was a closed book to him (and he wasn't all that keen on books anyway), he adored exploring and figuring out the female body. Working the gasps and the shivers and the hungry moans and the helpless release out of his women, made him feel good. On the physical level, Gojyo was a very generous and caring man. On the personal level, he preferred to keep to himself, and didn't share. To be honest, he wasn't sure that he could share, even if he wanted to. It wasn't a problem, since he never stuck around a woman long enough for the issue to arise.
A frown stole across his brow. Too much thinking, and no gain in sight. Bah. He crushed out the smoke, and turned over to prop himself up on his elbow. Who needed deep thoughts when you had a warm, naked woman in the bed with you? It was far too dark to see her clearly, but the outline of her body could just be imagined. It was the shape of her hip that really caught his attention -- again. She had the kind of hips you just had to rest your hands on and slowly trace the curves. Something stirred in his groin, and his pulse quickened just a little. Should he reach out and touch? See if he could coach just one more surrender out of her?
At the back of his mind, an unwelcome memory nagged at him, and the stirring in his groin faded as quickly as it had risen. The last time she came, there was something in her eyes. Something moist and wet. Gojyo felt the familiar sting of helplessness as his mind forced him to see the tear that had run down her cheek, and the sobs he'd heard when she clung to him, as the orgasm stormed through her. He knew, he knew those were tears and sobs that came from sexual release only, and not anything remotely angsty. It didn't help.
Gojyo sighed to himself, and decided to let her sleep. He didn't want to see her face. Didn't want to taste the salt he knew would be on her cheeks. Didn't even want to think about it. They'd had their hours of pleasure, it was over now. Over. Tomorrow, he'd be gone before she would wake up. He'd pay for the room, as he always did when he had the money. He always had the money, because he was a damn good gambler. But he wouldn't, couldn't face her in the morning. Not this woman who had wept with ecstasy as they hit the final top.
All that remained of this affair were a few hours of sleep, so he slid up to her, and carefully put his arm around her waist. Whatever else, she was warm and heavy with sleep. She smelled of spent sex, and her hair was soft against his chin. Whatever else, he wasn't spending this night alone in a bed, in the same room as a snoring monkey.
All in all, it was a very good night.