John nervously leaned up against his limousine, waiting anxiously for his boyfriend. He hated that word for so many reasons but mostly because he was a forty year old man and his younger arm candy was twenty eight, and the juvenile word just didn't fit.

After ten minutes of what had surely been the young man primping himself to look good enough for the multi-millionaire he finally showed up, nervously dragging his bag along accompanied by the nervous grin on his pierced lips. .

"You do know that isn't on wheels," John commented.

"Oh, um, yeah," he nervously scratched the back of his neck, his fingers grasping the roots of his hair and pulling at, "Now he thinks I'm an idiot," he mumbled.

John took the bag, throwing it to his driver and escorting his lover into the car. His arm fixed around his shoulders, attempting to warm him up a little more, assuring him that his "hoodie" was complete junk and that he would get him a real jacket tomorrow. With each protest he blew him off entirely, recovering from blatantly ignoring him by proving that he was in fact thoughtful with a wine glass full of soda.

"You do know I drink other things too?" he laughed.

"Phil, it was this or whiskey."

"So charming," he chuckled, leaning against his chest after getting a kiss in before the whiskey touched John's lips.

Strong fingers caressed through jet black hair, a pleased smile on his face as he looked down at him, his mind fleeing with ideas while he watched him sending various messages on his phone to no one John thought to give a second of attention to. Especially not when the conversation on it was about a video game, or music, or something... John sighed, silently wishing he had at least one thing in common with him.

"What's wrong?"

The voice caught his attention, "Nothin', Darlin', just tired, I suppose."

He shrugged, tossing the phone on the bar counter and sitting up on his lap. He stared into his eyes for a moment, knowing that the sigh had to be more than just nothing. He could read him perfectly.

Phil's lips pressed gently against John's, his eyes closing only when John kissed back, allowing him to melt into his body completely. His arms wrapped around his neck, tipping gently to the side as he felt his hands on his hips.

John watched Phil as he leaned against the door frame of his hotel room, with a kiss he turned to leave for his own room. As much as he wanted wanted him, he had to be a gentleman. Phil hesitated at first, and after a few steps out the door he finally grabbed his lover's arm and pulled him into the room.

Phil pushed him to the bed, determined to finish what had been started in the limousine. Triumphantly, John sat back against the headboard, tossing his white cowboy hat aside and beckoning to the little anarchist. Every time felt like the first time.

Punk's shirt was the first to go, and his own tie second. Muttering a curse while the other laughed, John scrambled off the bed to return victorious, working the foil off the package until he impatiently just tore through it and threw Punk to the mattress.

He pinned the bare, tattooed body down into to the sheets, grinding hard against him. His lips trailed across Phil's neck, his pulse pounding hard against each soft kiss. John knew how much he loved to be treated like Morticia Addams. Phil's hands managed to come free just for a moment to start unbuttoning the Texan's dress shirt, his hands running down his chest. His hips bucked into John's, failing to remove the shirt entirely and grasping tight to the collar, almost choking him as he pulled him back down. John's lips crashed hard against Phil's, his tongue battling with the cold titanium barbell through his lover's soft tongue in a vicious frenzy.

The belt barely left John's pants and had been thrown up against the opposite wall. Phil failed at his attempts to kick off the jeans and boxers tangled around his ankles, waiting for John to get them off, throwing them up over his shoulder only for them to wrap around the fan over head.

The guitars of CM Punk's entrance flew through John's ears like the endless moans he had been the cause of. He sat up in his chair a little faster than he would have liked. Brown optics set on him as he came parading down the ramp, and he pressed against the table in front of him, desperately trying to keep his loudmouth shut when Punk stood on the turnbuckle in front of him. Layfield leaned back in his chair, his hands clasping together. He grinned, giving him a slight nod until the lights went out.