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Halloween. Once again. Charles’s least favourite holiday. And, no, it was’t his least favourite just because it outshined his birthday.
….
Okay, maybe it was a big part of his dislike. But dressing up in silly costumes was not his favourite activity either.
This year, it was even worse than the last, because while last year, Charles and his boyfriend dressed up as Batman and Robin—which was at least a little creative and fun—this year Pierre wanted to be the devil while Charles had to be an angel. How…unique. Pierre liked the idea of being the one who ‘corrupted’ Charles, though that couldn’t have been further from the truth.
If we were being honest here, Charles only stuck with Pierre because it was convenient. There wasn’t love. Well…at least not from Charles’s side.
Pierre, on the other hand, was head over heels for Charles. Like every other dude in the paddock. It was adorable, all the gifts, all the attention from Pierre. But it was not what Charles needed. What he craved.
He wanted adventure. Thrill. Fun. Freaky sex that left him gaping and eager for more.
Yes, making love was nice, but Charles craved getting fucked until he begged Pierre to stop sometimes, which Pierre never allowed, because his idea of sex was a steady rhythm for half an hour until he came, and then jerking Charles off, unable to get hard after his climax to make it enjoyable for Charles too. What a thrill.
Whatever. Pierre was nice and steady and Charles would eventually get used to it. (Or so he’d been telling himself for the past few years.)
The first few corn kernels started popping in the kitchen, making Charles pause his movie—the opening of Scream—as he walked over to the kitchen to cover the pan with a lid, allowing the corn to pop without messing his whole kitchen up.
Watching scary movies was probably his favourite part of halloween. Definitely better than dress up parties. Like the one he was supposed to attend in a few hours.
Of course, Pierre went out half an hour ago, as he forgot Charles’s wings for his costume at his apartment. Knowing him, he wouldn’t return for the next couple hours, and then he’d rush Charles. Per usual. Charles wasn’t sure why exactly Pierre hadn’t moved into Charles’s villa at the very edge of Monaco yet, but who was he to complain? At least he had time for himself. Maybe it was better this way anyway—he didn’t crave seeing Pierre on a daily basis. He’d probably be getting more gifts than he already is.
And he really didn’t have space for another garden gnome. He once told Pierre he liked them, and ever since then he got one almost every time he saw Pierre.
It was very sweet at first. Not anymore.
He unpaused the movie as he sat back down, popcorn softly popping in the background as Casey slowly realised the phone call wasn’t a prank. Charles loved that part. How could she be so stupid?
He was just getting comfortable when his own landline rang. His villa had one in the kitchen, the previous owner insisting it’s a necessity to own it. Who the fuck used landline these days?
Could be Pierre. Or someone trying to get a hold of the previous owner, because Charles is certain that he hadn’t given the number anyone. He didn’t even know the number.
When it rang for the sixth time, Charles’s curiosity peaked, and he picked up before the seventh ring started. It must have been a big deal if the person hadn’t hung up after the first few rings, no?
“Hello?” Charles answered, twirling the swirled cord around his finger.
“Hello,” the voice on the other end—a man, presumably—echoed, a playful tilt in his tone.
Weird.
“Yes,” Charles said, unsure what else to give. It looked like this was an accident dial. A wrong number, perhaps.
“Who is this?” the man on the other end asked. Perhaps it was someone drunk trying to get a hold of a friend. “Who are you trying to reach?” Charles asked, intrigued and oh so curious.
“What number is this?” the man questioned, and Charles was certain this was a prank. How can you dial someone without knowing the number?
“What number are you trying to reach?” Charles probed. “I don’t know,” the man answered, silence following.
Wait a minute. Charles had heard this before. Were they…quoting the movie he was literally watching right then?
Creepy.
“You have the wrong number,” he informed, prepared to hang up, but—
“Do I?” the man loved playing games, it appeared. Charles wasn’t in the mood for that. “It happens. Take it easy,” he said, placing the phone back into its holder, hanging up.
The smell of butter and salt filled the villa, a sign for Charles to take it off the stove. He moved with ease, removing the lid with a mitten before transferring the popcorn in a bowl. That was when he realised that barely a half of it had popped. Fuck.
Okay, well, in his humble opinion, popcorn was hard to make, you can’t blame him for not knowing when exactly it was done…
He put the lid back on, lit the stove again, and continued popping the rest of it, rolling his eyes.
The phone rang again. Seriously?
“Hello,” he answered, patience running thin. “I’m sorry. I guess I dialled the wrong number,” the same man spoke again. Fuck. This was getting weird.
“So why did you dial it again?” Charles disputed. He leaned over the counter, peeking at the sliding glass door leading to his garden. It was pitch black outside, his own reflection stared at him.
He couldn’t see outside even if he tried to.
“I wanted to apologise,” the man supposed, his voice getting flirtier by the second. It was equal parts scary and thrilling in the best way. Charles smiled to himself. “You’re forgiven. Bye now,” he informed. “Wait, wait, don’t hang up,” the man begged.
Huh. Weird. “What?”
“I want to talk to you for a second,” the man pressed, voice insistent. Maybe it was a fan that got a hold of Charles’s landline. Eerie, but a little funny too, no?
“They’ve got 900 numbers for that. See ya.”
Charles hung up again, a grin spreading on his face. It was a little uncanny—the things people did just to talk to him, but nonetheless flattering.
This time when Charles set the pan off the fire, the popcorn was actually done. He dumped the rest into the half filled bowl and walked back into his living room.
As he sat down on his sofa, he unpaused the movie. The chasing scene followed, Casey running, trying to defend herself, calling for her parents’ help, and getting stabbed.
What a fucking dumbass. Had Charles been in her situation, he—
the landline ran again, making Charles flinch. Jesus.
Had Charles had any neighbours, they’d be pretty fucking upset with all the ringing every few minutes. Thank God he didn’t.
He walked back to the kitchen, popcorn bowl in his hand. He wasn’t willing to pause the movie again, but he lowered the volume.
As he set the bowl down, he picked up again. “Hello,” he answered, only slightly more annoyed than before. Slightly.
“Why don’t you want to talk to me?” the familiar voice inquired, sounding slightly irritated as well. What the fuck. This had to be a prank. “Who is this? Oscar, I swear if it’s you with your stupid jokes again—“
“Nope. Not Oscar.”
Fuck.
“Then who? Pierre, this isn’t funny at all,” Charles warned.
Although, thinking about it, Pierre wasn’t smart enough to pull this off. And his voice had never gotten Charles as turned on as this one.
Wait. Turned on? When had that happened?
“You tell me your name, I’ll tell you mine,” the man suggested. Charles chuckled, taking a handful of popcorn and stuffing it into his mouth. If only there was something else stuffing his mouth fu—
“I don’t think so,” Charles teased, interrupting his own nasty thoughts. This was not the time for his stupid shenanigans. “What’s that noise?” the voice on the other side asked, sounding invested. Charles smiled to himself. Slowly, he was getting in the mood to play. “Popcorn,” he answered simply, chewing loudly into the phone.
“You’re eating popcorn?” the man examined, his playful tilt in his voice returning. It was getting a little hot in the room…
“Uh-huh,” he answered him, stuffing another mouthful in his mouth. “I only eat popcorn at the movies,” the man informed. How interesting.
“I’m in the middle of watching one,” Charles countered him, licking his fingers playfully, as if the man could see him. “Really? What are you watching?” the man sounded very interested, and Charles felt like he’d already had this exact conversation before…
“Just some scary movie,” Charles said after a while of hesitating. “Do you like scary movies?” the now very deep voice asked, sparking something inside Charles. “Uh-huh,” he agreed, his mouth still stuffed with popcorn. He chewed slowly, savouring the salty taste. A few kernels fell on the floor, but he didn’t bother with picking them up.
He was no expert, but this popcorn might have been the best he’d ever made. “What’s your favourite scary movie?” the man asked, voice breathy, hot.
He was absolutely flirting with Charles. And Charles would be a big fat liar if he said he hadn’t liked it, wouldn’t he? “I don’t know,” Charles said genuinely, the cord once again twirled on his index finger. “You have to have a favourite,” the man insisted, pushing Charles a little too much. Interesting. Charles thought about it for a few seconds before a movie popped up in his head.
“Uh...Halloween. You know, the one with the guy in the white mask who just sorta walks around and stalks the baby sitters. What's yours?” he spoke honestly. The strong voice on the other chuckled. Adorable.
“Guess,” he said, low and mysterious. Charles was really starting to like where this was going…”Hmm, nightmare on elm street?” he guessed, making the man chuckle again. A sound that compared to night Charles had ever heard before. He’d really never gotten turned on by a voice before.
“Is that the one where the guy had knives for fingers?” “Yeah, Freddy Krueger.”
Slowly, Charles was starting to hope Pierre would actually take at least a few hours before coming back. Slowly. “Freddy—that’s right. I liked that movie, it was scary. Wasn’t it?”
Scary? Charles couldn’t recall the last time he was scared when watching a movie. Maybe he was too smart for the movies. He leaned forward, glancing at the tv.
It showed Sidney, Tatum, Billy and Stu talking by the fountain. Charles didn’t need to turn on the volume to know what they were talking about. Ghostface. The hottest killer ever, possible.
After a while of silence, he returned back to the phone call. “The first one was, but the rest sucked,” he answered truthfully. Why was he still on the phone with a stranger? He had no idea.
The man cleared his throat. “So, you gotta boyfriend?” he asked, a flirtatious lilt colouring his voice. Charles smiled internally. Did he have a boyfriend? Yes. A boyfriend of…too many years to count. Was he about to admit that to the hottest man he’d ever heard? Fuck no. No way.
He wasn’t a cheater, but a little lie to a stranger never hurt nobody, right? It’s not like he’d ever end up with the guy or whatever.
He giggled, leaning on his elbows. If only the man could see him, slightly bent over the counter. “Why? You wanna ask me out?” he teased. It wouldn’t be the worst case scenario…
“Maybe. Do you have a boyfriend?” the low voice admitted, pressing the question further. “No.”
A tiny lie. A joke, really. Nothing Pierre should ever concern himself with. “You never told me your name,” the man pointed out, and Charles twirled the cord once again, biting his lip. “Why do you wanna know my name?” Charles countered.
“Because I want to know who I’m looking at.”
…
Wait what. Charles straightened himself. This phone call was taking a turn too quickly for his liking. “What did you just say?”
Silence. Then, in a hesitant tone: “I want to know who I’m…talking to,” the man said, chuckling lowly. With a shaky voice, Charles spoke up again. “That’s not what you said.”
Right? Or maybe his mind was playing tricks on him. Maybe he should stop with the scary movies for a while. “What do you think I said?”
Fuck.
Charles took a look around his house. He was alone. He didn’t see anyone outside the big glass door that led to his garden. Just pitch black nothingness.
“I have to go now,” he told the man, unwilling to continue whatever the fuck this was. “Wait! I thought we were gonna go out,” the man said desperately. Charles rolled his eyes, more annoyed than scared now, really. “Nah, I don’t think so…”
But before he could hang up, the man spoke again. “Don’t hang up on me,” he warmed, voice sharper than before. Fuck that. “Gotta go,” Charles insisted, already placing the phone back in its place. “Don’t—“ the man began, getting cut off by Charles hanging up.
Finally. He took a deep breath. This might have been the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to him. And he couldn’t shake the feeling of this exact thing happening to him before. What—
The landline rang again. In Charles’s honest opinion, this was too annoying, even for a prank. His patience was running thin. “Listen asshole,” he said as he picked up the phone again, ready to argue, but the man was faster than him.
“No, you listen you little bitch. If you hang up on me again, I’ll gut you like a fish. Understand?!” the man yelled, his tone eerie, insane. Fuck. Fuck.
Charles’s breathing quickened. He was beginning to regret not going with Pierre. “Is this some kind of a joke?” he asked, hoping it was. Hoping this was some stupid kid, or a fan that really got this number somehow. “More of a game. Don’t even try the police, they’d never make it in time.”
Okay. Not a joke then. More of a life or death situation, it appeared. Was his door even locked?
He glanced around. He remembered locking the front and back door. He really did. He never left it unlocked.
Unless he knew Pierre was coming over.
“What do you want?” Charles asked, focusing on the phone call again. The man laughed. A full body laugh that sent shivers down Charles’s spine. “To see what your insides look like.”
Charles stilled completely. He hung up the phone immediately. That’s it. He’d never pick the landline up again. What the fuck was that?
He walked back to the living room, popcorn bowl in hand. As he placed the bowl on the coffee table, the landline rang again.
Charles didn’t pick it up this time. He let it ring, back turned to the kitchen.
When the ringing finally stopped, he turned off the tv, deciding to go upstairs and take a nap (unless the phone rang again) while he waited for Pierre.
Except as he took a few steps toward the stairs, he notices a shadow that shouldn’t be there.
Oh. Never mind. Not a shadow. A full on figure, in all black, wearing a…Ghostface mask? “Are you scared yet, Charles?” the figure said, taking out a sharp knife from his pocket. How did he know Charles’s name? His eyes widened. Behind the figure, the back door stood opened.
Right. No, that was completely okay. Just Charles being his usual idiotic self, leaving the back door unlocked like the fucking dumbass he was. It was almost like he wanted to die. Idiot. IDIOT. “I thought you like scary movies…this is your cue to run,” the figure—a very tall and broad shouldered man, if Charles could have had any opinion—said, slowly walking toward Charles.
Charles swallowed, backing up against the wall. His heart hammered in his chest like a trapped animal, breath coming in short ragged gasps. The Ghostface figure loomed closer, his sharp knife—a wicked curve of steel that promised pain and…something more intimate—glinting under the dim lights.
“Run, pretty boy,” he taunted, his voice laced with the same flirtatious drip from the phone, and fuck, it sent a twisted thrill through Charles, fear coiling with an…unwelcome heat in his gut. He felt his shorts tighten in a certain area.
As soon as he actually registered the words, he bolted, sock clad feet slipping on the polished marble floor as he darted left, towards the hallway. He’d been living in the villa for years, yet at that exact moment it felt like a fucking labyrinth trap. The high ceilings echoed his panicked footsteps, the shadows twisting with every corner he took. Ghostface lunged after him, boots thudding heavily on the floor, his knife slicing the air with a ‘whoosh’ that made Charles’s skin prickle. Whatever had he done in his past life to deserve this?
As he crashed into the study he knocked a vase over, the sound of shattering exposing his ‘hiding’ place. Fuck. “You can’t hide from me, Charles,” the voice growled, closer now, laced with hunger. Charles weaved through the dining room, his mind racing.
That’s it. Life over, probably. Although…as his adrenaline surged, so did that forbidden spark—the way the chase made his body hum, his belly warm, pulse throbbing in places it absolutely shouldn’t. He glanced back. Ghostface was approaching slowly, mask tilted, looking like a predator savouring his hunt. Sweat dripped down Charles’s back, making his shirt cling to his skin, his every muscle taut with terror and tension.
The man chuckled, and Charles quickly averted his gaze, running toward the kitchen.
He burst in suddenly, slipping on popcorn kernels, the ones he must have dropped earlier when he was munching on them. Damn him.
Luckily, depending on which angle you looked at it from, strong arms seized him from behind, slamming him against the counter. The knife flashed as Ghostface lifted it, cold steel pressing to Charles’s throat, just enough to nick the skin—a thin line of blood trickling down the curve of his neck.
He froze, breath hitching, body arching involuntarily against the intruder’s solid, strong, seemingly sexy frame. Maybe this wasn’t the worst thing ever…
“Got you,” Ghostface whispered, hot breath ghosting through the mask against Charles’s ear. The blade’s edge teased his pulse point, sending shivers of dread and desire and…eagerness down his spine. Was it so wrong to get turned on by a psycho chasing you with a knife?
Yup. Charles was doomed. But this was far more thrilling than anything Charles had ever done with Pierre. He had probably never been as hard and horny as right then, pressed against the kitchen counter with a knife teasing his neck.
His hands slowly gripped the counter, knuckles white, as the masked figure pressed even closer, his own arousal pressing into Charles’s, hips grinding in a slow, deliberate rhythm. His fear twisted into something molten, erotic—his body betrayed him with a gasp, the knife’s pressure a cruel caress. A fantasy coming true. Charles liked where this was going…
“Scream for me,” the voice purred, the threat hanging like a promise of something unforgettable wrapped in violence. Charles’s eyes fluttered shut, torn between surrender and survival and something far too demanding of this situation, the heat between his legs growing unbearable as the blade held him captive.
Charles’s breath stuttered, the knife’s edge turning into a razor-thin promise at his throat. His body was a live wire, his fear and want braided so thought together he couldn’t even tell where one ended and the other began. The counter’s cold granite bit into his back as gloved hands lifted his shirt, slipping under to feel the hot skin of Charles’s belly, grounding him even as his knees threatened to give out. His lips parted, a whimper escaping instead of the man’s request—half terror, half a plea for more.
The sound seemed to ignite something in the man. A gloved hand slid higher up his chest, pinning him harder against the counter.
The knife eased away, a metallic clang clattering on the floor as the figure dropped it carelessly.
Charles couldn’t take it anymore. With a swift motion he lifted the mask of, revealing the prettiest face he’d ever—
wait.
He knew that face. He’d seen that face before, in the crowd, begging for his attention. Charles could never forget such a face. Especially not since it’s only been a week—
It was media day in Mexico. A bunch of fans circled Charles as he walked into the paddock, and in the middle of it was a guy with the prettiest blue eyes, begging Charles to sign his cap.
“Max,” Charles whispered as they locked eyes. That was his name. Charles asked for it, writing a little message on the cap alongside his signature. Just a sweet thing he did for fans sometimes.
It appeared that some people mistook Charles’s kindness for…whatever this was. Not that he was complaining or anything.
A grin spread across Max’s face. “I knew you’d remember me,” he said, cupping Charles’s face as he quickly slipped the gloves off.
Charles took a better look at his face—sharp angles, raw beauty, high cheekbones flushed with exertion, a jawline that could cut glass, the look on his face equal parts danger and devotion.
Max’s blue eyes burned into his the longer they stared, pupils blow unbelievably wide with lust, framed by sweat-damp strands of blonde hair.
He wasn’t just hot, he was devastating. The kind of ‘handsome’ that made Charles’s belly flip and his cock throb even harder, trapped beneath too much fabric for his liking.
Max chuckled, and Charles noticed the roughness of his voice, now that the mask didn’t muffle it. “You are mine tonight, Charles,” he informed him, voice laced with possessiveness.
Charles swallowed hard, the nick on his neck stinging. Max rolled his hips again, deliberately slow, just to earn a gasp from Charles. “You’re—fuck, you’re insane,” he managed as his voice cracked, betraying as his body arched back, begging for more contact. Max let out a breathy laugh, caressing Charles’s cheek.
“Insanely in love,” he corrected, tilting Charles’s face for a kiss that crashed through them both like a storm. Their lips brushed together, low and demanding, as Max’s tongue plunged in without permission, claiming every inch of Charles’s mouth.
That was exactly what Charles fucking needed. Exactly what he never got from Pierre.
He moaned into it, tasting salt and adrenaline as his own tongue tangled with Max’s desperately. Maybe too desperately, but who was Max to judge Charles anyway? He was the one who started this insanely hot foreplay.
The kiss turned messy, their teeth clashing as Charles wrapped his arms around Max’s neck, pulling him closer. Max nipped at his bottom lip hard enough to draw a sharp gasp. It was rough and violent in its intensity, yet there was care in the way Max’s thumb stroked the hinge of Charles’s jaw, grounding him even as he devoured him.
Charles’s hands fisted in Max’s black robe, pressing Max flush against his body, their cocks finally grinding again. Max growled in approval, deepening the kiss until Charles felt dizzy, his world narrowing to the hot slide of their tongues and Max’s faint stubble against his skin.
When they broke apart for a breath, faint strings of saliva connected their lips, and Charles chased Max’s mouth with a whine. He needed it more than he ever needed anything before.
“More,” he breathed, the word accidentally slipping out before he could stop it. His cock was so painfully hard, straining against his shorts, precum dampening the fabric more by each passing second. Max’s eyes darkened, raking over Charles like he was pray laid bare, all for him.
“Greedy little thing,” Max murmured, spinning Charles around in one smooth motion. The counter’s sharp edge dug into his stomach as Max pressed him further down, bending him over easily thanks to a hand right between his shoulder blades.
Charles’s cheek met the cool granite, his breath fogging the polished surface. One of Max’s hands yanked his shorts down in a single tug, throwing them across the room, exposing his ass to the chilly kitchen air.
Goosebumps raced across his skin, his sensitive hole clenching instinctively.
“Fuck, look at you,” Max groaned, softly palming Charles’s cheeks before spreading them apart. “So prefect. Been chasing this all night.”
Charles whimpered, pushing back into the touch. He had a feeling this would be one of those times he’d never forget. A memory he could replay when Pierre bored him again in the future. It was thrilling.
Max’s fingers traced the cleft of Charles’s ass, caressing the sensitive skin, learning his reactions. Before Charles could protest, Max shoved three fingers inside his mouth, pressing them against Charles’s tongue. “Coat them nicely, schatje, I want you ready for me,” Max demanded. Charles did as he was told, and soon enough, Max was circling his rim.
He was gentle at first, coaxing Charles to relax. “Breathe, pretty boy,” he whispered, leaning down to press a kiss to the small of Charles’s back. The tenderness mixed with the roughness made Charles’s heart stutter.
Slowly, Max pushed a finger in, careful and deliberate, the stretch burning sweetly. Charles gasped, his palms laying flat on the counter as the breathed through it. Max worked him open with a patience that belied the feral hunger behind the shine in his eyes, crooking his finger just right to brush that spot inside Charles that made stars literally explode behind Charles’s eyelids.
“There we go, schatje,” Max praised, adding a second finger slowly. He scissored them gently, the new burn morphing into pleasure as Charles’s hips rocked back of their own accord.
“Max, please,” he begged, voice slightly muffled against the granite. His cock leaked into the cabinet bellow, untouched and aching.
Max curled his fingers again, thrusting in a fast rhythm, his free hand wanton stroking Charles’s thigh. “Love how you open up, all for me. So tight and eager, I bet he doesn’t pull all these beautiful sounds from you,” he groaned, stretching Charles wider with a third finger, the slick sound obscene in the quiet kitchen.
Fuck. Did Max know about Pierre? Charles was sort of hoping he didn’t, but it’s not like him and Pierre were a secret. Of course a crazy psycho fan knew about his relationship for fuck’s sake.
Charles turned into a mess of moans as Max kept hitting the right spot over and over again, his body trembling, every nerve alight, spit trickling from his chin onto the counter.
Suddenly, Max withdrew his digits, making Charles whine at the loss—until he heard Max getting on his knees, until he felt the hot breath on his stretched out hole. “Bet he doesn’t know what to do with all this,” he said, voice husky.
His tongue flicked out, lapping at the rim in one long, filthy stripe. Charles cried out, the sensation electric and wet and warm and everything Charles had never felt before. Pierre never took his time with him like this.
Max rimmed him with fervor, tongue probing inside, fucking him open while his hands gripped Charles’s ass, holding his cheeks apart. He alternated between broad licks and sharp pointed thrusts, sucking gently on the sensitive flesh until Charles sobbed, his hips grinding back shamelessly.
“Max, oh God, your tongue—don’t stop!” Charles babbled, his legs trembling as Max hummed in approval, the vibration sending shocks straight through Charles’s core. He ate him out like a man starved, sloppy and thorough, until Charles turned into a puddle of need, his hole fluttering and slick with spit. Just a bit more, and Charles was certain he’d come from it. Just a bit more, and—
“Enough,” Max growled finally, standing up. So close, yet so far. Charles’s excitement peaked once again, even after the disappointment of Max stopping, when he heard the rustle of fabric and the zipper of Max’s pants. A few seconds later the blunt head of Max’s cock nudged his entrance, thick and hot, slick with Max’s precum.
Max spat in his hand, giving his cock a few strokes to coat it thoroughly. “Lift your leg schatje. Up on the counter,” he ordered Charles, kissing the crook of his neck. His hands slid across Charles’s back, making Charles arch into the touch.
He obeyed blindly, one knee hiking up onto the granite, opening himself wider. His hole was slightly red, begging to be stuffed full.
The position was vulnerable, obscene, his cock standing heavy and untouched against his belly, mere centimetres from getting trapped between the counter and Charles himself. Max gripped his hip with one hand, the other guiding his own length. “Breathe for me, Charles,” he said as he pushed in slowly, inch by inch, the stretch immense but perfect. Charles keened, the fullness he felt was overwhelming with Max’s cock dragging against any and every sensitive spot. Charles had never felt so full before.
“Fuck, schatje, you’re so tight,” Max hissed, bottoming out with a groan. He paused for a moment, his hand rubbing soothing circles on Charles’s back, helping him adjust. “You okay, pretty boy?” he asked with a smirk, nipping Charles’s shoulder.
Charles nodded frantically, pushing back to urge Max to move. “Please, Max—fuck me.”
That was all the permission Max needed. He pulled out and slammed back in, setting a brutal pace from the start, his softness seemingly gone. The counter creaked under the force, Charles’s body jolting with each thrust. Max pounded him, hips snapping with raw power, the angle insane with Charles’s leg propped up. This was exactly what Charles needed Pierre to do, exactly what Pierre denied him.
Every stroke of Max’s cock hit his prostrate dead-on, sparks of pleasure mixed with pain exploding through him. “Harder,” Charles gasped, his voice breaking. He barely knew what was going on around him, too focused on Max ruining him for anyone else. Max obliged, his sips snapping harder.
One of his hands fisted in Charles’s hair, yanking his head back for a messy kiss over his shoulder. Their tongues met in a clash, Max’s thrust never faltering. He bit Charles’s lip, the immediately soothed it with a lick, the mix of roughness and care driving Charles wild.
“You feel so fucking good, better than I imagined,” Max panted against his mouth, his free hand wrapping around Charles’s aching cock, finally. He stroked in time with his thrusts, thumb swiping over the slit to spread precum all over the length of Charles’s cock.
Charles moaned into Max’s mouth, his body becoming a live wire of sensation—the burn in his scalp, the slap of skin on skin, the relentless drag of Max’s thick cock inside him. He never knew he could feel this fucking good.
Max shifted a bit, angling deeper, and fuck—Charles saw stars. “Right there—fuck, Max!” he screamed, his orgasm building fast, coiling tight in his belly. Max’s rhythm turned punishing, hips grinding on every single inward thrust, his balls slapping against Charles’s ass.
“Come for me, baby,” Max commanded, voice rough with his own impending release. “Scream my name,” he whispered.
Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.
The words shattered Charles. He came with a guttural cry of Max’s name, spilling over the counter and Max’s hand, his hole clenching rhythmically around the thick cock still pounding into him. The tightness of Charles around Max pulled him over the edge. He buried himself deep, groaning Charles’s name as he filled him with hot spurts of his come.
They stayed locked like that for a while, panting, Max’s forehead pressed to Charles’s shoulder blade.
Slowly, he eased out, careful now, helping Charles lower his leg. Cum trickled down the back of Charles’s thigh, mixing with sweat and spit. Max turned him around gently, pulling him into a deep, languid kiss—tender this time, all the roughness melting into affection. He trailed his lips a little lower, pressing soft kisses over the nicks on Charles’s neck, soothing the previous sting of his knife.
“You’re incredible,” Max murmured, nipping Charles’s jaw. He tucked himself in and reached for Charles’s shorts, helping him back into them despite the slickness that covered Charles’s cock and thighs.
Charles smiled, pecking Max’s lips as a thank you. His legs trembled, yet he couldn’t help asking. “Shower together?”
Max smirked, but just as they turned around, Pierre walked in through the back door. “Cha? I got you the wings, but—why is the back door opened?” Pierre yelled from the other side of the villa, confused.
Oops.
Charles’s cock twitched at the wicked look Max gave him.
Was he doomed? Probably.
“You’re mine, not his,” Max whispered into Charles’s ear, leading him away from where Pierre was coming from. It was almost like Max knew the outline of Charles’s house better than Charles did himself. It was a little concerning, but nonetheless hot.
Where had Max been Charles’s entire life?