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“What's going on?” Max asked as he stepped into the Red Bull garage a couple hours before FP3. The usual hum of prep work was strangely muted, half the mechanics crowded around someone’s phone, shoulder-to-shoulder like they were watching a race start.
He didn’t think much of it—until the heavy bass of his theme song hit him square in the chest.
Oh God. Not that remix again.
“Max! Come look at this,” Ben called, grinning like Christmas had come early. He waved him over and the whole circle erupted into snickers, nudging each other as Max approached.
Before he could see what they were on about, Ben shoved the phone into his hands, the video restarting from the beginning.
His jaw dropped.
On-screen stood a man in an outdated white tuxedo, holding a microphone like he was hosting a cabaret. Well . . . they were in Vegas after all. “Please welcome, Max Verstappen, ladies and gentlemen!” the announcer boomed.
Max barely heard him, attention immediately grabbed by the figure stepping into frame beside him.
A tan, ridiculously toned guy strutted forward wearing a cheap, knock-off version of Max’s white lion helmet and a hilariously inaccurate imitation of his Red Bull suit. The man paused dramatically . . . then peeled the suit jacket off, the music thumping harder as he submerged himself into something he supposed was meant to be an ice bath.
Max blinked once. Then again.
“What the fuck am I watching?” he muttered, horrified. And maybe—maybe—a tiny bit impressed by how committed this stripper version of himself seemed to be.
The video jump-cut to clips of the crowd, phones raised, people screaming, flashing lights everywhere, before snapping back to the performer. More quick edits followed: the man splashing water onto the stage, pointing at the audience then launching himself into some kind of aerial routine that looked mildly illegal.
Max stared, unsure whether to be horrified or fascinated. Either way, he felt heat rise in his ears.
The dancer grabbed two hanging straps, lifted himself effortlessly and spun into the air. His back muscles rippled, thighs flexing under the wet fabric as he flipped upside down, legs slicing through the air before he dropped into a perfect split—still spinning—hovering right above the tub of water.
“This guy is amazing,” Ben said over his shoulder. “I wouldn’t feel my nuts for weeks if I tried some shit like that.”
“You can do that, right Max?” someone else chimed in, already laughing.
“Oh sure,” Max deadpanned. “Give me two tire straps and I’ll spin around and kill myself right now.”
A ripple of laughter went through the group.
“Alright guys, let’s get ready for FP3,” GP called out as he approached, clapping his hands and shooing the mechanics back to their stations.
Max handed Ben his phone just as the dancer spit a fountain of water into the air from inside the visor of the fake Max helmet.
Perfect.
Exactly what he needed to see before getting in his car. Of all the crazy edits he'd seen of himself, this one had to be up there as one of the weirdest. Even so, Max discreetly adjusted his suit, a little tighter in the front than it was before.
Shots from the video replayed behind Max’s eyes through all of FP3. And Quali. And every spare second in between. He even had to shake his head, helmet smacking lightly against the protective insert around his neck, to stop picturing the water dripping off “his” helmet, running over taut tan skin.
Adjusting his suit again between sessions, Max prayed the paddock cameras were focused on something else at the moment.
By the time he finally got back to his driver’s room, his phone had blown up—at least a dozen messages from the Redline guys, plus the drivers’ group chat, all sending him the same damn clip.
He opened it again despite himself, letting it play as he sat down on the massage table. Maybe he was punishing himself. Or maybe he was curious. Maybe he just wanted to confirm that the man was as absurdly attractive as he remembered.
Spoiler: he was.
Max watched the same chaotic, water-splashed moments, the acrobatics, the close-ups of rippling muscles. This time, though, he let the video run to the very end—where the dancer finally removed the fake helmet.
The crowd screamed and Max forgot how to breathe.
Messy, wet brown curls tumbled over the man’s forehead, sticking to his temples. Stunning green eyes looked directly into the camera, bright under the spotlight of the stage as he did a horrible wink. His chest expanded in sharp, breathless heaves as he bowed, lips parted, droplets of water sliding down his neck and across the sculpted lines of his shoulders.
Holy hell.
Max didn’t even like these kinds of shows, yet his brain supplied a very unhelpful thought:
He’s gorgeous.
Followed by another:
. . . and ridiculously flexible. Jesus.
The video cut to the upcoming dates and show times.
There was only one show left for the weekend. Tonight.
Absinthe – Caesar’s Palace. Starting in thirty minutes.
“Shit.”
Max didn’t even think—he just moved. Jeans, black t-shirt, best disguise he could manage with his limited wardrobe. He grabbed the most generic hat he owned and shoved it on, then yanked his dark teal Unleash the Lion Vegas hoodie over it, pulling the hood as far forward as possible.
Was he really doing this? Why was he doing this?
He wasn’t sure. Curiosity. Boredom. A tiny bit of thirst. Or he just wanted to see the man without a helmet and slow-motion water effects blurring the details.
Whatever the reason, he was already halfway to the door before he could talk himself out of it.
He texted Rupert a quick lie—Heading back to the hotel. See you tomorrow—then messaged the driver Red Bull had assigned him for the weekend.
Pick-up at the designated spot.
Throwing on his blue Louis Vuitton backpack after tucking the bears hanging off inside—too recognizable—Max tugged his hood forward once more and walked briskly through the paddock, avoiding eye contact with anyone who might try to stop him. The sleek black SUV was already waiting when he reached the lot.
“To the hotel, Mr. Verstappen?” the driver asked as Max slid into the back seat.
“Caesar’s Palace.”
The driver glanced at him in the mirror. “Which entrance, sir?”
He blinked. Shit. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. The place had more entrances than a damn labyrinth from what he remembered from his previous years of partying.
“Uh . . . is there a private entrance for VIPs or anything that's close to The Green Garden place?” Max tried.
“Yes, sir. Service and VIP access around the back. We can be there in about twenty-five minutes.”
Cutting it close, but doable. Max nodded for him to go.
As the SUV rolled out of the paddock, Max slumped back in the seat, exhaling slowly. Now that the adrenaline of the decision had faded, reality started creeping in.
He was going to a public Vegas show . . . on a race weekend . . . with only a hoodie, a hat, and blind optimism to protect him.
Great. Absolutely fucking brilliant.
He tugged his hood lower, suddenly hyperaware of how recognizable he was. People could spot him from the shape of his nose alone. Or the color of his eyes. Or his walk, apparently, if you asked Lando.
He pulled the backpack onto his lap, gripping the straps.
He had to be smart about this. He didn't need any fans recognizing him or for someone to snap a picture and have it end up online with a headline like: POLE SITTER MAX VERSTAPPEN SPOTTED AT LAS VEGAS STRIP SHOW HOURS AFTER QUALI
Helmut would combust, his father would laugh, and Laurent would have a stroke. The internet would lose its mind.
And then there was the other issue—the reason he was going in the first place.
The guy in the video.
The stupidly hot, stupidly talented guy who had somehow taken up space in Max’s brain for the entire damn evening. The guy with the green eyes and soaked curls and a body that belonged in a Greek myths textbook under Most Unfairly Beautiful Human Alive.
Fuck. What was he doing? This was even more stupid than his Grindr surfing days.
The driver’s voice cut through his spiral. “We’ll be arriving shortly, sir.”
Max swallowed and nodded. He wasn’t turning back now.
He just needed to get inside unnoticed, find a seat in the dark, watch the show, and leave before anyone realized the real Max Verstappen was in the audience.
Easy. Right?
“Max Verstappen?”
Fuck.
So much for staying unnoticed. He’d spent the last five minutes arguing—quietly, politely, then less politely—with the security guard at the door, trying to explain that yes, he knew the show was sold out, no, he didn’t have a ticket, and yes, he absolutely needed to get inside right now. He’d been one breath away from giving up when he heard his name called from behind.
His whole body flinched.
He turned slightly, hood dropping lower over his face, heart thudding in his chest. A hand tapped his shoulder and Max braced for a camera flash, a fan shriek, a PR nightmare.
Instead, a stranger with a massive grin stared at him like he'd just hit the jackpot.
“Oh my God! You're here!”
Max managed a tight, awkward smile, shoving both hands deep into his hoodie pocket. He had no idea who the guy was, and even less idea what he was supposed to say.
“Uh . . . hi,” he mumbled.
“Are you here for the show?” the man asked excitedly.
“He doesn’t have a ticket,” the security guard grunted from behind Max, crossing his thick, tattooed arms.
He should just leave. He'd surely missed it already anyway. Before Max could stammer out a goodbye, the stranger scoffed dramatically.
“Idiot. Move out of the way. He’s with me.”
Max blinked. Hard.
“Wait—what?”
The tan man with short, cropped dark hair grabbed his arm and tugged him past the irritated guard. Max stumbled after him, slack-jawed as they slipped into the dark interior of the venue.
“My name is Joris—I manage most of our performers here,” the man said as he guided Max through a side corridor. “Charles would absolutely die if he knew you were here.”
Max’s heartbeat stumbled. Charles. So that was his name. The man whose face had lived in Max’s head all evening.
“Did I miss it?” he asked, trying and failing to sound casual.
“Not if we hurry.” Joris flashed him a grin. “Come on, you can watch from the VIP box.”
Sticking close, he was grateful for how dark the venue was. The lighting was low, green and gold shadows rippling across the cozy interior. He couldn’t make out a single face in the crowd, not the rows of people pressed together, not the servers weaving past with drinks, and surely no one could see him either.
He hoped.
Joris led him up a short platform and gestured to an open seat tucked in the far corner, secluded and mostly hidden. Perfect.
“Sit. He’s only just got to the good part.”
Max barely had time to lower himself into the chair before the crowd erupted—cheers, screams, whistles.
Charles plunged into the tub of water in the center of the stage, helmet still on, a spray of droplets exploding upward. The lights hit the surface, ripples of turquoise and white shimmering across his chest as he pushed himself upright.
Transfixed, Max sank back into his seat without blinking.
Moving like water personified—fluid, effortless, sensual without trying, Charles braced himself on the edge of the tub. His racing suit—or what was left of it—clung to him, soaked.
The crowd roared louder and Max couldn’t look away.
He didn’t want to.
Jolting up out of the water, Charles spun around, hands quickly working with the long straps suspending him in the air. Rivulets traced the lines of his muscles and he dropped into a split, spinning slowly over the tub. He flipped his head back behind him, droplets flying in every direction off the helmet, and Max felt something punch him low in the gut.
Holy shit.
It was obscene how good the man looked in his race suit. And if Max was honest, Charles didn’t need to try very hard.
His pulse kicked up with the beat of his honorary theme song, the crowd joining in the du du du du part, and heat crawled up the back of his neck. He swallowed hard, shifting in his seat as Charles gripped the hanging straps overhead and launched into another aerial sequence.
Suspended, spinning, soaked—every rotation showed off a new angle of his perfect physique. His legs cut through the air, back arching deeply, the muscles in his torso contracting as he lifted himself with surely impossible strength.
Max’s mouth went dry.
Fucking hell. Welcome to Vegas.
Charles was even more breathtaking in person, exactly his type, and Max was very, very much in trouble.
Breathing hard, Charles flashed a bright smile and gave a final wave, bowing low as the crowd erupted around him. Their cheers vibrated through the venue, thunderous and wild—Vegas audiences were always loud, but race week had taken things to another level.
He straightened, arms still lightly trembling, and let out a quiet laugh of relief.
Thank God he didn’t have to do that number again.
When Joris had pitched the idea earlier in the month—an F1-themed showcase timed for the Grand Prix—Charles had genuinely thought he was joking. He’d scoffed, actually scoffed, because him performing to that song felt borderline sacrilegious.
He was a lifelong Tifoso. A Ferrari devotee. Wearing anything other than red felt . . . wrong on a spiritual level.
But even he had to admit that the reigning World Champion had the best walkout music on the grid, and choosing the most popular driver during a GP weekend had been a marketing stroke of genius. Crowds had packed the place every night—sold out shows, standing ovations, tourists screaming like he was a rockstar.
It had been exhausting. Exhilarating. Surreal.
After the final performance, his muscles were twitching in that familiar post-adrenaline haze, sweat cooling against his skin beneath the half-unzipped suit. A towel slung around his shoulders, soaking up drops of water still running down his spine.
Tired but still buzzing, Charles trudged down the narrow backstage hall toward his dressing room, helmet dangling loosely from his fingers. The strap hit his leg with each step.
All he wanted now was a shower, something cold to drink, and a few minutes where he didn’t have to flip, spin, or pour water on himself in front of hundreds of people.
He hadn’t been back in his dressing room for more than ten minutes—just enough time to towel off, breathe, and debate whether he had the energy to find something to eat—when a knock sounded at the door.
“Charles? You in there?” Joris called.
“Oui,” he answered, the word thick with his accent.
“I brought a guest with me.”
Putain. Of course he had. Charles groaned internally. He wasn’t even wearing a shirt, just a loose pair of jeans sitting low on his hips, damp curls sticking to his forehead, and bare feet propped on the edge of his chair. He tried to stand, but the door was already swinging open.
Joris poked his head in, wearing a comically serious expression that melted almost immediately into a grin far too big to be normal. Charles’ brows drew together.
Then his manager stepped aside, revealing someone lingering behind him.
All he saw was a hood pulled low from a Verstappen.com hoodie of all things, paired with a nondescript hat and a posture that screamed Please don’t look at me. The man kept his head down, shoulders hunched.
Charles stared, unimpressed.
“A very special guest made time just to come see your performance,” Joris announced proudly as he ushered the hooded figure into the room.
Charles resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He was absolutely going to have a chat with Joris about letting random fans backstage again. An autograph line was one thing; his private room was—
His thoughts crashed to a halt when the man reached up, hooked two fingers under the brim of his hat and pushed back the hood.
Charles stopped breathing.
Max Verstappen was standing in his dressing room.
Max Verstappen.
For a full three seconds, no one moved.
Max just stood there, hat in hand, looking painfully awkward like he’d wandered into the wrong place and was too polite to admit it. Charles sat frozen in his chair, shirtless, body going tight with embarrassment.
Joris, meanwhile, was already leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed and the smuggest fucking expression Charles had ever seen.
Finally, Max cleared his throat. “H–hi.”
The sound jolted Charles out of his daze.
“Oh—bonjour—hello—I mean—hi.” Mon Dieu. He immediately wanted to crawl under his chair.
Rubbing the back of his neck, “Sorry,” Max murmured. “I didn’t mean to . . . intrude. Or interrupt. Or—uh—catch you at a bad time—”
He gestured vaguely at Charles’ bare chest, a flush dotting his nose.
That was cute.
“No, it is fine. Not like a hundred people didn't just see me like this in a bathtub,” Charles tried to ease the man's discomfort. He crossed his arms over himself, too late to realize it just made his biceps flex, Max glancing at them quickly. “I just wasn’t expecting anyone,” he added, cheeks warming.
Max nodded too fast. “My fault. I should’ve—uh—checked.”
“You can't check if someone is shirtless,” Charles said before thinking, then immediately regretted it. What the fuck, Charles.
Blinking, Max let out a soft, helpless laugh, eyes dropping back to the floor
Joris made a quiet noise behind them.
Right. Joris was still there, smirking like the cat who’d eaten the entire aviary. Charles shot him a murderous glare, to which Joris just mouthed: Told you the act was a good idea.
He fought the urge to throw the helmet at him.
Shifting his weight, “I’m, uh . . . Max,” the Dutchman said. “You already know that. Obviously. Just—thought I should say it anyway.”
Charles’ heart did something stupid in his chest. Unable to help it, he smiled. “I’m Charles.”
Max finally looked up, blue eyes flicking over him—then immediately flicking away again.
“Hi, Charles,” he said, quieter this time. “I enjoyed the show—or what I saw of it. I missed the beginning coming late from the track.”
A beat of warm, awkward silence stretched between them.
Joris made them both jump when he clapped his hands once. “I’ll leave you to it. Here,” he handed a business card to Max. “Give me a call if you want to come to any more shows. I'll handle all the arrangements.”
Charles begged him to stay with his eyes—don’t leave me alone like this, I will die—but Joris just slipped out, shutting the door with a very pointed wink.
The room fell painfully quiet and Charles tried not to think about the fact that Max Verstappen had just watched him do one of the wettest, most suggestive performances of his career while dressed as the man himself.
“Thanks for coming,” Charles managed, extending his hand.
Max took it gently, far more gently than someone with hands that size had any right to, and Charles immediately, shamefully, compared the difference. Max’s palm practically swallowed his. Warm and steady.
Of course he would have big hands. Because why wouldn’t the universe torment him.
Up close, Max was even more distracting than in his interviews. Only a touch taller, but with shoulders so broad they filled the doorway. His chest stretched the hoodie in a way that made Charles’ brain short-circuit, and his eyes were so much bluer than any camera ever captured.
Then there was the tiny freckle on his lip. The one Charles had absolutely noticed in every interview he’d ever watched. The one now staring him in the face.
“Are you planning to come to the race?” Max said as he released his hand.
Race? What race? Charles felt like his brain turned to pudding.
“Oh I uh, I don’t know yet. Maybe?”
“You could probably sneak in. Fit right in with the race suit,” Max murmured, finger sliding behind his ear. “Looks much better on you though.”
Was he—was Max Verstappen flirting with him?
Charles stood still, hands falling down to his sides, a bit at a loss for what to say. So he didn't say anything. Just smiled with a bit of an awkward chuckle.
Tips of his ears going red, the Dutchman shoved his hands in his pockets. “Anyway, I won’t take up any more of your time,” he said. “I just wanted to say again, the show was great. Couldn't have done it any better myself.”
Another joke. Max was definitely hitting on him.
Charles was too stunned by the idea to speak.
Flush spreading to his cheeks, Max chewed on his lip and then turned quickly toward the door when Charles still didn't reply. “Have a goodnight.”
For a second, he simply stared at the man's back, heart racing, tongue frozen, brain screaming SAY SOMETHING YOU IDIOT.
“Wait!” he blurted.
Max stopped mid-step and glanced back.
“Do you . . .” He swallowed hard, “I’m finished for the night. Would you want to grab a drink? I know a good place.”
Max’s mouth curled into a grin. “I can’t really be seen out without security. Race is tomorrow, y’know?” He shrugged apologetically. “Thanks though. I should get back to my hotel—”
“My apartment isn’t far,” Charles rushed. “I have drinks there. Wine. Beer. Whatever you want.” He took a step forward, momentum carrying him. “And—” another breath “—you didn’t get the full experience tonight. Since you missed the beginning.”
Max blinked, something flickering through his blue eyes.
Charles licked his lips, pulse thundering. Fuck it.
“Let me give you a private show.”
For the first time all night, Max looked genuinely amused, less nervous. His hand hovered on the doorknob, and his eyes darted over Charles.
His stomach flipped.
“Are you serious?”
“Oui.” Charles nodded, heart thundering beneath his ribs, “And maybe I can convince you not to sue me for using your likeness?”
Max laughed—really laughed—and the skin beside his eyes crinkled. He was quite charming when he wasn’t scowling at a reporter.
“Can you get us out of here without drawing too much attention?” Max asked, stepping closer. “I have a driver—”
“We can use the employee entrance,” Charles cut in quickly. “Shouldn’t be too much fuss. Just—um. Let me finish getting dressed and we can go.”
He hurried across the room, snatching up a soft black tee and pulled it over his head before shrugging on his hoodie. November nights in Vegas got surprisingly chilly, another thing tourists never believed until they were freezing on the Strip at midnight.
As he tugged the hoodie into place, Max’s voice floated behind him. “I see how it is.”
Charles paused and turned.
Leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyebrow raised, Max pointed at the logo across Charles’ chest.
His Ferrari hoodie.
He blinked, then smirked. “Quoi?”
“Not really even a fan of mine, are you?” Max teased.
Heat rushed to Charles’ cheeks, but he lifted his chin defiantly. “Everyone is a Ferrari fan.”
Max pushed away from the wall with a huff. “Well, I guess I’ll just have to see if I can change your mind.”
“Come on,” Charles tossed his painted motorcycle helmet to Max. “You'll need that.”
Getting to his apartment was more difficult than he’d expected.
Vegas during race week was chaos. Swarming crowds, neon lights, engines growling, fans spilling into the streets like a tide. Every intersection was clogged, every sidewalk overflowing with people wearing team merch and taking selfies.
Taking his motorcycle over Max's car service had seemed like a good idea. And it was—except for the fact that Charles hadn’t accounted for the added complication of Max wrapped around him like a very warm, very solid backpack.
Max fit against him far too well.
The Dutchman’s arms were tucked securely around Charles’ waist, hands locked together, chest pressed to his back. Every time Charles leaned into a turn, he felt the subtle tightening of Max’s grip, the steady pulse on his back.
He absolutely should not have noticed any of that, but it was impossible not to.
They wove through traffic, slipping between congested lanes, and a few fans leaned out of car windows to shout when they recognized the painted white helmet Max was wearing.
“Max! Max!” someone yelled.
Charles felt Max chuckle behind him, vibrating through his spine. He waved lazily to the car, playing along.
“You’re enjoying this,” Charles called over his shoulder.
“I mean,” Max shouted back, voice muffled by the helmet, “you are good at giving my fans a free show.”
Charles rolled his eyes but couldn’t fight his smile. “If only they knew.”
They sped through the last block, leaving the Strip’s blinding chaos and finally turned into a quieter residential street where he lived, only a short ride away, but far enough to breathe.
He pulled into the underground garage beneath his building, the engine’s hum echoing off the concrete walls. Max didn’t release him until the motorcycle was fully stopped, hands lingering a second too long before sliding away.
Not so shy now, huh.
Removing his helmet, he felt Max’s gaze on him immediately while the driver climbed off the bike, stretching his legs, shaking out his arms.
“That was fun,” Max admitted, a little breathless.
“I'm surprised you let me drive.”
“I prefer four wheels,” he said with a smirk.
They made their way to the elevator and Charles pressed the button for the 9th floor, feeling Max stand just close enough that their arms brushed. The elevator doors opened to a small hallway with modern gray walls and soft lighting.
Charles led the way to the end unit and unlocked the door.
Inside, the apartment was modest by Vegas standards—cozy and open concept with a loft bedroom and high ceilings. Soft warm lighting. Clean lines. A small kitchen area with dark counters. A couch that had definitely seen better days but was undeniably comfortable. Floor-to-ceiling windows looking out toward the shimmering glow of the Strip in the distance.
Max stepped in behind him, taking it all in. “It’s nice,” he said softly.
Shrugging, he suddenly felt self-conscious. “It works.” He set the keys down on the counter, turning to face Max fully. “So, still want that drink?”
“Sure,” Max said. “Whatever you’re having is fine.”
Charles nodded, crossing to the small kitchen. He opened the fridge and grabbed the half-finished bottle of wine he’d been nursing all week—not fancy, but Italian, and poured two glasses into mismatched cups.
Behind him, he heard Max settle onto the sofa, the cushions dipping with his weight.
“You can get comfortable,” Charles said over his shoulder. “I just need a moment to grab my silks.”
“Your what?” Max asked, confused.
“My aerial silks. Similar to what I used at the show.” He gestured vaguely upward. “They’re in my room. I’ll be right back.”
“Wait—you were serious about giving me a private show?”
Charles stopped halfway to the ladder and turned, eyebrow raised. “Oh, did you not want one?”
“No—I mean, yes—yeah.” Max’s jaw opened, closed, then opened again. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, I’d . . . love one.”
Heat curled low in Charles’ stomach. “Then sit tight.”
He handed Max his drink and hurried up the tall wooden ladder to the loft bedroom above—the main reason he’d rented this apartment in the first place. High ceilings, wide beams, enough vertical space for rigging. Perfect for practicing new drops or transitions without needing to rent out studio time.
Vegas was so different from his home in Monaco and he still had a few years left in his contract with Absinthe.
He crossed to the storage trunk at the foot of his bed and rummaged through neatly folded silks until he found his favorite set, a deep, rich red that shimmered subtly under the light. It felt soft in his hands, comfortingly worn in from countless routines.
Carrying it over to the railing, Charles tossed one end over the thick ox-horn hook at the end of the assembly bolted into the main ceiling beam, letting the fabric cascade downward like a waterfall of red. Then he checked the swivel bolt and carabiner, giving each component a firm tug, Max making a soft noise below him.
Satisfied that everything was secure, Charles stepped back from the railing, letting the red silks sway gently as he moved deeper in the loft to change. He peeled off his hoodie and jeans, tossing them onto the bed, and slipped into a tight pair of red velvet spandex shorts that he wore for his regular routine, comfortable and form-fitting but unobtrusive.
He hesitated only a moment before deciding against a shirt. Max had already seen him half-naked tonight.
Putting on some mood music, he descended the ladder and caught Max’s attention immediately. The Dutchman looked up mid-sip, eyes widening just a fraction as he took in the change of attire.
“Oh,” Max said softly, the single syllable landing warm in Charles’ chest. “Not feeling my race suit anymore then?”
“I'll let you be Max Verstappen tonight,” Charles smiled.
“Then who might you be?”
“Isn't that obvious?” Charles held out his palms, tilting his hips. “I . . .” He spun in a circle, “am the Red Velvet Prince.”
Charles took a bow and Max snorted, a grin splitting his face. The Monégasque was helplessly endeared by the sound.
Could the Dutchman be any more adorable?
The red silks hung down from the ceiling a couple feet in front of Max, centered in the open space.
“Should I—should I sit somewhere else?” Max asked, already shifting like he meant to stand.
“You’re fine right there,” Charles assured him with a low laugh. “Normally I push the couch back a bit, but . . . ” He let his gaze slide over Max, catching his nervous fingers. “You probably want a closer look than what you had at The Garden, no?”
Max swallowed and started to stand anyway, but Charles stepped in, gently pressing a palm to his chest and nudging him right back down into the cushions.
Exhaling, Max stared at him with big eyes.
“Relax, Mr. Pole-sitter. I won't kick you, I promise.”
Charles stepped back, rolling his shoulders as he reached for the silks. He wrapped the red fabric around his hands in a tight grip and glanced over, head tilted.
“Helmet is still optional. On or off?”
“Off,” Max breathed—barely loud enough to be heard. “Though I assumed you'd start with more on than this.”
Smirking, Charles wrapped the silk around his hands one more time, feeling the familiar bite of the fabric against his skin. The excess length draped from his palms to the floor like a spill of red wine.
“I'm an aerial performance artist. Not a stripper.”
Drawing in a deep, steadying breath, he crouched on one leg, muscles coiled, then pushed off.
His body lifted in a clean arc as he piked sharply, tucking his legs beneath him and rolling backward into a tight somersault. The silks whispered around him as he rotated—once, twice, three times—each spin winding the fabric snugly across his biceps, locking him perfectly into place as he ascended.
When he righted himself again, suspended midair, Charles extended his arms outward in a solid iron-T, shoulders firm, core tight. His legs stayed straight and flexed, toes pointed toward the wooden floor below.
“Maybe you should send a photo of this one to George,” Charles teased, voice steady despite the strain. “Spice up his victory pose ideas.”
Max barked out a quick, surprised laugh, but his blue eyes never left Charles. They were wide, focused, and a slight parting of his lips betrayed something almost hungry.
“I think I’ll keep this image for myself, if it’s all the same to you,” he murmured.
“Suit yourself.”
He released one arm from the silk, letting his weight shift as he spun lazily by a single fist, fabric twisting around his wrist. The motion built momentum, letting him position himself perfectly for the next sequence. With a practiced pull, he grabbed the silk with both hands and swung his legs upward, muscles rippling as he inverted smoothly.
The room rotated around him as he turned in a slow circle upside-down, the red silk pressed between his inner thighs, elbows tucked close.
Trying not to notice how intensely Max was watching him, he let himself sink into the rhythm of his breathing, the tempo of music drifting through the apartment, and the quiet tension stretching between them like a second set of silks—pulling him tighter with every passing moment.
Charles let the world blur as he shifted, unwrapping one arm, rolling his hips, letting gravity slide him downward before catching himself with a flex of his biceps. The silks tightened around his skin, warm from friction, and he moved through a short sequence of poses instinctively: a tight arabesque fold, a sideways drop slowed by controlled tension, a brief straddle hold suspended by nothing but arm strength and will.
His muscles burned in the most familiar way, grounding and alive. He'd never given a private show like this, and he tried to put in a bit more sultry glances than normal.
Max did put in a bit of effort just to come see him.
Twisting his wrists, he unwound the fabric just enough to initiate the descent, then shifted his weight sharply. The silks spun him, faster now, the room turning into a warm swirl of low lighting and shadow. As he approached the bottom of the rotation, he hooked a knee around the fabric, letting himself fall into a sweeping, controlled split.
Momentum carried him forward and he swung toward Max on the couch.
Gripping the silk above his head with both hands, his body hovered just inches above Max’s knees, his expression stunned but eyes half lidded. Charles expected to swing back toward the center of the room, the arc familiar and automatic.
But he didn’t.
Strong hands wrapped firmly around his waist mid-swing, stopping him in a steady hold. The sudden contact sent a bolt of tingles through Charles while Max held him there, breath leaving him in a quiet rush.
He was practically in Max’s lap now, hovering just over him, thighs stretched in a wide split, arms straining above his head, torso angled forward just enough that their faces were only inches apart.
Max’s fingers tightened slightly, Charles feeling the strength there.
“You okay?” Max asked softly, looking up at him.
“Yeah,” Charles breathed, swallowing hard. “I . . . didn’t say you could touch me.”
Max's mouth curved, slow and sinful. “You can’t touch a stripper,” he murmured, a bit rough. “So I guess it’s a good thing you aren’t one then.”
Oh.
Oh.
Something hot and reckless unfurled inside Charles’ chest. Still suspended, legs splayed open, balanced by Max’s hands, Charles felt the room go quiet, air thickening around them.
Every inch of his body was acutely aware of where Max touched him . . . and where he didn’t.
He wanted to fix that.
Without breaking eye contact, Charles released the silk above him, trusting Max to hold him for the brief, breathless second he hovered weightless. He pitched forward, catching himself on Max’s shoulders as he closed the distance and pressed their lips together.
With a startled half gasp, half groan, the Dutchman melted almost instantly. His large hands slid up Charles’ bare spine, fingers splaying wide, steadying him with delicious pressure as Charles settled against him.
Max’s lips were so soft, warm and eager against his. When Charles shifted, angling his head to deepen the kiss, Max’s stubble scraped against his cheek.
He tightened his grip on Max’s shoulders, legs still draped in the air, body suspended but anchored completely by Max.
Mouth curved against his jaw, “The Red Velvet Prince, huh?” Max murmured, teasing. His hands slid lower, fingers brushing the waistband of Charles’ tiny shorts, the slightest snap of elastic making Charles jerk with a sharp inhale.
“And here I thought my race suit was impressive,” Max said, eyes glinting. “But this—” another playful tug “—this suits you.”
“How could I be anything other than Tifosi?” Charles smirked, breath unsteady. “I look good in red.”
Looking like he wanted to argue that point, Max's gaze stayed hungry.
Charles let one hand drift down, tracing along Max’s thigh and over the unmistakable outline in the front of his dark jeans, feeling the tension there as Max drew in a breath through his teeth. His reaction alone was enough to send a spark straight through Charles.
The size below him was madness and he closed his mouth to avoid drooling or outright squeaking with delight. That was going to require some prep, that's for sure.
Was he even going to be able to handle that? He was flexible, sure, but there was only so much give in that department.
Max’s hand roamed with slow confidence, dipping under his shorts to find the furled pucker of his hole and pushed its way inside. Charles felt a flicker of hesitation pulse through him, uncertainty, nerves, and anticipation tangled together.
Max must have sensed it.
He stilled, leaning back just enough to meet Charles’ eyes. “Something the matter?” he asked quietly.
Shaking his head, he managed a breathless laugh. “Just . . . thinking about how wrecked I’m gonna be tomorrow,” he admitted, cheeks warm. “Good thing I don’t have any shows.”
A soft huff escaped Max, amused and—if Charles wasn’t mistaken—he sounded relieved. “I would suggest we switch,” Max murmured, finger working him slowly, “but I don’t bottom on race weekends.”
Arching a brow, “Good,” he whispered, noses almost touching. “Because I've done enough performing for one night. It's your turn.”
Max’s answering smile was devastating. Pulling Charles back by the waist, the Monégasque gasped, catching himself on Max’s shoulders to avoid collapsing into him entirely.
“Wait—mon dieu—let me unwrap my legs,” Charles breathed, laughing under his breath. “I can’t move like this.”
“You really shouldn’t have told me that.” Max’s voice dropped. Before Charles could ask what that meant, Max lifted his wrists, guiding his hands back to the silks above his head. “Hold on tight,” he whispered.
Charles obeyed, fingers tightening in the fabric as Max gave him a slow, controlled spin.
“Max! What are you doing?” he demanded, half-laughing, half-panicked.
“Starting my performance,” Max said simply, before pulling down those velvet short shorts, exposing Charles’ bare ass to the air now facing him.
Gasping, Charles let out a strangled shout when he felt a warm wetness slide over him between his cheeks. Max had one hand firmly on Charles’ hip, keeping his shorts pulled down while the other smoothed up his back in a slow, reverent sweep.
He was trapped in the most delicious way—legs still suspended apart, wrapped tightly in red silk, arms stretched above his head, chest lifted, breath shallow.
Dear god, it was filthy. And the way Max was devouring him, like Charles was something he wanted to take his time with, was filthier still.
This image was never going to leave his mind.
Ever.
He might have to move apartments if he ever wanted peace again. Maybe even get a new job too.
“Max, fuck—” Charles breathed, the words hitching on a pant as his back arched, chest pitching forward. His arms trembled with the effort of holding himself up, muscles burning, silk biting into his palms. The position alone was undoing him.
Seriously—who was this man?
He was all blushes and shy glances back in his dressing room. Now, Max was eating him out like a starving man, Charles practically in a sex swing in the middle of his living room.
Joris deserved a big Christmas bonus.
“This was the only thing I could think about at The Garden,” Max said behind him, adding his fingers back in to help stretch him open. “Who knew these things would have more than one use?”
Charles shivered as Max’s other hand glided along the silk wound around his thigh, charged, like he was tracing the outline of everything he wanted to do to Charles.
“For the record,” he managed, breath unsteady, “I’ve never used them for . . . this.”
Humming low and pleased, the Dutchman leaned in close enough that Charles felt the smile ghost across his ass cheek. “What happens in Vegas . . . ” he whispered against his skin, nibbling lightly, then sinking his teeth in hard.
His grip slipped for a second and Charles barely caught himself.
Every touch and pass of Max’s tongue and fingers left him more undone. The silks kept him open, exposed, every part of him tuned to the points where Max held him steady. It was overwhelming, like being touched everywhere at once and Charles couldn't stop squirming, fire pooling at the base of his trapped, very hard cock.
“Max stop. I–I’m gonna come. Wait—wait, let me down. Max—”
His pleas fell on deaf ears as Max pressed his face firmly into him as Charles’ eyes rolled back. Max had his tongue so far inside him, it felt like his core was melting, lightning sparking through his fingertips when Max pressed against his weak spot.
He was never going to be able to perform with these silks again.
Charles’ tether snapped, climaxing completely untouched into his velvet shorts. He held on as long as he could before his hands gave out, Max catching him as he tumbled backwards onto the Dutchman's lap.
By the time air returned to his lungs, Charles wasn’t sure how long he’d been suspended. He felt boneless, trembling, his thoughts scattered like water droplets shaken loose mid-spin.
He was a writhing, breathless mess—held up only by silk and Max’s hands still steady at his hips, chest pressed firmly against his back.
“Now you can say you’ve used these to their fullest potential,” Max murmured, his voice warm against Charles’ ear. He pressed a slow kiss to the side of Charles’ neck, fingers sliding up to comb through his damp, tangled curls.
A shiver ran down Charles’ spine.
“I can’t feel my legs,” he whispered, half-dazed, half-delighted. His limbs felt weightless, like a part of himself was still floating somewhere above them.
Max chuckled softly, sounding pleased. His big hands moved with gentleness, reaching for the silks at Charles’ thighs. He fumbled a moment with the tight wrap before carefully loosening the first loop, then the second.
The moment the tension released, Charles sagged, falling finally down. Max caught him instantly.
With steady hands, Max guided him the rest of the way, lowering him onto the couch. Charles barely had time to exhale before Max tilted his chin and sealed their mouths together in a slow, toe curling kiss.
Charles melted.
When Max leaned back, breaths mingling, he ran a thumb along Charles’ jaw. “I should get back to my hotel.”
“You’re going?” Charles blinked, stunned. “But I . . . you didn't—”
Max smiled softly, brushing a kiss to the corner of his lips. “I have a race tomorrow.”
He gave another gentle tap of his mouth to Charles’, almost teasing. “And you—” another kiss, “—need to be able to walk through the paddock tomorrow to come see me.”
Charles stared at him, warmth blooming beneath his ribs. “Mm?”
“You'll come to the race tomorrow.” Max held his gaze, blue eyes steady and earnest despite the teasing pull of his mouth on Charles’. “Watch me win.”
Charles swallowed. “You . . . want me there?”
“I do.” Max’s smile deepened, small but devastating. “Maybe pass on the Ferrari merch for me though.”
Heat crawled up Charles’ neck. He nodded, unable to look away. “Then I’ll be there.”
“Good. I'll send passes to Joris.” Max pressed one more kiss to his lips, lingering just long enough to rearrange Charles’ breathing, before standing up. He hesitated for a moment, like he didn’t quite want to leave, then reached for his hoodie, jeans still very much looking uncomfortable.
At the door, he turned back. “Get some rest, little prince.”
Charles groaned, covering his face with both hands. “Please don’t call me that.”
“Oh, I absolutely will,” Max said, grin wicked as he slipped out into the hallway.
Then he was gone, the door clicking shut.
For a long moment, he didn’t move. He just sat there on the couch, legs numb, hair a disaster, body humming from adrenaline and . . . whatever the fuck that was.
Slowly, very slowly, he let his hands fall from his face.
“What the fuck,” he whispered into the empty room.
His heart thudded violently.
Max Verstappen—Max Verstappen—had come to his show. Had followed him home. Had kissed him senseless. Had touched him like he knew exactly what Charles needed before Charles did. Had left with a promise and a smile that was now permanently burned into Charles’ brain.
And, he wanted to see him again. Wanted him at the race tomorrow.
Charles dropped back against the couch cushions, grabbing a throw pillow and pressing it over his face to muffle the strangled noise that ripped out of him. His legs kicked uselessly in the air, mostly because they still weren’t working properly.
He was a mess. A complete, ridiculous, hopeless mess.
He dragged the pillow away and stared at the ceiling, heart pounding hard enough to shake his ribs. “It was just one night,” he whispered. “Calm down.”
His pulse did not calm down.
He groaned again, running both hands through his curls.
Finally, he sat up, wincing as feeling returned to his legs like pins and needles, sticky sensation in his shorts making him cringe. He pushed himself to his feet, using the back of the couch for balance.
He was going to that race tomorrow.
Even if he had to crawl.