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Charles wobbled on his feet and caught himself against the wall, one palm flat to the cool tile while he let his forehead rest there for a second.
God.
The bass from the club still bled through the walls of the VIP bathroom, a dull, endless thump that lived behind his ribs now. The strobing lights outside were too bright, hot and disorienting—too much perfume, too many hands, too many bodies brushing him as he tried to move through the crowd without making a scene.
The lighting in here was dimmer, warmer, almost soft, and the room felt strangely suspended, time slowed just enough for him to breathe.
Charles needed that.
It was late. Far too late, considering he had to be sober enough to stand upright tomorrow and get married.
That thought hit him all over again, unreal even through the alcohol buzzing in his veins.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow he’d be in a suit with people looking at him, easy to photograph and smile like he meant it and wasn't on the verge of throwing up just thinking about it.
Pierre was out there somewhere, probably laughing, half-drunk himself and wondering where the hell Charles had disappeared to. Charles had tried to find him ten minutes ago, maybe twenty, weaving through the sea of bodies on the dance floor, the crowd thick enough that he kept losing his bearings.
Every direction looked the same: velvet ropes, flashing lights, strangers moving like one giant living thing. Someone had grabbed his wrist at one point. Someone else had leaned in too close, mouth against his neck.
He’d laughed it off because of too many years of media training, and then got away as fast as possible, escaping into this bathroom.
The buzzing in his ears cut off when he heard a strange scraping sound.
Charles lifted his head, blinking blearily, and turned it slowly toward the source.
At first, he thought it was a shadow, or just bad lighting, or maybe he really was too drunk to be trusted with his own eyes.
Set into the wall beside him was some kind of panel—flat, matte black, almost blending into the tile until you looked directly at it. A section in the middle was cut out in a near perfect circle about the size of a fist, too intentional to be decorative.
Charles stared.
“What the fuck,” he muttered.
He heard the scraping sound again, and before he could decide whether to laugh or leave, two fingers slid through the opening from the other side.
Charles jolted so hard his shoulder hit the wall.
The fingers moved slowly, making some kind of gesture he didn’t understand and he squinted at them, brow furrowing.
Was this . . . some kind of joke? Some horrible, bougie, VIP-only club feature? Was there a person on the other side of the wall—of course there was a person on the other side of the wall, Charles, there were fingers sticking through it.
He pushed himself upright a little, still bracing one hand on the tile, and stared at the opening like it might disappear if he blinked enough times.
Glancing around the bathroom, he checked to see if he’d missed some giant, obvious sign explaining whatever this was. But no—just a spotless sink, expensive hand soap, and one deeply unsettling hole in the wall.
The fingers tapped twice against the edge of the opening.
Waiting.
Charles let out a disbelieving laugh, half to himself. Either he was far drunker than he thought or . . .
The fingers vanished back through the opening, followed by a soft, impatient sound from the other side.
“Attends,” Charles mumbled, pushing himself off the wall and stumbling closer. “Attends . . . ”
Flushed from the alcohol and the music vibrating through the floor, his hands fumbled at his waistband, clumsy and slow, and he let out another quiet laugh at himself under his breath.
This was insane.
But he was drunk enough to go through with it, apparently.
Charles glanced over his shoulder to make sure the door was still locked, pulse suddenly louder in the quiet room. He took a breath and stepped closer, bracing one hand against the wall beside the panel as his other hand fumbled on the button on his jeans, the teeth of his zipper gliding down.
While the liquid courage helped his nerves, it didn't help the situation below his waist. He was so drunk, he didn’t even know if he could get hard.
Alcohol never did agree with him in that way.
Giving himself a few tentative strokes, Charles frowned at his flaccid dick, not even a twitch of interest stirring from it.
Well.
That was the other person's problem. If they were bold enough to ask, they were bold enough to get him hard all on their own.
Hesitant, Charles stuck the head of his cock through the hole, swaying lightly. That was what he was supposed to do right? That's how this worked?
A warm hand touched him from the other side, and Charles jolted lightly at the contact. He sucked in a breath, all the joking disbelief draining out of him.
Fingers wrapped around him and tugged gently, pulling Charles’ hips flush with the wall, putting all of him through the opening, balls included. Something hot and wet slid over the head, sending a shiver down Charles’ spine.
Oh this was definitely how this worked.
He planted both palms against the wall, head dipping as sensation rolled over him, the stranger’s lips fully committing to the act and sealing around him, sucking lightly.
Fuck.
They knew exactly what they were doing, wrist working at Charles’ hardening shaft, tongue tracing his ridge, making his toes curl.
Charles let out a shaky breath, forehead resting briefly against the cool wall. His mind was spinning, trying to keep up, not knowing who was on the other side a thrill, only knowing that they were focused entirely on pleasuring him.
It was kinky and more than a little dangerous, considering who he was.
But Charles, to his own surprise, was very much into it.
God, that tongue.
He closed his eyes and let himself fall into the moment, hot mouth sucking him deeper.
The sensation on the other side of the wall was warm and far more skilled than anything this ridiculous situation had earned, and a low sound slipped out of him before he could stop it, mostly disbelief.
So, his body had decided to cooperate after all.
Fully hard now, the stranger’s lips mouthed down the side of his shaft, gliding along the underside of his member, tongue tracing his veins.
He hadn’t had a blow job this good in years.
Charles shifted, testing a shallow thrust, then settled into a slow rhythm against the panel. The wall was still cold and impersonal, like most bad decisions could be, but everything happening through that hidden opening felt startlingly intimate.
Head of his cock sliding into a tight space, Charles smiled, listening to the quiet garbles from the other side.
He was bigger than most, several partners struggling to take even half of his length in their mouth, but this stranger swallowed all of him down to the root without complaint.
Fuck, that was so hot.
Bucking his hips a few times, Charles' eyes fluttered when his tip sunk down the stranger's throat over and over as he started to feel that familiar pressure build, rocking his hips.
Suddenly, Charles was angry at the wall, for being between them and hiding who was on the other side. He wanted to see, see the way their face flushed and cheeks bulged, if they had tears in their eyes or if they were touching themselves while deepthroating him like their life depended on it.
Were they looking up at him, eyes open while they swallowed him whole and politely begging for more without a word?
He also wanted to see who had taken one look at a hidden hole in a club bathroom wall and decided this was a reasonable way to spend their night. Wanted to know if they were calm or smug or just as wrecked by the absurdity of it as he was.
The not knowing started to bother him more the longer he stayed there, standing still now and letting the stranger do all the work. His forehead pressed back to the wall, breath uneven now, focusing on the muffled music, the hush of his own breathing, the quiet, obscene noises coming through the panel.
He was getting dangerously close.
Fuck—fuck.
What was he supposed to do? Was he supposed to tell them? Or offer a kind of warning?
Hazy, Charles knocked lightly on the wall, breath too unsteady for words.
An answer came back almost immediately, the sucking getting more desperate, more urgent, enough to make his head tip back and mouth fall open on a silent gasp.
Holy fuck this was so hot, that mouth, sucking Charles’ brain right out through the tip of his cock.
Charles squeezed his eyes shut, a shudder wracking his whole body until he came in spurts, the stranger’s fingers cupping his balls and throat swallowing down his load.
“Mon Dieu,” Charles moaned loudly, hips rolling slowly, riding out the last waves.
When it was over, Charles stayed there for a second too long, chest heaving, one hand still braced against the panel, needing the wall to stay upright.
He opened his eyes slowly, still a little disoriented, and blinked a few times.
The panel in front of him had changed, not matte black anymore, but more translucent. Similar to frosted glass that had fogged from heat. The shape of a person on the other side blurred at first before it sharpened into focus, showing the impossible.
Charles’ stomach dropped so fast he nearly lost his balance.
Max.
Max was on the other side of the wall.
On his knees, one hand braced against the tile beside the panel, the other hand hanging at his side like he’d just frozen in place, similar to how Charles was right now. His lips were flushed and slightly swollen, slick with a smattering of Charles’ cum on his chin and across his cupid's bow.
Over that freckle on his top lip.
His—those unmistakable blue eyes were locked on him with a stunned, horrified expression Charles had never seen on him in public. Gaze widening, Max’s mouth parted like he wanted to say something before his hand lifted and the panel went dark again, matte black, like nothing had ever been there.
Charles stood frozen, feet glued to the floor, pulse roaring in his ears.
“No, wait!” he said and slapped around on the panel, trying to get it to change again before hearing a door slamming from the other side of the hole.
Jesus, his cock was still hanging halfway through.
Charles sobered almost instantly, the fog of drunkenness evaporating in a single, violent rush.
Brain catching up, his hands moved on autopilot, tucking his soft cock back into his jeans and straightening himself. He shoved the bathroom door open and bolted into the club hallway.
The noise washed over him like a wave, bass and laughter and the blur of bodies moving in the strobe lights as he rushed back into the main room. People bumped into his sides as he pushed through, eyes scanning wildly.
Where was the other side? Where was that room? Where would Max have come out?
He spun in a tight circle, searching for dirty blond hair, for the familiar shape of Max’s shoulders in his white T-shirt, for blue eyes he knew like the back of his hand.
Nothing.
A hand slid around his shoulder, heavy but warm.
“Calamar!” Pierre slurred right into his ear, grinning with his nose flushed. “Where have you been? We were—”
Charles shrugged him off, turning again, scanning the crowd. “Not now,” he said tightly.
Pierre blinked, squinting at him in that way really drunk people did when they needed to focus to make their mouth work. “‘at’s wrong with you? Have cold feet?”
“Nothing,” Charles said, heart still pounding, vision pulsing.
He pushed past another group near the bar, eyes darting down a different roped off hallway, and then shoved through a cluster of people near a lounge area, almost choking on perfume and sweat. A flash of blond hair caught his eye across the room and Charles’ breath hitched.
Max slipped out through the club exit without a glance back and Charles went still, chest tight, watching as security stepped back in front of the door.
Pierre appeared at his side again, brow pulled up in drunken concern. “Charles . . . seriously. What is it?”
Swallowing, Charles kept his eyes on the doors, fists squeezed at his sides.
“Nothing,” he repeated, quieter that time.
“Nothing.”