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Max wakes up to an empty bed on the morning of his and Charles’ anniversary.
Well, technically, their official anniversary is in April, but the neverending duties of being F1 drivers prevent them from actually celebrating it on the day. The most they’ve done is have room service dinner while sharing a bottle of wine from the hotel minibar. To Max, it’s more than enough, content with spending time with the most important person in his life, regardless of where they are or what they’re doing. Unfortunately, or fortunately for him, the most important person in his life is Charles Leclerc, who insists that anniversaries are meant to be different from their regular dates.
And well. Max is nothing if not whipped for Charles Leclerc.
Instead, they’ve been celebrating their anniversary during summer break, where there are no team obligations and brand commitments to bother them. They’re mostly past the point of making their anniversary a huge ordeal — being together for four years will do that to you — but they still try to do a little something extra for the special occasion, like going on a trip, or doing something together that they’ve wanted to try but couldn’t because of their schedules. This year, they’re spending it on Max’s new yacht.
Just the two of them (and a small crew) out in the middle of the sea where no one can reach them for a week and a half, doing absolutely nothing.
It’s perfect in Max’s opinion.
Charles had organized it all, from their destination, to what they’d be eating, and didn’t let Max lift a single finger during the entire process. When Max tried to protest, Charles had just winked in that stupidly charming way of his and told him to consider it a repayment for doing the heavy lifting for their anniversary last year.
And so, that’s how Max had found himself on the Bagheera at seven in the morning. After getting woken up at the crack of dawn by Charles’ obnoxious ringtone, sleep deprived and wanting nothing more than to drag his boyfriend to the king-sized bed in the main quarters to start doing the nothing he was promised. But said boyfriend clearly had other plans.
The right side of the bed is cold; the only evidence of Charles is his outline on the sheets and Max’s outstretched hand, reaching toward where his partner would be. He blinks at the sight, listening for the sound of the shower running, but all he gets are waves crashing outside his window, rocking the Bagheera gently as it drifts across the French Riviera.
Slowly, he peels himself out of the bed. The summer heat, barely noticeable in the early hours of the morning when he and Charles had embarked, is practically sweltering in the middle of the afternoon. The air in the room feels physically heavy with humidity, causing his shirt to stick to his back from sweat. Outside, the sound of the waves practically beckon him out where the air is cooler. Despite the gentle rocking of the boat trying to lull him back to sleep, he crawls out of bed, stepping over the blankets strewn about the floor, and makes his way to the shower.
Clothes that Max recognizes as the ones Charles was wearing earlier hang on one of the towel hooks, clearly discarded, but Max doesn’t think twice about them as he steps into the shower and turns the dial to its coldest setting.
Feeling significantly more awake after rinsing himself off, he rummages through his suitcase and pulls out a thin linen shirt and a pair of board shorts. Looking in the mirror, he at least attempts to look decent by running his hands through his damp hair, despite the only people seeing him being his boyfriend and the sparse crew. To top it all off, he grabs Charles’ Ray Bans from where he left them on the bathroom counter, pushing them up his nose.
The owner of which seems to have gone missing.
Well, Max thinks, it’s not like he could have gone far.
He zips up his suitcase, though not before checking that everything is where he’d left it. Following his instincts, Max climbs up the stairs to the flybridge.
Sure enough, he finds his boyfriend at the center, seated at a table set for two.
Behind him, the French Riviera practically glitters under the afternoon sun as a gentle breeze ripples over the empty waters. Monte Carlo is barely a speck on the horizon, distorted by the intense heat and wholly insignificant against the vast cloudless sky.
Max isn’t looking at that right now.
Summer always does something to Charles. He’s… looser in a way he can’t afford to be during the season, relaxed in a way Max only sees when they’re alone, behind closed doors. Not so the prim and proper Prince of Monaco with his controlled words and even more controlled smiles, nor is he Il Predestinado with seemingly the weight of the entire world and more on his back. Don’t get him wrong; Max loves every single side of Charles, the good, the not-so-good, and the bad.
But Charles in the summer is one of his favorites.
They’re only about a week into the break, but in that time, Charles had already regained the tan he had lost to long flights and hours dressed in nomex, golden skin now on full display under the hot sun. Constellations of freckles, old and uncharted, decorate Charles’ toned back, from his neck to his defined shoulders. Overgrown hair curls up the back of his neck, fluffy from the humidity and the salt in the air.
That’s not what gets him though. He even takes his sunglasses off just so he can make sure his eyes are working properly.
Because there’s no way that Charles is in an honest-to-god white sundress right in front of him, gazing at the Riviera and biting into a strawberry like nothing is out of the ordinary.
Charles must feel the weight of his gaze because he turns his head, catching Max standing unmoving behind him.
The sound of the ocean roars back into Max’s ears as Charles catches his eye, the lightest brush of a blush on his cheeks. “Max! Come sit with me; the food’s getting cold!” he calls, dimples showing when he smiles at him.
Max blinks. It takes a moment for him to fully register what Charles is saying, brain still sluggish from sleep and the heat and everything in front of him. Max moves then, crossing the distance until he’s pulling out the chair across from Charles.
The table is set with a simple spread, a bowl of strawberries, two dishes covered by metal cloches, two wine glasses, and a bottle of white that Max recognizes because he and Charles both like it, sitting in a bucket of ice.
“Here,” Charles says, taking the covers off the dishes, revealing two plates of spaghetti carbonara. His tone is perfectly neutral, betraying nothing. “Nothing too fancy for lunch. I hope that’s okay.”
Max just nods mutely.
Everything is perfectly thought out, and not just the choice of food or wine. The timing of Max falling asleep should have given Charles enough time to prepare the food, get the boat out far enough away from the city to ensure their privacy, and get dressed.
He dazedly watches as Charles picks up his fork but doesn’t start eating. Instead, he looks at Max with a quirk of his brow, and Max swears he sees the corner of his lip twitch in amusement.
“Cheri?” Charles places a hand on top of his, concern bleeding into his tone. “What’s wrong?”
“What are you wearing?” he asks, not wanting to beat around the bush.
A slow smile spreads across Charles’ face. A feeling of dread suddenly pools in his stomach as Charles folds his arms on the table and leans in. Max knows his partner well enough to know that the action was deliberate. The top of the dress is cut in a way that has his pecs filling out the cups like they were just meant to, drawing his eye to the dip in the center that seems to go down miles — and there is just no way that Charles has no idea how good his chest looks when he does that.
“It’s nice, non?”
When Max doesn’t answer, not for a lack of anything to say, but because he’s busy trying not to drool, Charles speaks again.
“Do you like it?”
Max isn’t imagining it. A hint of uncertainty clouds the easy confidence in his voice. Charles is nervous.
‘Okay. Two can play that game,’ Max thinks a little bit sadistically.
“All of this for me?” he asks, eyeing the delicate straps, the way the long ribbons fall over Charles’ strong shoulders. Underneath the table, Max’s bare legs brush across the soft material of the dress as he tangles their feet together. It takes everything in him to suppress a shiver. “Schatje…” His voice trails off into a soft groan, “Do you have any idea how good you look?”
Charles’ tongue darts out across his pink lips, eyes downcast, but it doesn’t hide the way his cheeks turn a darker shade of red at the praise.
“I’m glad you like it.” The relief is palpable in his voice.
Oh, Max loves this man with his entire heart.
It’s Max’s turn to grin, an easy, teasing smile spreading across his face as he intertwines their fingers. “Was this your plan all along? To get me out in the middle of the ocean so you could kill me with…” he gestures at Charles, “This?”
It’s not something he thought he’d be into, not for lack of interest, but rather for the lack of trying. But trust Charles to awaken something in Max that he’s never realized about himself until now. It also helps that it’s just Charles, and he can pull off anything.
Half-lidded eyes snap up to meet his, and the glint in them tells Max all he needs to know. “Is it working?” he asks, voice soft and head tilted innocently. The only thing that gives him away is his pulse drumming in Max’s hand.
“I have eyes, baby.”
Charles just laughs, breathless, wind ruffling his hair as he throws his head back. No matter how much Max has heard it in his lifetime, the sound of his laughter still makes his chest tighten. It causes one of the dress straps to slip off Charles’ shoulders. Instinctively, like he would when Charles’ glasses are close to falling off his nose, Max reaches over and drags the strap back over his shoulder, his touch featherlight.
Green eyes follow the path of his hand, but Max almost can’t tell, with the way they’ve darkened with desire. A small, almost inaudible intake of breath falls from his lips before he catches himself, mouth clamping shut.
“Can we skip the main course?” Max murmurs, speaking up, thumbing the white fabric between his fingers, “I’m more in the mood for dessert.”
He barely hears Charles’ response over the crashing of the waves.
“Please.”
Pulling his hand away, his chair scrapes across the wooden floors as he pushes away from the table.
“Come here,” Max rasps, opening his arms, “Let me have a look at you, baby.”
He doesn’t miss the way Charles’ red flush spreads all the way down to his chest at his command, the color disappearing underneath the low dip of his dress, more obvious against the white fabric. Everyone knows Charles looks good in red, including Max, and fortunately, it’s always so easy to get him to blush.
Max lets out a low whistle.
Standing reveals details that Max wasn’t privy to, like how the skirt flares out around the waist, making Charles’ already small waist look even smaller. His boyfriend isn’t small by any means, all toned muscle built over a masculine frame. The fact that the dress fits him this well as if it was made with his body in mind, makes Max wonder how long he had been planning this.
He looks at him, and he’s starving.
Charles takes his sweet time walking over to Max, but they don’t stay separated for long. He slots himself between Max’s spread legs like he belongs there, hands on his shoulders, and Max’s breath catches in his throat. The wind kicks up then, causing the skirt to fly into Max’s face, the soft fabric brushing against his skin like a chaste kiss. He smells like their fabric softener and the ocean. Max looks up at Charles, smiling down at him so serenely, haloed by the bright sun, that Max almost doesn’t want to break the spell.
“Are you just going to keep staring at me?” Charles sounds amused, playful, and Max rolls his eyes.
“Can’t help it,” he murmurs under his breath, laying his head on Charles’ strong thigh, the fabric cool against his burning skin, pulling him closer. His fingers trace the warm skin underneath the skirt, inching higher and higher, but not high enough, stopping short every time. Charles doesn’t exactly squirm, but it’s a close thing, his eyelashes fluttering as he lets out a shaky breath, leaning in even closer. “You look so pretty, schatje.”
A tug on his hair stills his hands in their path, bordering on painful, but it’s quickly soothed by skilled fingers carding through his hair.
“If we were married, the fourth anniversary is the silk and linen anniversary. Did you know that?” Charles muses, reaching behind him to grab a strawberry, pushing it past Max’s lips. Sweetness explodes on his tongue when he sinks his teeth into it, chewing slowly, all while maintaining eye contact with Charles, who smiles approvingly. Max hums, leaning into his touch. Charles leans down then, capturing Max’s mouth in a kiss. “Happy anniversary, Max,” he says for the first time, grinning against his lips.
“Happy anniversary, Charles,” Max whispers into the corner of Charles’ mouth, tugging on his waist once, then twice until he gets the hint.
Hitching his skirt up reveals miles and miles of long, toned legs that go on for seemingly forever. Charles throws a leg over Max’s thigh, making himself comfortable on his lap, and–
Oh.
Max is silent as he follows the line of Charles’ leg up into the high slit of the dress and touches the bare skin of Charles’ hips. He can feel Charles’ grin without even having to look up at him when he realizes what’s going on.
“You’re fucking insane.”
And Charles has the fucking audacity to wink at him.
“Surprise—?”
Max cuts him off by pulling him into a rough kiss, causing Charles to let out a surprised sound at the back of his throat, but he immediately kisses him back. Teeth clash painfully against each other, but neither of them lets up. The kiss is clumsy, slick, insistent, and desperate. A string of spit connects them when he pulls away for air, and Max sees Charles’ lips turning red, swelling slightly, matching the same shade of red on his cheeks. Maybe it’s placebo, but he swears he tastes the strawberries from earlier.
His hands are everywhere, on every inch of exposed skin of Charles’ body, turning his body into a canvas that he can mark up according to his whims. He carves red lines onto the strong planes of his back and splatters purple bruises into the flesh of his hips, where his hands settle in a firm grip, holding him in place and preventing him from moving too much. It doesn’t stop Charles from trying though, clumsily trying to grind himself onto Max’s thigh, chasing any amount of friction, but he’s only met with frustration.
Suddenly, Max feels teeth digging into his lower lip, not enough to draw blood, but enough to get Max to loosen his grip for a moment. It’s seemingly enough for Charles because Max feels every single inch of his unclothed dick grind against his thigh.
They both groan: Charles in pleasure, Max in desperation.
“Charles,” he groans hotly, mouth falling open against Charles’ chest, feeling his heart beating against his lips. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
“It’s just me, mon coeur,” Charles teases, voice warm and heavy in his ear, dripping with confidence, raising the fine hairs at the back of Max’s neck. Eyes half-lidded, he presses an apologetic kiss onto Max’s swollen bottom lip, then another under that on his chin, trailing down his neck, reaching the opening of his shirt, teeth and tongue dragging across his collarbone. Max can only respond by holding on tighter, curling his fingers into the delicate fabric he’s undoubtedly ruining. All the while, Charles keeps riding Max’s thigh, unashamedly using him for his own pleasure, and Max feels the evidence of that pressing firmly against his stomach.
He looks down briefly and sees the skirt tenting with a clear outline of Charles’ hard dick, a wet spot already forming at the tip. The spot is translucent, revealing the flushed head of Charles’ cock. Pearly white liquid pools at the slit, practically the same color as the dress.
If he wasn’t already completely gone before, the sight of Charles’ leaking cock underneath a sundress is enough to send him over the edge.
“No—” Max says suddenly, licking along the seam of Charles’ mouth, “You’re more of a demon to me.”
A broken moan falls from Charles’ lips as Max yanks him closer, rough, uncaring, and Max feels it as if it were his own. The chair creaks dangerously at the sudden motion. His hands dig into the soft flesh of Charles’ hips, the fabric of the dress rucking up around them, barely covering anything.
Without warning, he presses a dry finger between the cleft of Charles’ ass, dragging his callused finger over the tight ring of muscle.
A tremor wracks its way through Charles’ body, and Max feels it in his bones. The hands on his shoulders turn bruising, insisting, as nails carve half-moon marks into his skin.
“Max–!” Charles gasps, surprised, leaning back into the thick blunt digit, not quite penetrating just yet.
Max placates him with two fingers in his mouth. “Help me out a little, schat.”
His fingers disappear between the straight line of Charles’ teeth, pressing into his tongue. Despite his impatience, Charles still wraps his lips around Max’s fingers obediently, diligently dragging his tongue across each digit, coating them in saliva. Canines graze the skin of his fingers, not quite biting down, but it’s a close thing as he adds a third finger, watching swollen lips stretch around their size.
The look in Charles’ eyes is one he’s all too familiar with: a mix of hunger, desperation, and a challenge.
Satisfied, he pulls his fingers out of Charles' mouth with an obscene pop, rewarding him for his efforts by kissing him in the middle of his chest, right at the tantalizing spot where the dress starts to dip. “Thank you, baby,” he murmurs, keeping his lips there and tasting the salt of his sweat on his tongue.
Underneath his skirt, Max spreads him apart, circling his finger against his hole before sinking in. It takes a second for Charles to adjust to the intrusion, walls clenching around his finger. He pants open-mouthed against Max’s neck, his chest heaving, clutching at Max’s shirt, willing himself to relax. Once he does, instincts taking over, he relaxes enough that Max can build up a steady rhythm.
One soon becomes two, then three. Max teases him with it, pushing at his entrance, spreading his fingers apart, pulling out, then pushing right back in.
“Do you want to know what I’m thinking about?” Max asks casually, offhandedly, even while he’s knuckle deep into the tight heat of Charles’ hole, working him open. But there’s nothing casual or offhand about the way he does it. Max knows Charles’ body, both inside and out; that's why his fingers are slow, methodical, and he knows it drives Charles absolutely crazy even though that’s exactly how he likes it.
Charles can only manage a short hum in response.
His fingers curl, short nails lightly brushing against Charles’ prostate ever so slightly. “I’m thinking about you, in your pretty dress, spread out on this table, screaming my name while I fuck you.” Max whispers it like a secret, breathless, saccharine, and drowsy from lust and the heat.
Fuck, he could cum just thinking about it.
It brings attention to his neglected cock, painfully hard in his tight shorts. He hadn’t been able to do anything about it up to now, solely focused on Charles, but every time Charles rocks forward, it sends a jolt of pleasure through him. Max knows he’s doing it on purpose, wearing him down little by little.
“And—” he continues, drawing out the word slowly, syrupy, to disguise his own growing desperation, “Wouldn’t my crew be able to hear you from here? Maybe they’re even listening right now. D’you want them to hear you, baby?”
Max spots the gleam of tears threatening to spill out in the corner of Charles’ eyes. Red skin becomes even hotter under his lips.
“They were probably thinking of how pretty you are, and I don’t blame them.”
The thought of anyone else seeing Charles in the dress has plagued Max since he saw him, and there’s no doubt that some of the crew had definitely seen him. Distantly, he wonders what they had thought, if they had been tempted to ask about it, to reach out and touch. He wonders how Charles had felt under their gaze, if their attention had affected him the way Max’s did.
“Max, s’il te plait je suis prêt—”
But there’s one thing he’s certain of: no one will ever get Charles like this. No one but Max.
He stills his fingers. “Answer the question, Charles.”
Charles lets out a high-pitched whine at the loss of contact, rocking himself back and forth on Max’s fingers, his throat bobbing before answering. “Oui oui-yes, god, Max, I want that so bad. I want them to know I’m yours. Only yours—”
All of a sudden, a series of unrelated events happen one after the other.
Threads snap under Max’s fingers.
Max tastes the tang of iron on his tongue.
The sound of dishes clattering to the ground rings in Max’s ears.
Later, much later, he will replace the dress that Charles bought, press ice onto Charles’ lip, and handsomely pay his crew for the damage he caused.
But for now, Max keeps their mouths connected, unable to bear even a moment apart, as he pushes Charles onto the empty table.
“Merde—”
“I’ll take care of it, schat,” he promises when he sees Charles eye the mess in his periphery. A hand around his cock draws his attention away, thumb rubbing the flushed head through the fabric. He nips at Charles’ collarbone then calms the sting with his lips. “Let me take care of you first.”
“I was going to tell you to get on with it,” Charles says snidely, egging him on. With a roll of his hips, he fucks into Max’s fist to emphasize his point. “You’ve been such a fucking tease, Max Emilian.” The last word is spat out like a curse, while at the same time, sounding sweeter than any endearment.
“I’m not the one walking around in a dress without anything underneath it.”
Max crowds into his space, forcing Charles further onto the table, then onto his back, head hitting the table with a dull thud. But before he can check in, Charles yanks Max down with him by the front of his shirt, popping a few buttons.
The glint in Charles’ eyes returns. “Clearly, it isn’t working because you aren’t fucking me yet—”
Max tugs at Charles’ dick once to shut him up, then a second time just because he can, drawing out a sharp breath that Max feels across his burning skin. It quiets Charles for a second, allowing Max to grab a fistful of the skirt and tuck it into the dip of the top. With his cock exposed, red, and leaking, he lets out a hiss as he involuntarily bucks up into nothing, chasing nonexistent friction. Precum pools at the tip, coating the fine hair that dusts his stomach. A hand unlatches itself from Max’s shirt to try to relieve some pressure, but Max slaps it away.
“Hands up, or I’ll finish myself off.”
The glare that Charles sends him could have sent any other person to their knees, but Max isn’t any other person, too used to the way his boyfriend gets when he’s denied anything. Charles can have the patience of a goddamned saint if he wants to, but that applies to anything other than sex, and Max knows it’s drawing thin. Still, he complies, raising his hands beside his head.
“Good boy,” Max coos under his breath. Most of the heat of Charles’ glare becomes lost when he blushes at the praise.
Charles’ eyes follow Max’s hands as he unzips his shorts, licks his lips when his aching cock springs free. He barely manages to hold back a moan, the motion combined with Charles’ attention almost enough to make him cum then and there. He knows he isn’t going to last long once he’s in Charles, but by the look of it, Charles isn’t going to last either.
His lover is laid bare on the table, haloed by soft brown curls and dressed in delicate silks, so golden and so alive. He’s the one lying on the table, yet he looks at Max like a feast ready to be devoured.
God, take his trophies, strip away his titles, just let him have this, he prays.
Max spits into his hand, slicking himself up. Wordlessly, Charles tightens his legs around Max’s waist, a silent plea to hurry. His thighs quiver under Max’s hands, anticipation thrumming off of him as the blunt head of Max’s cock nudges against his entrance.
The little sigh that Charles makes causes Max to shudder.
He always makes that sound every time Max finally sinks into him as if he’s relieved that they’re finally joined further than their skin on each other’s skin. They’re not the same people they were four years ago, but some things have remained the same throughout the years, and no matter how much time has passed, loving Charles like this feels the same as it did the first time.
Slowly, agonizingly, Max bottoms out until every inch of him is inside Charles, the wet, tight heat of him engulfing him completely. He savors the burn; the way Charles feels just a bit too tight. The sun scorches unrelentingly above his head, making Max’s entire body feel like it’s burning from the inside out.
“I love you,” Max says suddenly, overcome with too much emotion.
“I love you too, cheri.” Charles’ chest heaves with every word, like it’s taking a tremendous effort to get them out. “But please…for the love of god, please move.”
As slowly as he entered, Max pulls out, the head of his cock catching around Charles’ rim. Bucking his hips, he fucks back into Charles in one smooth motion causing him to cry out so beautifully that Max just has to do it again. And again. And again. Until every inch of his skin that Charles can reach stings from the drag of his nails. Until the tears that have been threatening to spill out from his eyes finally trail down his splotchy red cheeks. Until Charles can’t remember a single other word other than Max.
Max picks up one of Charles’ legs and hooks it over his shoulder, changing the angle to nail his prostate with every single thrust. Charles brings a hand to his mouth, biting it to muffle his cries, but Max is having none of that.
“Uh uh, lemme hear you.”
He grabs Charles’ hand and tangles their fingers together, pinning it down to the table. Debauched noises rip from his throat in time with Max’s unrelenting rhythm. No doubt anyone within earshot would be witness to how the Ferrari driver falls apart so beautifully, succumbing to pleasure.
“Max,” Charles whines, high-pitched and breathy. His damp lashes brush against Max’s eyelids when they kiss, every noise and cry getting lost between them. Precum coats Max’s stomach, sticky and wet, Charles’ cock dripping between them. “M’gonna—“
“S’alright Charles,” he slurs, his lips painting Charles’ neck to his chest to anywhere he can reach, gentle words contrasting with the harsh thrust of his hips. “I’ve got you.”
That’s the only warning he gives before pulling out just to slam back into him, and Charles screams.
“Oh fuck!”
“So good for me, baby, so so good,” Max praises.
“M’close Max.” Whether voluntarily or involuntarily, Charles clenches around him, tightening impossibly around his length. Max has to bite into the flesh of Charles’ shoulder to keep himself from yelling out.
“C’mon, Charles. Let go for me.”
Charles’ back arches off the table, cock grinding against the line of Max’s stomach, lips crashing against his own. Pain blooms at the back of his head, where Charles pulls at his hair, indistinguishable from pleasure. Max can feel his entire body tense, corded muscle bunching underneath his skin, thighs spasming, hand tightening.
He cums with a cry, thick, white liquid spurting from his cock, decorating their stomachs. It gets on the dress, seeping into the fabric and staining it with the evidence of his pleasure. Max keeps rocking into him, wringing out every last drop and sighs that Charles can muster with a single-mindedness that he’s only ever felt in the cockpit of his car, drinking everything up until there’s practically nothing left.
Charles is a blurry mess underneath him because even refocusing his vision takes up a lot of effort. He feels Charles’ lips on his own, kissing Max so sweetly, oh so gently, bringing him out of his hazy reverie and back to him.
“Don’t,” he mutters when he feels Max shift, digging his heel into the small of his back. Max barely even moves, but it sends a jolt of pleasure up Max’s spine anyway. “Your. Turn.”
It takes him a moment to realize he still hasn’t come, cock still hard inside Charles.
“Holy shit,” Max hisses, even as his hips snap instantly in response to the stimuli. He manages to restrain himself, groaning. “Are you sure?”
Charles smiles at him, teeth flashing, and that feeling of dread returns. “I’ll throw you overboard if you don’t cum inside me.”
That’s all the encouragement he needs. Max flips Charles over onto his stomach, separating for a brief moment, but fucking back into him readily. It’s so filthy — Max can feel it, hear it, a mix of spit and precum, easing the slide of his cock, filling Charles up in one painless stroke.
As if the dress isn’t already beyond repair, straps undone, fabric creased, Max fists at the silk for purchase, the material spilling from his fingers like liquid gold. With morbid fascination, he watches as his cock disappears into Charles’ body over and over, like he’s being swallowed whole. The obscenity of it makes him harder, spurs him on, wanting to watch it again and again. Charles only rocks back into him with every thrust, meeting him halfway each time.
Soon, everything else starts to melt away until all that’s left is a symphony of sounds and sensations, Charles and nothing else: the slapping of skin against skin, the harsh exhales mixing with Charles’ muffled whines, the sound of spit and cum being fucked back into him.
“God, you feel so good, you’re so perfect, fuck I’m so lucky,” Max babbles into the back of Charles’ neck, lips mapping out freckles and golden skin. His mouth trails over the notches of his spine, over the planes of hard muscle framed by white silk.
“I know, baby,” Charles soothes. Even trapped underneath him, face pressed into the table, held up solely by Max’s hands, Charles speaks like he has all the power in the world. “C’mon, give it to me.”
Max doesn’t hesitate, chasing down his own pleasure. The noise he makes sounds close to a whine, but he doesn’t care. Nose pressed into thick brown curls, he stops breathing air, instead only breathing in Charles. Yanking his hips, Max’s knees knock against the table, his entire body curling around Charles, engulfing him completely.
Heat floods around him, spilling out of him, filling Charles to the brim.
Charles tightens around him, keeping them joined as Max empties into him as if bleeding him dry. It’s almost painful, body too wired and overstimulated for it to be pleasurable, but Max is too spent to protest, tongue heavy in his mouth.
“Charles,” Max mumbles, forehead resting on the back of his neck, eyes closed, subdued,tired, and vulnerable.
“I’m here, Max.” He reaches for Max’s hand, locking their fingers together. Subconsciously, Max starts to match Charles’ breathing as he comes down from his high.
It feels like they stay there for hours. Max becomes acutely aware of every bead of sweat trailing down his body, every shift of Charles’ body as he breathes, the oppressive heat prickling at his skin. Eventually, Max feels himself softening.
Silently, he asks for permission to pull out by tapping Charles’ waist. He nods.
The head of his cock catches around Charles’ rim as he pulls out, causing both of them to let out a pained hiss. A few streaks of cum manage to escape, trailing down his trembling thighs. Max has half a mind to reach out and push it back in, but Charles is moving away before he can finish the thought.
Gingerly, he pulls himself up onto the table, legs dangling over the edge. Max doesn’t miss the way he’s barely able to hide his groan at the effort, but try as he might, he can’t find it in him to feel completely bad about it.
If Charles looked wrecked earlier, he looks positively destroyed now.
His hair is a tangled mess of knots, some curls sticking to his forehead while a couple stick straight out. Bright reds and inky violets decorate his skin, from the tops of his cheeks to his hips, down to his knees, and everything in between. The dress barely hangs onto his body, straps undone and fallen off his shoulders, bodice riding down his torso. It’s only held together by a single hand, clutching the limp fabric to his chest, trying to preserve the remaining dignity he has left.
Though he isn’t exactly trying that hard, Max thinks, eyes trailing down to his soft cock hanging between his legs, still very much exposed and leaving nothing to the imagination.
But he supposes he’s one to talk.
When Charles reaches an arm out, Max goes easily, though not before grabbing a napkin off the floor. The press of their sweaty skin is unpleasant, not aided in the slightest by the oppressive heat, but Max will be damned if he moves away.
Charles’ free hand slides into the opening of Max’s shirt, tracing over the expanse of his chest, up the notches of his ribs, scratching lazy circles into his skin. Breathing out slowly, Max wonders again how he got so lucky.
“You’re enjoying this too much,” Charles observes, eyes fluttering shut when Max runs a thumb over his cheeks, catching a stray tear. He cracks one open, giving Max a knowing look. “Should I be worried?”
Max swipes the napkin over Charles’ stomach, between his thighs.
His hand trails higher and higher until he’s cupping his jaw tenderly. “Can you blame me?”
“Mmm, no, not really.” A thumb presses into the junction between his jaw and his neck, right where Charles had sucked a bruise into his skin.
“Ow—! Fuck off. You’re such a freak.”
It stings for a second, then dissipates, catching him more off guard than anything, but his spent cock twitching in interest hurts more at that moment. Just for that, Max pinches Charles’ nipple in retaliation.
“Mmpf—tease,” Charles gasps.
Now that he’s going, he’s unable to stop himself as he kisses each part of Charles’ face within reach. Warm cheeks, lightly stubbled jaw, the crease at the corner of his eye, he learns and relearns how each of them feel under his lips.
“Slut,” Max whispers.
Charles grasps his chin, directing his mouth back to his. Between his legs, Max leans in impossibly closer, leaning more and more of his weight onto Charles—
“Demon—ah!”
The grip around Max’s shoulders turns painful in an instant. Max loses his balance. He gets a mouthful of fabric and skin when he falls forward. “—Charles, what the—”
“—my god, oh my god, I’m so sorry, I didn’t see anything, I swear—”
Max forces his head around in Charles’ vice grip, finding a crew member whose name doesn’t immediately come to mind. The poor boy’s face is pure red, mouth opening, and closing repeatedly, looking like a deer about to get turned into roadkill.
One of the new hires, Max’s brain supplies unhelpfully.
“I’m sorry, I’ll leave now, excuse me—“ He ducks his head with embarrassment, about to turn on his heel—
“Wait.”
Both Charles and the crew member turn to look at him with wide eyes.
“Max—” Charles hisses, but he doesn’t get another word out when Max hooks his hands under his legs, ignoring the way his sore muscles protest. He makes a startled yelp as Max lifts him into his arms, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.
“Clean this up, and don’t come near the main quarters,” he says. The boy just stands there, unmoving, blinking owlishly, his eyes never leaving his. Charles groans in Max’s arms, hiding his burning face in his neck.
“Please,” Max tacks on, albeit a bit more harshly than he intended. Sue him.
Snapping out of his daze, the boy nods frantically, rushing past him and pointedly avoiding his gaze.
Max doesn’t spare him another glace, but he feels Charles’ face burning the entire short walk back to their bedroom.
…
“How’s that for a surprise?”
Charles asks the question later, much later, when the sun finally finishes its descent into the Riviera, and the air in their bedroom becomes a bearable temperature.
They both ended up with a nasty sunburn, Charles more so than Max, who despite living in Monaco his entire life, seemed to be allergic to applying enough sunscreen. He lays naked on their messy bed while Max slathers aloe vera over his red skin, across his face, down his neck, basically anywhere the dress didn’t cover. He spent a solid five minutes laughing at the outline of the sweetheart neckline burned into Charles’ skin to his annoyance, before reaching for the tub of aloe on the bedside table.
The paparazzi photos after this trip are going to be interesting, that’s for sure.
Max hums, stilling his hand when Charles flinches at the cold gel. He should have expected the question. His boyfriend is too competitive for his own good. “It’s one of the better ones,” he says eventually.
“One of the better ones?!” Charles squawks. He twists his head to glare at Max but immediately regrets it when the motion stretches his peeling skin.
Max pinches his side where he knows Charles isn’t sunburnt. “Stay still, idiot,” he chides. Charles stops moving, but that doesn’t mean he stops talking, demanding Max tell him which one it is.
It’s not the whole truth, of course. The thing is, Max has a competitive streak of his own, and he doesn’t think Charles will disagree with him once he gives him his gift lying at the bottom of his suitcase, encased in a black velvet box.
As he slathers another layer of aloe over Charles’ skin, Max thinks, yes, this please, forever.