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Louis is sleeping with his lawyer.
He has to be. How else to explain the little looks, the smiles, the touches? It’s all so fucking typical. Not that Lestat expected anything else.
The lawyer is hot, at least. Lestat will give him that. Lestat wouldn’t, to use a very modern human phrase, kick him out of bed for eating crackers, and Louis is clearly of the same opinion. Lestat can easily picture them in some wide bed with silk sheets, crackers or not, Louis on his back while the lawyer fucks his no doubt massive and exquisitely shaped cock deep inside him. Lestat can see Louis tilting his head, his lawyer sucking a row of kisses into his elegant throat as Louis takes him like the sexual champion Lestat knows he is. He can even hear the sounds Louis makes, the whimpers and groans, as he spirals ever closer to climax. He won't scream, though. Only Lestat has ever made him do that.
When Louis comes, he probably tells the lawyer what a good job he did, how skilled he is. How much Louis fucking loves him.
Maybe it’s a good thing. The lawyer deserves something for putting up with Louis, after all. Prissy, bitchy Louis, with his beautiful, smug face and his withholding ways. It’s obvious he hasn’t told his own lawyer anything close to the truth. It’s going to be, as the youth would say, a piece of fucking cake to win this.
***
Lestat is sleeping with his lawyer.
He has to be. Lestat never met a warm body–or a cold one–he didn’t want to fuck, and his lawyer isn’t just any warm body. She’s prettier than the woman Louis still, after a century, can only bear to think of as “the singer”, and it looks like she’s got bigger breasts. Louis hasn’t been able to judge the relative size of her ass.
Not that it matters. Louis can easily picture them in the back of a car, Lestat’s face between the lawyer’s legs. He no doubt makes those grunting noises, the ones Louis has always found so off-putting, as he slurps at her pussy. She probably buries her hands in his stupid, wavy hair, keeping his tongue writhing inside her until she shudders over the edge, her thighs squeezing either side of his head in a way that would be painful if Lestat wasn’t who he is. Then Lestat probably fucks her, bouncing her on his lap, those annoying fucking endearments tumbling from his lips like he couldn’t keep them in if he wanted to. Mon amour. Mon trésor. Ma chérie. Ma princesse.
Maybe it’s a good thing. The lawyer deserves something for putting up with Lestat, after all. Insane, unhinged Lestat, who starts ranting about Sausolito and the Golden Gate Bridge and fucking Santiago, for fuck knows what reason. It’s obvious he hasn’t told his lawyer anything close to the truth. It’s going to be, as the young people say, such a fucking cakewalk to win this.
When the meeting is finally over, Louis lets Lestat and his lawyer leave first. He turns to his own lawyer, a solid, reliable man, and says, “I think that went well, don’t you?” He allows himself a smile.
“He’s crazy,” the lawyer says, succinctly. Louis knew there was a reason he chose him. “It can be easy to deal with crazy, but it can also be impossible.”
“Tell me about it,” Louis replies. That’s the story of his life.
He arranges their next appointment, says his good-byes, and heads downstairs. There’s a men’s room on the main floor of the building, near the elevators. Louis sends a quick text to his assistant, telling her he’ll be back as soon as he can, and pushes the door open.
Lestat is standing at a counter fitted with two sinks; another man is at the urinal.
“Fuck off,” Louis tells the stranger. Obediently, the man zips up his fly, even though he’s not quite finished, and leaves without washing his hands. With a wave of his fingers, Louis locks the door behind him.
“That was a productive meeting,” Louis says, catching Lestat’s gaze in the mirror.
“Yes,” Lestat agrees. “It’s so nice to know we can be civil.”
“Civil. Right.”
For a moment, a fraction of a second, neither of them moves. Then they snap together like a pair of neodymium magnets.
Louis can’t get close enough. He never can. Biting at Lestat’s mouth, he pushes Lestat’s blazer and slutty low-cut shirt off his shoulders as one, desperate to feel bare skin. Lestat’s hands grip his face hard enough to bruise Louis's jaw as he returns the violent kiss in kind, their teeth clashing. One of them draws blood. Louis isn’t sure who it is, but it hardly matters. He swallows it greedily as he counts Lestat’s teeth with his tongue and scrabbles at the clasp of his ridiculous leather pants.
Louis hears a rip a moment before cold air hits his chest, and he realises Lestat has torn through all three of his layers. “Fucker,” he mutters, in between nips. He moves his mouth to the side of Lestat’s neck, leaving blunt teeth marks the length of his throat. His fangs drop, but Louis restrains himself. “That jacket was Balmain.”
“I’ll replace it when I get my settlement,” Lestat replies, and sinks to his knees on the bathroom floor.
Lestat sucks cock like nobody else can. After the last few decades, Louis feels qualified to make that statement. Lestat is uniquely skilled. Louis tugs at his hair, not to pull him off but just because he can, while Lestat takes him so far down his throat, it would put a python to shame. “Fuck! Lestat!”
Reaching back, Louis steadies himself on the edge of the counter, thrusting with abandon. Lestat takes it. He encourages it, gripping the back of Louis’s thighs and pushing him deeper still, until Louis comes like a geyser, wave after wave of it pulsing down Lestat’s welcoming throat.
Louis isn’t allowed to bask in the afterglow for long. His thighs still shaking, he’s roughly turned around so that his chest is pressed against the counter and his eyes are in line with the soap dispenser. Then, Lestat hesitates. Louis can’t fathom why.
“Come on,” he says, wiggling his ass to emphasise the offer. “Fuck me. I’m ready.”
That seems to be the encouragement Lestat was waiting for. He pushes Louis’s pants all the way to the floor and runs his hand down Louis’s backside until it hits the steel plug between his cheeks. Louis hears him chuckle lowly. “You came here prepared for this, mon cher?”
“Figured I’d get my lawyer to do it if you weren’t interested.” It’s not true. Louis is a businessman. He knows better than to fuck around with people who are working with or for him. But he also knows Lestat.
With a growl, Lestat jerks out the plug. Louis flinches when it clatters on the bathroom floor. Great, he thinks. I’ll never be able to use that again. No amount of cleaning would let him forget it had been rolling around in a public men’s room. Before he can complain aloud, he hears Lestat dispensing with his own pants. Lestat slides in without further preamble, his stupidly large, lovely cock nestling in right where it’s supposed to be.
Louis’s gaze comes up to again meet Lestat’s reflection. Lestat is sweating already, his hair damp, a river of blood rolling down his left cheek. He brushes it away and returns his hand to Louis, gripping his hips hard enough to hurt as he relentlessly fucks him. The edge of the sink top is digging into Louis’s ribs. He couldn’t care less.
This is what he wants. This is what he missed, all of those seventy-seven years. This is mine, Louis thinks, heart pounding. You're mine.
“Come on, Lestat.” When he speaks, Louis’s voice is less steady than he’d expected. “You’re doing great, baby.”
Stuff like that always seems to hit the spot for Lestat. With a groan, he redoubles his efforts. The counter shakes beneath Louis, and Lestat reaches around, wrapping one of those huge, perfect hands around Louis’s eager cock. “Yes!” Louis cries, loud enough to be heard in the lobby. He’ll be embarrassed later, but right now, it feels too good to care. “Yes! Fuck! That’s it.” With unwavering accuracy, Lestat pounds into Louis's prostate, stroking his dick in time with each flawless thrust. Louis’s platinum chain bounces against his chest. He wonders if Lestat remembers he was the one who gave it to him, or whether he was too strung out at the time to remember anything.
Soon, Louis is on the edge of coming again, something that's unheard of with anyone but this glorious, aggravating man he loves so much.
“Louis–” Lestat grunts.
Louis understands it to be a warning. “Come inside me,” he urges. Why would he ever want anything else? “Do it, baby.”
A moment later, Lestat climaxes, followed in quick succession by Louis. It seems unusually copious, especially for a second orgasm, until Louis comes back to Earth and realises they’ve managed to wrench the counter off the wall, breaking the plumbing in the process. The unmoored pipes are spraying like fountains, soaking everything in the room and creating miniature lakes on the bathroom floor.
“Fuck,” Louis says. That’s going to be a hefty repair bill. It was worth it.
“Louis.” Looking like a drowned rat, Lestat holds out his arms. Louis can’t help himself. He goes into them, hugging Lestat close as the violently spurting pipes wet their hair, skin and clothing. Particularly annoying is the water soaking into the Gucci loafers Louis never took off. On the bright side, it also washes away the come, both Lestat's and his own, trickling down Louis's legs. Outside, he can hear someone calling for maintenance. The water has started running under the door into the lobby. “Louis,” Lestat says again. Louis looks at him. “I don’t want to fight like this, chéri.”
That phrase, and the memories it brings with it, pour–to coin a phrase–cold water over any nascent emotion Louis might have been inclined to feel. He pushes Lestat away and pulls up his pants.
“See you in court, Lestat,” he says. Yanking on the torn, sodden remains of his shirt and jacket, Louis unlocks the door and steps out into the lobby, where a small, curious crowd has gathered.
“There’s something wrong with the sink,” Louis tells the arriving maintenance man, with as much dignity as he can muster. He crosses the lobby and leaves the building, squelching with every step, pretending he can’t hear Lestat calling after him.