Chapter Text
The Mediterranean sun was completely different from the sun in Los Angeles.
Connor had spent the better part of the last few years chasing auditions in Southern California, baking in the dry heat of the valley, but the warmth of the Marseille air felt like a physical embrace. It was thick with the scent of salt, blooming lavender, and something rich and earthy that Connor couldn't quite name.
He adjusted the strap of his duffel bag over his shoulder, his eyes wide as he took in the sprawling estate. It wasn’t just a house, it was a fortress of luxury perched above the endless, glittering expanse of the sea.
"I told you it wasn't too shabby, right?" Sebastian nudged Connor's ribs, grinning behind a pair of expensive sunglasses.
"You said it was a 'nice little summer place,' Seb," Connor replied, shaking his head. "This is a palace. I feel like I need to pay an admission fee just to stand on the driveway."
Elodie laughed, tossing her dark hair over her shoulder. "Papa likes to have space. Come on, let's get inside before we all melt."
Connor followed the twins, his heart doing a strange, entirely uncalled-for flutter.
They had been best friends for five years, inseparable since they’d crashed into his life during his brief, disastrous attempt at a traditional college experience before he'd dropped out to pursue acting and modeling full-time.
In all those years, despite how close Sebastian and Elodie were to their father — spending nearly every summer and winter holiday flying out to see him — François Arnaud was a ghost in Connor’s life.
He knew the basics: François was forty-three, the incredibly successful CEO of a winery and several subsidiary luxury brands, and a multimillionaire many times over. He and the twins' mother had divorced amicably almost a decade ago, prompting François’ full-time relocation back to his native France.
The only visual references Connor had of the man were a handful of old, framed photographs scattered around the twins’ mother’s house in the States. In those faded pictures, taken nearly ten years ago, François had been a handsome, clean-shaven man in his late twenties with a sharp jawline and intense eyes.
He had always objectively acknowledged that his best friends’ dad was attractive, but it was an abstract thought, filed away next to the trivia of the man's corporate success.
He hadn't been prepared for the reality.
Before Elodie reached for the heavy, iron-wrought handle of the front door, it swung open from the inside.
Connor stopped dead in his tracks.
The man standing in the doorway bore a fundamental resemblance to the photographs, but the reality was so staggeringly upgraded that Connor felt the breath knock out of his lungs.
The decade had been impossibly kind to François, like the aging had only chiseled away any lingering softness, leaving behind a rugged, devastating maturity.
He was tanned, clearly having spent the last few days soaking up the southern French sun before their arrival. His dark hair was a little longer than in the photos, pushed back carelessly from his forehead, and threaded with stark, beautiful strands of silver at the temples. A closely trimmed beard shadowed his jaw, also peppered with grey, framing a mouth that was currently curving into a warm, blinding smile.
He was wearing a light, white linen button-up shirt, the top three buttons undone to reveal a glimpse of a tanned chest, and the sleeves casually rolled up to his elbows, exposing thick forearms dusted with dark hair. He wore tailored navy shorts that showed off strong, muscular legs.
He looked older. He looked vastly, infinitely better.
Connor’s brain short-circuited. He lived in a city swarming with professional beautiful people, and he made a living — barely — off his own looks. He was not supposed to be rendered mute by a forty something businessman.
"Sebastian! Elodie! Mes amours,” François called out, his voice a rich, gravelly baritone that sent an unexpected shiver straight down Connor’s spine.
"Papa!" Elodie shrieked, launching herself into François' arms.
François caught her effortlessly, letting out a deep, rumbling laugh that vibrated straight down to the soles of Connor’s cheap sneakers.
"Ah, ma chérie. Look at you." He kissed both her cheeks before Sebastian stepped up to receive the same treatment, getting pulled into a tight, back-slapping embrace.
"Good flight?" François asked, his accent thick, melodic, and absolutely unfair.
"Perfect," Sebastian said, stepping back. "The jet makes it a lot easier, obviously. Dad, you know Elena, of course."
Elena, who had been trailing behind them with her designer luggage, stepped forward, beaming. Elena had known the twins since they were kids and had been a frequent companion during their summer trips to France. Connor liked her well enough, though they weren't particularly close. She was gorgeous, wealthy, and carried herself with the kind of effortless entitlement that came from a lifetime of trust funds.
"Elena," François greeted her warmly, offering his cheeks for the traditional bise. "Nice to see you. You look lovely, as always."
"Thank you, François," Elena purred, her voice dropping a fraction of an octave. Connor caught the way she subtly adjusted her posture, arching her back just a millimeter to emphasize the fit of her sundress.
"And," Sebastian gestured toward Connor, who felt incredibly exposed under the sudden weight of the older man’s gaze, "this is Connor. Finally."
François turned his attention fully to Connor, and those dark eyes from the photographs were locking onto his. They were hazel, framed by thick lashes.
"Connor," François said, his voice dropping into a smooth, welcoming register. "At last. I’ve heard so much about you in the last five years."
He stepped forward and extended a large, tanned hand.
Connor reached out, praying his palms weren't sweating. "It's, uh, it's really nice to finally meet you, Mr. Arnaud. Thank you so much for having me. I know I'm sort of crashing the family vacation."
"Nonsense," François said softly as their hands met.
His grip was firm, calloused in a way that surprised Connor — not the soft hands of a man who spent his life behind a desk, but the hands of someone who worked the earth, who touched the vines of his winery. The warmth of his skin sent a sudden, electric jolt up Connor's arm.
Connor looked at François’ face, tracing the lines around his eyes, the slight crinkle at the corner of his mouth. He found himself utterly hypnotized by the sheer, imposing presence of the man. Without realizing it, he let his hand linger, his fingers curving just slightly against the back of François' hand, holding the handshake for a second, maybe two, longer than socially necessary.
If François noticed it, he didn't pull away. Instead, his smile deepened, a subtle shift in the corners of his mouth. "And please, it’s François. 'Mr. Arnaud’ is my father. You are family here, Connor. Anyone who looks after my terrors so well is always welcome."
Connor finally let go, his face flushing with sudden heat that had absolutely nothing to do with the Mediterranean climate. "Thank you. François." The name felt heavy and foreign on his tongue, but he liked the way it tasted.
"Come," François commanded gently, effortlessly picking up both Elena’s heavy suitcase and Connor’s duffel bag in one hand, completely ignoring their protests. "Let us get you out of the heat and settled in. You must all be exhausted."
The interior of the villa was a masterpiece of cool stone, vaulted ceilings, and sweeping archways that looked out over the sparkling blue waters of the Mediterranean. They went through the motions of a brief tour and room assignments. Sebastian had his own massive suite down the hall. Elodie and Elena also had their own en-suite bedrooms, at the end of the wing.
"And Connor," François said, stopping in front of a heavy oak door midway down the corridor. "You’re in here. Make yourself comfortable."
"Thank you," Connor said, stepping inside. The room was beautiful, bathed in natural light with a massive, plush bed, antique wooden furniture, and a set of French doors that opened onto a private Juliet balcony overlooking the gardens. It was nicer than any apartment he had ever rented. "This is incredible."
François smiled, "Rest," he instructed, his dark eyes lingering on Connor's tired face. "Jet lag is a cruel mistress. Don’t worry, we’ll just have a very relaxed afternoon, you won’t miss anything."
Connor was, in fact, dead on his feet. While the twins and Elena were accustomed to hopping time zones and sleeping on private jets, Connor had spent the entire flight wide awake, fueled by nervous energy and the sheer novelty of drinking champagne at thirty thousand feet in a leather recliner. The adrenaline of the arrival was crashing hard.
All he wanted was to go straight to bed, but it felt rude not to show up, even if only for a little while.
After unpacking a few essentials, he changed into a pair of comfortable swim trunks and a loose t-shirt, intending to join the others. He found them down by the massive infinity pool that seemed to drop straight off the cliff into the ocean. The twins were already splashing around, and Elena was meticulously applying tanning oil to her long legs on a lounger.
Connor walked to the edge, sat on the sun-warmed stone, and dipped his feet into the cool water. The contrast was heavenly, but the heavy, lethargic pull behind his eyes was getting impossible to ignore. He watched his friends for a while, exchanging a few tired jokes with Sebastian, but the bright sun was only making him sleepier.
"I'm tapping out," Connor announced after twenty minutes, pulling his feet from the water. "My brain is still functioning in California time." He dried his feet with a fluffy white towel and stood up.
"Go rest, Con," Elodie called out from the water, floating on her back. "We're not doing anything anyway."
Connor nodded, smiling softly as he retreated into the blessedly cool, air-conditioned sanctuary of the main house.
He didn't quite make it to his bedroom. The living room, with its massive, cloud-like linen sectional sofa, looked too inviting. He collapsed onto one end of the couch, pulling his knees up, and pulled out his phone, intending to just scroll through a few emails and messages before officially going to bed.
He didn't remember closing his eyes. He didn't remember his phone slipping from his loose grip onto the cushions.
He woke to the quiet, rhythmic sound of a page turning.
Connor blinked, his vision blurry and his mind thick with the disorientation of a deep, unscheduled nap. The living room was dimmer now, the harsh afternoon sun having shifted to cast long, golden-hour shadows across the stone floor.
He didn't move his head, just shifted his gaze slowly.
On the far opposite end of the massive sofa, sitting with his legs crossed casually, was François.
Connor's breath caught in his throat, and he froze, feigning sleep out of sheer panic.
François had changed out of his linen shirt and was now wearing a fitted, dark grey t-shirt that clung to his broad chest and the thick muscles of his arms. But what truly made Connor’s brain stop functioning was the fact that François was wearing glasses.
They were thick, black tortoiseshell frames that gave him an impossibly distinguished, intelligent look. He held a thick hardcover book in one hand, his brow slightly furrowed in concentration as he read. The late afternoon sunlight caught the silver threads in his hair, turning them into spun metal.
Connor went a little feral in the privacy of his own mind.
It was an unfair combination. He looked so powerful, so inherently authoritative, yet the glasses and the quiet domesticity of the moment softened him, making him look accessible. Touchable. Connor's eyes tracked the slope of François' perfect, straight nose, the sharp cut of his jawline beneath the scruff, the relaxed, full curve of his lips.
He couldn't look away. He was spellbound, mapping every detail of the man's profile, his pulse picking up a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He watched the way François' throat worked as he swallowed, the slight flex of his bicep as he turned another page.
He didn't lift his head, didn't even shift his gaze from the paper. But slowly, distinctly, the corner of his mouth twitched upward into a small, undeniable smirk.
"You know, in France it’s customary to say bonjour when you wake up. Though, I suppose I should be flattered that I am more captivating than whatever dream you were having." His voice was a low, velvet rumble in the quiet room.
Connor’s entire face erupted in flames. He scrambled upright so fast he nearly rolled off the couch, his phone clattering to the floor. "Oh my god," he choked out, his hands flying up to rub his face. "I'm—I'm so sorry. I didn't—I wasn't—"
François finally turned his head, lowering the book to his lap. He looked over the rim of his glasses, his hazel eyes dancing with intense, playful amusement. "Relax, Connor. I’m only teasing you. Sleep well?"
"I... yeah," Connor stammered, his heart hammering against his sternum. He desperately tried to forcefully command his blush to recede, but the way François was looking at him — warm, amused, entirely focused — was not helping. "I’m sorry, I didn't mean to fall asleep out here. I was just gonna check my phone."
"It’s perfectly fine," François said, taking off his glasses and folding them neatly. Connor internally mourned their loss. "You’re supposed to feel at home here. If the couch called to you, then the couch it is."
Connor ran a hand through his messy hair, wincing at how disheveled he must look compared to the impossibly put-together older man. "Where is everyone? What time is it?"
"Nearly seven," François replied. "They came inside a couple of hours ago and went to their rooms to rest as well. They saw you sleeping and explicitly forbade me from waking you, said you’ve been working very hard lately and needed the rest."
The blond smiled, a rush of affection for his friends settling his nerves slightly. "Yeah, it's been a grind lately. Audition season is brutal."
François stood up, stretching slightly, his t-shirt pulling taut over his torso. Connor aggressively forced his eyes to remain at eye level. "Well, there are no auditions here. Only the sea, the sun, and way too much wine. Speaking of which, I’m going to start preparing dinner. Would you care to keep me company, or would you prefer to retreat to your room?"
The idea of leaving François' presence felt physically impossible. "I'd love to help," Connor blurted out, perhaps a little too eagerly. "I mean, if you need help. I'm not exactly a Michelin-star chef, but I can follow directions."
François’ smile returned, softer this time. "Company is more than enough. Come on."
The kitchen was a sprawling, state-of-the-art chef's paradise with brushed steel appliances, vast expanses of white marble, and massive windows overlooking the darkening ocean. François moved through the space with the kind of effortless grace that suggested he spent a lot of time there. He poured them both a glass of chilled, crisp white wine from his own vineyard, handing one to Connor.
"So," François said, pulling fresh produce from a massive refrigerator. "What can you do safely, without losing a finger?"
"I am an excellent chopper of vegetables," Connor declared, taking a sip of the wine. It was incredible, of course. "I can dice, julienne, mince. Just point me at a cutting board."
François chuckled, handing him a formidable-looking chef's knife and a basket of fresh vegetables. "Very well. We are making ratatouille. An old family recipe. My grand-père would haunt me if I let a machine chop the vegetables, so I appreciate your manual labor."
They settled into a comfortable rhythm. Connor carefully diced zucchini, eggplant, and bell peppers, hyper-aware of François moving around him, searing meat and adjusting spices. The kitchen smelled incredible — garlic, thyme, roasting tomatoes.
"So," François said, leaning back against the counter for a moment, watching Connor work. "Tell me. How exactly did you manage to survive five years with my children?"
Connor laughed, relaxing slightly. "It was pure survival instinct. We were placed in the same freshman dorm. Sebastian accidentally set the communal microwave on fire during the first week, and Elodie tried to bribe the RA not to report it. I walked in, helped them scrub the scorch marks off the ceiling, and we've been tied together ever since."
François shook his head, a fond, exasperated smile on his face. "That sounds extremely accurate. They’ve always been chaotic forces of nature. I’m grateful they found someone to keep them grounded."
"They keep me sane, honestly," Connor said softly.
He paused, looking at François for a second, his curiosity getting the better of him.
"Why do you cook?" Connor asked. As soon as the words left his mouth, he winced. "I mean, sorry, that sounds rude. It's just... you're a CEO. You run an empire. You have this massive house. You could easily pay a private chef to do all this. But you seem like you really know what you're doing."
He braced himself, regretting the intrusion, but François didn't look offended. Instead, a thoughtful expression crossed his handsome features.
"It’s not a rude question," François said, turning back to the stove to stir a simmering pot. "I do have staff, yes. But cooking... It's therapeutic for me. When I’m in the boardroom, everything is abstract. Numbers, projections, strategies. Here, in the kitchen, things are tangible. You chop the garlic, you smell the herbs, you feed the people you care about. It’s immediate."
He paused, his voice dropping a fraction. "And... it’s also a bit of penance, I suppose."
Connor stopped chopping, looking up. "Penance?"
François sighed, a heavy, quiet sound. "When the twins were young, I wasn’t around as much as I should’ve been. I was building the winery, expanding the business, and traveling overseas constantly. Their mother was wonderful, but I missed many bedtimes, many school plays." He looked over his shoulder at Connor, his dark eyes shadowed with an old regret.
"I couldn’t change the past. But I made a promise to myself. No matter how busy I was, no matter where I had flown in from, once a week, I’d cook dinner for my family. From scratch. With my own hands. It was my way of taking care of them, of showing them that despite the distance and the work, they were my priority."
Connor felt a sharp ache in his chest, completely moved by the quiet vulnerability of the confession. "That's... that's really beautiful, François. They love you, you know. They talk about you all the time. They never felt neglected."
"They are generous children," François said softly. He seemed to shake off the melancholy, giving the pot one last stir before turning his full attention back to Connor. "But enough about my parental guilt. What about you, Connor? The twins tell me you are an actor. And a model."
Connor flushed, hyper-aware of the stark contrast between François’ massive global success and his own struggling career. "Ah. Well. 'Aspiring' is probably the better word. I do a lot of commercial work. Some print modeling for catalogues. I've had a few small speaking roles on television, mostly playing the 'hot guy who gets murdered early on' in procedural dramas."
François laughed, a rich, genuine sound that sent another thrill straight down the younger’s spine. "I’m sure it is a difficult industry to break into."
"It's tough," Connor admitted, chopping the last of the tomatoes. "You hear 'no' a hundred times for every 'maybe'. But I love it. I love the craft of it."
François leaned against the counter beside Connor, close enough that he could smell the clean, spicy scent of his cologne mixed with the aroma of the cooking food. "You have an excellent face for the camera," François said, his voice matter-of-fact, though the words made Connor's heart do a violent somersault. "Very striking bone structure. Expressive eyes."
Connor gripped the handle of the knife a little too tightly, staring down at the cutting board. "Uh. Thank you."
"I’m serious," François continued. "I do a lot of business in LA. I have investments in several media companies, and I know many directors and casting agents. If you’d like, you should send me your reel and your portfolio. I’d be happy to make a few calls, put you in contact with some people who might actually be helpful."
Connor looked up, stunned. In Hollywood, people made empty promises all the time. 'I know a guy', 'I'll make a call' — it was usually just polite noise. But looking into François’ steady bright eyes, he knew the man didn't make empty offers.
"François, that's... that's incredibly generous," Connor said, his voice slightly breathless. "But you don't have to do that. I'm just here on vacation. I don't want to use your connections—"
"You’re not 'using' anything," François interrupted smoothly. "I’m offering. Because you’re my children's dearest friend, and because I appreciate hard work. Consider it a gift. Will you send me your work?"
"I... yes. Thank you. I will."
"Good," François said softly, his gaze holding Connor's for a long, heavy moment.
The air in the kitchen felt incredibly thick, the playful banter shifting into something much more charged. Connor felt a magnetic pull, a desperate urge to lean just a few inches closer, to see what François would do.
He almost gave in to it, but before he could even fully decide to bridge the small gap between them, the sharp click of sandals echoing against the limestone hallway pierced through the heavy silence.
François’ eyes flicked instantly toward the sweeping archway, his posture shifting just a fraction of a second before a shadow spilled across the marble floor.
"Well, well. Look who's awake."
The spell shattered instantly.
Connor jumped slightly, stepping back from the counter as Elena strolled into the kitchen.
Connor turned to look at her, and his stomach immediately sank. Elena had apparently awoken from her nap and decided to completely forgo the casual vacation aesthetic.
She was wearing a pair of silk pajama shorts that were scandalously short, barely covering her upper thighs, paired with a matching silk camisole top that dipped low, showing off a significant amount of cleavage. Her hair, which had been in a messy bun earlier, was now cascading in perfect, voluminous waves down her back.
She looked absolutely stunning. And she knew it.
"Bonsoir, Elena," François said politely, stepping back to the stove to check on the ratatouille, though his voice lacked the warm, intimate cadence he had just been using with Connor. "Did you sleep well?"
"I did," Elena said, practically gliding across the kitchen. She bypassed Connor entirely, coming to stand on François' other side, leaning against the counter and subtly arching her back. "I feel refreshed."
She cast a fleeting, undeniably annoyed glance at Connor.
It took Connor exactly one second to read the room.
Elena wasn't annoyed at him. She was annoyed that he was here, in the kitchen, occupying the space next to François.
Oh.
Oh.
Connor’s brain rapidly connected the dots.
Elena had known François since she was ten or eleven years old. She had been coming to this villa with the twins for years. And now, she was twenty-four, objectively gorgeous, and clearly, blatantly, throwing herself at him.
A sudden, violently ugly spike of emotion flared in the pit of his stomach. It was hot, acidic, and completely overwhelming. Her gaze lingered heavily on the thick muscle of François’ forearm as she leaned closer to him, a slow, calculated look before her eyes traced back up to his profile. "That smells divine," she murmured softly. "You always were such an amazing cook."
Was this a thing? Connor’s mind raced, panic and something darker warring in his chest. Did François sleep with Elena? Did they have some sort of arrangement when the twins weren't looking? The thought of François’ large, tanned hands touching Elena made Connor feel physically ill.
He couldn't name the emotion, refusing to categorize the sharp, territorial thrill racing through his veins as jealousy. He had no right to be jealous. He had met the man mere hours ago.
But the feeling was there, heavy and suffocating.
He couldn't blame her. If Connor was a woman — or if François was into men — he would feel tempted to do the exact same thing. But there was something inherently weird about Elena making a move on the father of her childhood best friends, a man she had known since she was a little girl in pigtails.
Connor suddenly felt like an intruder. A massive, awkward third wheel.
He needed to get out of the kitchen. He needed to go back to his room, bury his face in a pillow, and try to extinguish the ridiculous, unearned fire burning in his chest.
"I should, um," Connor started, backing away from the cutting board, wiping his hands nervously on a dish towel. "I should probably go wash up… in the bathroom."
Before he could take another step, François’ voice cut through the air, sharp and clear.
"Nonsense, Connor," François said, not looking at Elena, but turning his head to fix his eyes on Connor. "You haven't finished the bell peppers. And I need you to taste the sauce to tell me if it needs more salt. You cannot abandon your station now, sous-chef."
Connor froze.
Elena took a step away from François, her smile faltering for a fraction of a second before she recovered. "I can help with the sauce, François," she offered brightly, leaning in closer, giving him a premium view down the front of her camisole.
François didn't even look down. He offered Elena a polite, perfectly pleasant, but distant smile. "Thank you, Elena, but Connor and I have a good system going. He is surprisingly adept with a knife. Why don't you pour yourself a glass of wine and relax for a bit? Dinner will be ready shortly."
It was a dismissal. Polite, refined, wrapped in European gentility, but a dismissal nonetheless.
Connor watched, fascinated, as François smoothly turned his back on Elena’s cleavage. Picking up a wooden spoon and dipping it into the rich, red sauce, he held it out toward Connor, his other hand casually cupping underneath to catch any drips.
"Taste," François commanded softly.
Connor stepped forward, his eyes locked with François'. He leaned in, wrapping his lips around the wooden spoon, tasting the burst of garlic, tomato, and rich herbs. It was incredible, but Connor barely registered the flavor. He was too focused on the burning heat in François’ eyes.
Had François noticed Elena’s performance? The short shorts, the deep neckline, the constant hair-flipping?
As Connor pulled back from the spoon, François’ gaze flickered momentarily toward the doorway where Elena was huffily pouring a glass of wine, and then back to Connor. In that brief fraction of a second, Connor saw everything he needed to know.
François had noticed. Of course he had, he wasn't blind. He knew exactly what Elena was doing.
And he didn't care. He was completely, utterly uninterested.
The dark, heavy jealousy in Connor’s chest evaporated instantly, replaced by a soaring, giddy thrill. He licked a stray drop of sauce from his bottom lip, watching François' eyes track the movement of his tongue before snapping back up to meet his gaze.
"It's perfect," Connor whispered, his voice slightly hoarse.
"Good," François murmured, his voice equally low.
Before the tension could snap, the sound of heavy footsteps and loud arguing echoed down the stone hallway.
"I'm telling you, it was a foul!" Sebastian’s voice boomed.
"You're an idiot, Seb, you clearly tripped over your own feet!" Elodie shot back.
The twins burst into the kitchen, a whirlwind of chaotic energy.
Elena, clearly realizing that her seduction window had closed and her outfit was very inappropriate for a casual family dinner, took one look at the twins and quickly set her wine glass down. Subtly, she swiftly exited the kitchen before they could notice her pajamas.
"Smells amazing, vieillard!" Sebastian said, slapping his father on the back and peering over his shoulder at the stove.
"Hands off, sauvage," François laughed, swatting his son away. "Set the table. Both of you. Connor is the only one who has earned his keep tonight."
Elodie groaned, dragging her feet toward the dining room. "You like him more than us already. I knew it."
François chuckled, turning back to the stove, entirely at ease in the chaos of his children.
Connor stepped back, leaning against the counter, perfectly content to just watch. He couldn't stop looking at François’ profile. The perfect slope of his nose, the crinkles around his eyes as he teased his son, the calm, bright, impossibly warm smile that transformed his entire face.
He was gorgeous. He was kind. He was commanding.
Then, François turned his head. Across the kitchen, amidst the noise of the twins arguing over silverware, his eyes locked onto Connor’s. He had caught Connor staring. Again.
This time, François didn't smirk. Instead, maintaining perfect eye contact, he gave Connor a deliberate and undeniably playful wink.
Then he turned back to the stove as if nothing had happened, leaving Connor struggling to remember how to breathe, perfectly aware that the next two weeks in Marseille were going to be… intense.
The next forty-eight hours passed in a sun-drenched, luxurious blur.
Once the cruel grip of jet lag finally started to release its hold on Connor’s brain — aided significantly by ten hours of almost uninterrupted sleep in a bed that felt like a marshmallow, and a shower equipped with a rainfall head that had better water pressure than his Los Angeles apartment — he could actually begin to appreciate his surroundings.
The place was a playground.
He and the twins, along with Elena, spent the better part of Sunday and Monday exploring the cobblestone streets of the nearby coastal towns, eating their weight in fresh seafood, and tanning under the Mediterranean sun by the infinity pool.
On Sunday, Sebastian gave Connor the full, exhaustive tour of the estate. There was a fully equipped, glass-walled gymnasium overlooking the cliffs, a cedar-lined sauna, and, hidden away in the lower level, a private cinema.
Connor had lingered there, running his fingers over the extensive, meticulously curated collection of DVDs and film reels. As an actor who spent most of his time analyzing films on a cracked laptop screen, the idea of watching a movie on that massive projector screen was incredibly tempting. He made a mental note to ask the twins about the possibility of movie night, though he wasn’t sure he’d work up the nerve to go through with it.
Through it all, François was a benevolent, ghostly presence. He was clearly making an effort to give them their space — even if it was, technically, his space —, retreating to his study to work or completely vanishing into the sprawling wings of the house. Connor hadn't seen the man step foot off the property yet, though given the self-contained paradise he’d built, Connor couldn't exactly blame him.
But François was never completely absent.
He was an early riser, and every morning without fail, a spectacular breakfast spread was waiting for them on the terrace overlooking the sea. On Monday morning, Connor learned that François did, in fact, employ a full household staff — they were simply given the weekends off to ensure the family's privacy.
It was during one of these breakfasts that his tenuous grip on his sanity began to actively slip.
He was nursing a cup of black coffee, still slightly bleary-eyed, when François stepped out onto the terrace. He was dressed flawlessly in tailored slate-grey trousers and a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his thick forearms. He was deep in conversation with a man carrying a clipboard, presumably the estate manager.
François was speaking French.
Connor froze, his coffee cup hovering halfway to his mouth.
He had lived in France briefly during his teen years, his ear tuned enough to recognize the language, but hearing it roll off François’ tongue was a very different, highly dangerous experience. François’ voice, already a low, resonant rumble in English, dropped a full octave when he spoke his native tongue. It became smoother, darker, an impossibly melodic purr that bypassed Connor’s ears and sent a hard, electric shiver straight down his spine.
He watched François gesture gracefully, the sharp lines of his jaw moving as he gave the man instructions, and Connor’s traitorous imagination instantly short-circuited.
He caught himself wondering, with a sudden, flush-inducing spike of heat, what else that voice could ask for. What it would sound like murmured against a collarbone. What those rough, melodic consonants would sound like wrapped around breathless praise in a dark room.
He spent the rest of the meal staring blankly at the glittering Mediterranean, aggressively willing his blood pressure to return to a normal level.
He felt a nagging, persistent guilt about his thoughts. The man was his best friends’ father. He was hosting Connor in his multi-million dollar home. Connor wondered if he was intruding on family time, not just physically, but mentally, by projecting his inappropriate fantasies onto the patriarch of the family.
And the problem was, even when they weren't speaking, the air between them felt thick.
They didn't interact much beyond polite morning greetings or passing in the hallways, but their gazes seemed to possess a magnetic pull. Connor would look up from his phone to find François’ dark, calculating eyes already on him from across the living room. When François passed him the sugar bowl over the breakfast table, his large, warm fingers deliberately brushed against Connor’s, sending a jolt of static electricity shooting up Connor's arm that left his hand tingling for an hour.
It was all small enough to be easily dismissed. Micro-interactions that no one else noticed, insignificant enough that Connor could forcefully convince himself they meant absolutely nothing.
Elena’s behavior, however, left little room for interpretation.
She was subtle about it — too well-bred to be outright vulgar — but now that Connor’s eyes were open to it, her tactics were glaringly obvious. She constantly positioned herself in François’ orbit. She wore sundresses that clung to her curves, laughed a little too loudly at his polite jokes, and found any excuse to engage him in conversation.
François navigated her advances with the practiced ease of a man who had spent his life deflecting beautiful women. He was an absolute gentleman, dismissing her overtures with polite, impenetrable warmth, never giving her an inch of reciprocal flirtation.
Bizarrely, the rejection only seemed to fuel Elena’s fire, making her try even harder.
But what truly unnerved Connor were the looks Elena shot his way when François’ back was turned. They were sharp and knowing, as if she could read the dirty, desperate thoughts scrolling across Connor’s mind. She looked at him with a predatory sort of recognition, like she was acknowledging that they were both having the exact same wet dreams about the master of the house.
And, God help him, Connor was having those thoughts.
He was tired. The sun was hot. And François was… François. So what if Connor woke up Monday morning with his sheets tangled around his legs and his heart hammering against his ribs, still half-trapped in a vivid, wet dream where large, calloused hands pinned his wrists to a mattress, and a pair of eyes — which Connor now realized were actually a striking, shifting greenish-hazel in the direct sunlight — stared down at him with intent while a deep voice praised him in relentless, filthy French?
Connor knew he was gay. He had known since he was a teenager, hell, even younger. But every time he looked at François, watching the man roll up his sleeves or adjust his glasses, Connor felt a profound, bone-deep realization that he was so much more gay than he had previously calculated. And what he was rapidly realizing was that he only wanted this man.
But he couldn't have this. It was a statistical and moral impossibility.
Beyond the glaring, neon-flashing complication that François was the father of his two best friends, there was zero concrete evidence that the man was even attracted to men. True, François hadn't reacted to Elena’s cleavage, but that was just basic common sense and human decency. She was a kid to him. She was practically a niece.
Which brought Connor slamming headfirst into another big problem: the age gap.
Even if François “swung that way”, even if the whole "best friend's dad" thing didn't exist, Connor was twenty-five. François was forty-three. A eighteen-year chasm of life experience, maturity, and wealth separated them. François was a multimillionaire CEO who rubbed elbows with global elites, politicians, and actual movie stars. He undoubtedly had flocks of sophisticated, age-appropriate, gorgeous people throwing themselves at his feet on a daily basis.
Connor was just a broke, college-dropout actor whose biggest recent credit was playing a corpse on a daytime soap opera.
He was just Connor.
It was imperative that he locked these feelings away. Buried them under layers of casual friendship and vacation pleasantries.
Ignored the broad shoulders, the silver in the beard, the voice.
And it worked.
Until it spectacularly didn't.
On his third night at the villa Connor woke up with a sharp gasp.
It was 2:15 AM. His body was still stubbornly fighting the nine-hour time difference from Los Angeles. He had been suffering from restless, fractured sleep since they arrived, and while the exhaustion was fading, waking up in the dead of the night feeling completely wired was becoming a frustrating routine.
During the previous nights he had felt too awkward and out of place to leave his guest suite, choosing instead to stare at the ornate ceiling and toss around the massive bed until he finally passed out again.
But tonight, the air in the room felt heavy and stifling. He had intentionally left the heavy drapes pulled back, wanting to wake up to the Mediterranean sunrise, and the silver moonlight spilling across the antique rugs was practically blinding.
Giving up with a heavy sigh, Connor threw off the duvet. He decided a walk was in order. Just a quick lap outside the house to breathe in the ocean breeze and reset his brain.
He was wearing nothing but a pair of dark boxer briefs. Shivering slightly at the blast of the air conditioning, he grabbed the heavy, ridiculously soft white robe that had been hung inside the closet, for guests. It bore an ornate embroidery on the breast pocket — a family crest, presumably — and swallowed Connor’s frame. He belted it loosely around his waist and quietly slipped out of his bedroom.
The villa was silent, the stone floors cool against his bare feet as he navigated the long, shadowy corridors toward the back of the house.
As he approached the main living area, he noticed the massive, floor-to-ceiling glass sliding doors leading out to the pool deck were pushed wide open. The warm, salty night breeze swept through the room, billowing the sheer white curtains.
And then, he heard it.
Splash. Whoosh. Splash.
The rhythmic, powerful sound of someone swimming laps.
Connor’s heart leaped into his throat. His immediate, panic-laced thought was that an intruder had scaled the cliffside and broken into the property. But then his sleep-addled brain caught up with reality. This wasn't a sketchy apartment complex in the Valley. This was a private fortress in the South of France. People here had their own pools, and they used them whenever they wanted.
Curiosity overtaking his caution, Connor stepped silently out, staying hidden in the shadows of a large potted fig tree.
He looked toward the infinity pool, its surface glittering like liquid obsidian under the full moon.
A figure was cutting through the water with precise, aggressive strokes. Even distorted by the water and the shadows, Connor immediately recognized the set of those shoulders. The broad expanse of the back pulling out of the water with every powerful rotation. The dark, wet hair slicked back.
It was François.
Connor stopped breathing. He stood absolutely frozen, his hands clutching the lapels of his borrowed robe, watching the older man swim under the stars. The water broke around his shoulders, his muscles flexing and glistening with every fluid movement. It was a private, unguarded moment of physical exertion, and Connor felt entirely voyeuristic, yet unable to tear his eyes away.
As François reached the shallow end of the pool, completely unaware of his audience, he stopped, grabbing the stone coping with both hands and smoothly, effortlessly hoisting his entire body weight out of the water in one fluid motion.
Connor’s brain flatlined.
It was sinful. That was the only word for it.
François was ripped. Not in the lean, manufactured aesthetic of a twenty-something LA model who survived on green juice, but in the dense, heavy, functional muscle of a grown man. The moonlight caught the water cascading down the sharp angles of his face, traveling down the thick cord of his neck, over the broad, muscled expanse of his chest, and down the deep, defined cuts of his abdomen.
And then, Connor’s eyes dropped lower, and his mouth went completely dry.
François’ green swimming trunks were soaked and heavy, the weight of the water dragging the waistband dangerously low on his hips. They clung to his thighs like a second skin, completely exposing the sharp, devastating V-line that pointed directly downward into the dark fabric.
Connor was either dreaming, hallucinating, or having a very gay stroke on the patio. How could one singular human being be so precisely tailored to his exact tastes? It felt like a cruel joke orchestrated by the universe.
François stood on the edge of the pool, his chest heaving slightly as he ran a hand through his wet hair, shaking off the excess water, sending a spray of water droplets into the air. Then, he turned towards the lounger to grab his towel.
And stopped dead.
He spotted Connor standing by the glass doors. For a fraction of a second, François startled, his body going rigid. Connor couldn't blame him; he was lurking in the shadows at two in the morning, probably looking like a sleep-deprived zombie with his mouth hanging open.
But then, the tension melted from François’ frame. And he smiled.
It was a slow, devastating thing that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made Connor’s knees feel dangerously weak.
Please, Connor prayed desperately to whatever deity was listening, please tell me that pathetic whine I just heard didn't come from my own mouth.
"Connor," François called out gently, his deep voice carrying softly over the sound of the ocean below.
"Hey," Connor croaked. He cleared his throat violently, forcing his legs to move, stepping out of the shadows and into the moonlight. "I, uh. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to creep up on you."
"You didn’t," François replied, not moving from his spot at the edge of the pool. He gestured casually toward the lounger next to him. "Would you mind handing me the towel, please?"
Connor nodded, throat too dry to speak, as his brain went on autopilot. He walked over, picked up the thick white towel, and took the final steps to hand it to him.
Suddenly, they were standing very, very close.
Not touching, but close enough that Connor could feel the ambient heat radiating off François’ skin into the cool night air. Close enough that Connor could smell the faint scent of chlorine, the salt, and the underlying, intoxicating musk of the man himself.
François didn't immediately dry himself. He took the towel, gripping it in one large hand, but left his body exposed, looking down at Connor.
"You’re up late," François murmured, his voice pitched low, intimate in the quiet night.
"Couldn't sleep," Connor admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. He couldn't look François in the eye, too overwhelmed by the sheer physical presence of the man. "Still adapting to the time zone, I guess. What about you?"
"I had a business call with the West Coast offices in California," François explained calmly. "The time difference is inconvenient. After I hung up, I found myself too awake to go back to bed. The water helps clear the noise."
Connor nodded dumbly. He was actively losing his mind. He was trying to listen to the words, but François was standing right in front of him, half-naked and dripping wet.
Connor’s gaze slipped against his will, dropping to François’ broad shoulder. He watched, utterly mesmerized, as a single, heavy drop of water gathered at the hollow of François's throat. It spilled over, tracing a slow, agonizing path down the slope of his chest, weaving through the dark dusting of hair, and rolling straight down the valley of his abs before disappearing into the low-slung waistband of his trunks.
François’ deep voice was still rumbling, saying something, but the words were static in Connor's ears. The blood was roaring too loudly in his own head.
The silence stretched.
Connor blinked, snapping back to reality with a violent jolt, realizing that François had stopped speaking, probably waiting for an answer to a question Connor hadn't even heard.
"I'm—I'm so sorry," Connor stammered, intense heat flushing his cheeks, instantly embarrassed at being caught staring so blatantly at the man's chest. "I, um, what did you say?"
He dragged his eyes back up to François’ face, ready to apologize profusely for his sleep-deprived rudeness.
But François wasn't annoyed.
The soft, polite smile was gone. In its place was that familiar smirk from the living room couch on the first day, but the temperature of it had shifted entirely.
His eyes, catching the silver glow of the moon, were incredibly dark, the smirk resting on his lips was amused, yes. But looking down at Connor, who was trembling slightly in his oversized robe, François Arnaud looked undeniably, thrillingly lustful.
Connor froze under the heavy, suffocating weight of that gaze, humiliating flush exploding across his cheeks and racing down his neck, settling hot and heavy in his chest.
Damn it.
There was absolutely no way he could lie his way out of this. The time for plausible deniability had evaporated the second his eyes had dropped below François’ waistline.
He was one hundred percent caught checking his best friends’ father out, his gaze lingering on the man’s wet, half-naked body like a starving animal looking at a feast. His dirty, desperate thoughts were probably broadcasted in bright neon letters across his burning face. He couldn't even pretend he had zoned out, the trajectory of his stare had been too specific, too slow, and way too obvious.
François looked at him for a long, quiet second, clearly registering Connor’s paralyzed, deer-in-the-headlights reaction. The dark amusement in his eyes sharpened into something much more dangerous, the smirk still resting comfortably on his handsome face.
“I asked if you wanted to go for a swim, too,” François repeated, his deep voice smooth, unaffected by the sudden, suffocating tension turning the air to molasses. “The water is incredibly refreshing.”
Connor’s brain was still completely offline. He was trapped in the mortifying, surreal reality of being caught staring, and worse, his blood was already rushing furiously south, pooling heavily in his groin.
He just stuttered, a pathetic, broken half-syllable escaping his throat. He was unable to formulate a coherent sentence, and worse, his traitorous eyes betrayed him once again. As François shifted his weight, moving the heavy white towel from where it rested against his neck, Connor caught a glimpse of the thick, heavy muscle in his forearm and bicep straining under the movement.
He knew he shouldn't look, knew he was crossing a line that could ruin his dearest friendships. But he also absolutely could not look away. It was right there. The man was a masterpiece carved from marble and moonlight, standing practically within arm’s reach.
Connor took a sharp, jagged breath, the question about swimming already completely forgotten. He tried to force his heavy limbs to move, starting to turn his shoulders toward the sweeping, beautiful ocean view — a view that didn't hold a candle to the man in front of him, but at least wouldn't put him in imminent danger of spontaneously combusting.
But François caught him looking. Again.
“Fuck, kid, you can’t look at me like that.”
The words sliced through the quiet night air, sharp and rough. Connor flinched slightly, his head snapping back.
This time, François’ voice was different. It was strained, gravelly, sounding like it was being dragged over broken glass. It was the sound of a man making a massive, conscious effort to keep his tightly leashed composure from fracturing completely.
As Connor looked back at him — forcing his eyes to stay pinned to François’ face now, thank you very much — he saw that the smug, playful smirk was completely gone. In its place was a look of raw, intense hunger. His eyes were blown wide, the pupils swallowing the iris, burning with a predatory heat that made Connor’s knees genuinely tremble.
And Connor… well, Connor was only human, okay? He was still functioning on a disastrously messed-up sleep schedule, his inhibitions were lowered by the sheer isolation of the villa, and he was more than just a little horny. He had been practically vibrating with pent-up energy since arriving three days ago, too keyed-up to even let off some steam with his own hand in the shower.
He also wasn't stupid. He knew exactly what François was talking about. His tone, the sudden roughness in his heavy accent, the way his eyes deliberately, slowly traced the shape of Connor’s mouth… Connor couldn't be reading this wrong.
Or maybe he was.
Maybe his sleep-deprived brain was orchestrating a massive hallucination. But his brain-to-mouth filter was always notoriously terrible, and around this man, it was simply non-existent. And he did blame his complete lack of filter for what came next.
He looked directly into François’ dark, burning eyes for the first time since walking out onto the patio, lifting his chin just a fraction.
“Why?”
It wasn't just the word he chose, but the tone.
It came out as a challenge. A breathy, defiant push. Or maybe it was a plea.
It was unmistakably bratty.
Something in the air between them audibly snapped, like a thick iron cable pulled past its breaking point.
And then, François was impossibly close. He didn't walk, he simply invaded Connor’s space in one long stride. Connor gasped, enveloped in the man's sheer size. He could feel the heat radiating off François’ not-completely-dry skin. He was close enough now that Connor could see the faint, dark freckles scattered across the bridge of François’ nose, the silver threads in his wet beard.
Fuck.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
When François spoke again, his voice was a low, dark vibration that rattled right through Connor’s ribcage, laced thick with unfiltered lust.
François let out a low, dark chuckle, the sound vibrating in the narrow space between them.
“I knew you’d be a brat, bébé.” The French endearment slipped out effortlessly, wrapping around Connor’s panicked heart and squeezing tight. François’ eyes were trained relentlessly on Connor’s, pinning him in place. “But you’re not dumb. You know exactly what you were looking at. You know exactly what you are doing to me right now. So, tell me what you want, hm? Use your words instead of your eyes for a second, love.”
He wasn't touching him. Not yet. He was simply looming over Connor, using his height and his broad shoulders to cage him in. Connor experienced a dizzying sense of whiplash. He was trying desperately to balance the image of the always-polite, composed, light-hearted man he had known for three days with this intense, demanding one currently standing inches from his face.
Connor couldn't help but picture François standing at the head of a massive mahogany table in a high-rise boardroom, building his empire in a sharply tailored suit, systematically intimidating his rivals with the same uncompromising authority.
The thought sent a violent jolt of pure arousal straight to his groin. He twitched in his boxers, leaking pre-come and instantly, painfully hard.
Of course François was a wolf when he needed to be. He didn't conquer the corporate world by being soft.
Connor must have been completely lost in his own head — again — because large, calloused fingers were wrapping firmly around his jaw. François tilted Connor’s chin up, his grip bordering on firm but gentle, forcing him out of his spiraling thoughts and capturing his gaze once more.
“Connor.” His voice was demanding, but there was a quiet undercurrent of concern there now, a deliberate grounding. Like he was checking in. “Words, please. You can tell me to step away right now, and I’ll walk inside and we’ll never speak of this again. Or, you can ask me for what you want.”
There it was. The gentleman was still there.
Connor cleared his throat. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, but sure. He let his gaze wander over François’ devastating features one last time before locking onto his dark, waiting eyes.
He certainly wasn't reading things wrong now. François wanted this just as badly as he did.
François wanted him.
Connor’s mouth was watering, his entire body trembling beneath the oversized, borrowed robe at the mere thought of François finally touching him. Of François kissing him.
“Kiss me.” Connor all but whispered into the quiet night.
François smirked slightly but didn’t move, although his gaze sharpened slightly, voice low and deliberate.
“‘Kiss me’, what, Connor?”
“Kiss me, please.”
The hungry smirk reappeared fully, slicing across François’ face as he leaned in, his lips hovering a mere breath away from Connor’s.
“Of course, baby.”
And then, firm, warm lips crashed into his.
Connor couldn't help it. He whined, a high, desperate sound that François swallowed into his mouth. He felt the older man smirk against his lips at the sound, a rumble of pure masculine satisfaction vibrating against Connor’s mouth.
But François didn't keep it gentle. The second Connor opened his lips to sigh, François took complete control. It was an explosive, bruising kiss. François’ hands, massive and warm and slightly damp, came up to cup Connor’s face, his thumbs pressing into Connor's cheekbones.
He tilted Connor’s head to a better angle, his tongue sweeping past Connor’s lips, tasting him, claiming the space with a confident, rhythmic, heat.
Connor’s knees buckled.
François caught him effortlessly. One strong arm wrapped around Connor’s waist, hauling him flush against his wet, hard body. The shock of the cold water against the thin fabric of Connor’s robe, contrasted with the scorching heat of François’ mouth, sent a violent shudder through Connor’s entire frame.
François’ hand dropped lower, his fingers digging into the meat of Connor's hip firmly. Connor gasped into the kiss, arching his back, pressing himself desperately against the sharp lines of François's body. He loved the weight of him, the sheer, unapologetic force.
François noticed immediately.
“So responsive,” François murmured against his lips, his voice a dark, approving purr. “So desperate. I’ve been watching you watch me all weekend, mon ange. It’s been driving me insane.”
“François,” Connor gasped, his hands flying up to grip the older man's broad shoulders, barely resisting the urge to dig his nails into the skin.
“Let’s get you off your feet,” François commanded softly.
Without breaking the connection of their mouths, François walked him backward, guiding him blindly across the stone patio until the backs of Connor’s knees hit the edge of the padded pool lounge chair. François sat down first, his thighs spread wide, and pulled Connor directly down into his lap.
Connor ended up straddling him, his knees sinking into the thick cushions on either side of François’ hips. He gasped at the new angle, the friction of their bodies suddenly brought into agonizingly sharp focus.
François was still slick with pool water, and Connor shuddered as the older man's cold hands slid under the lapels of his robe, his warm, exploratory tongue mapping the line of Connor's jaw and the sensitive skin behind his ear.
“You are so beautiful,” François breathed, his hands gripping Connor's ribs tightly, his French accent growing thicker, rougher with every word. “Dieu, so perfect.”
François’ hands moved to the belt of the robe, untying it with practiced, impatient efficiency. He pushed the heavy fabric off Connor’s shoulders, pinning Connor's arms to his sides for a brief second to let the robe fall away completely, exposing Connor’s bare chest to the cool night air.
François leaned back slightly, his dark eyes dropping to take in the full sight of Connor straddling him in the moonlight. He let out a low, guttural grunt of deep approval. His large hands swept up Connor’s sides, claiming the skin with a possessive pressure
His thumbs found the small, silver bars pierced through Connor’s nipples, and François let out a sharp hiss.
“I saw these,” François muttered, his voice dropping to a ragged whisper, his eyes flashing up to meet Connor's. “Yesterday. When you were in the pool.” He dragged his thumbs deliberately over the metal, twisting the rings. Connor arched his back with a choked, broken cry. “I’ve been thinking about having my mouth on them for thirty-six hours.”
He didn't wait for permission this time. François leaned forward, his mouth opening over Connor’s left nipple, taking the ring and the sensitive flesh into his mouth and sucking hard.
Connor practically screamed, the sound muffled only because he threw his head back, his hands tangling desperately in François’ dark, wet hair, pulling hard. “Fuck, François, oh my god—”
François hummed in approval, completely attuned to how Connor's body melted into the rougher treatment. He swirled his warm tongue around the piercing again, this time biting down, pulling sharply, sending blinding flashes of pleasure straight down to Connor's groin.
At the same time, his hands dropped to Connor’s hips, gripping the jutting bones tightly. With a sharp thrust of his own hips, François brought their crotches together, grinding the thick, hard ridge of his own erection directly against the straining tent of Connor’s boxer briefs.
Connor saw stars.
The friction was devastating. He rocked his hips instinctively, chasing the friction, whining loudly into the quiet night.
François switched to the other piercing, giving it the same treatment while soothing the first with a rough swipe of his thumb.
François was incredibly vocal, a constant stream of filthy praises falling from his lips in a dizzying mix of English and French. “That’s it, baby. Grind on me. Oui, putain, comme ça. Take what you need.”
They kissed again, a hot, messy, open-mouthed collision.
Connor was lost in it, his hands frantically exploring the broad expanse of François’ back, feeling the sleek muscle flex under his touch. He was so overwhelmed by the sheer size and power of the man underneath him, the surreal, taboo thrill of grinding down on his best friends' father in the middle of a French estate.
François pulled back just enough to look at him, his chest heaving, his eyes completely black with lust.
“What do you want, baby?” he asked, his voice a harsh, demanding rasp. His large hands squeezed Connor’s ass cheeks through the thin cotton of his boxers, lifting him slightly to grind up into him one more time. “Tell me exactly what you want me to do to you.”
Connor looked down at him. At the silver in his beard, the water droplets still clinging to his eyelashes, the thick, heavy bulge pressing insistently against his own, the dark, dominant set of his jaw. He didn't even have to think about it. The need was clawing at the inside of his throat, completely overriding his common sense.
“I wanna blow you,” Connor breathed, his voice trembling but completely devoid of hesitation. “Let me taste you. Please.”
François’ eyes flared, a look of primal shock crossing his features before it instantly settled into a look of overwhelming hunger. He let out a ragged, heavy breath.
“Putain,” François swore softly, his grip on Connor's hips tightening until it hurt. “So polite, fuck. Yes, baby, get on your knees for me.”
François grabbed the thick, fluffy towel he had been holding earlier and tossed it onto the stone patio, right between his spread legs. He used his grip on Connor’s hips to help him slide off his lap, his hands guiding him firmly down until Connor’s knees hit the soft cotton of the towel.
Connor, finally knelt between François’ thick thighs, looked up, feeling beautifully small and entirely submissive under the older man’s burning, expectant gaze. François reached down, his large, calloused fingers hooking into the waistband of his wet swimming trunks, and pushed them down his thighs.
He sprang free, thick and heavy and jutting toward Connor’s face, slick with pre-come.
Connor let out a shaky breath, his eyes wide, his mouth already watering. He reached out, his trembling fingers wrapping lightly around the thick base. François let out a sharp hiss at the contact, his hips twitching upward.
Connor leaned in, his lips parting. He took the blunt, heavy tip into his mouth, tongue swirling around the slit, tasting the faint salt of the pool water mixed with the sharp, intoxicating, musky taste of François himself.
François’ hands instantly came down, tangling tightly in Connor’s hair, gripping the strands at the root. “Fuck. Yes, Connor. Just like that.”
Connor took him deeper, swallowing the thick length of him, adjusting his jaw to accommodate the sheer size. He established a slow, wet rhythm, using his hand at the base to stroke the rest of him.
“Beautiful,” François praised, his voice breaking. He was uninhibited, his head thrown back against the lounge chair, his neck corded with tension. “Such a beautiful boy. Mon dieu, Connor. So good.”
Then, his grip on Connor's hair tightened, and he began to set the pace himself, bucking his hips up, thrusting into Connor's mouth with long, deep strokes.
“Open up, baby.” François growled, his voice guttural and dark. “Take all of it.”
Connor gagged slightly as François hit the back of his throat, but didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned into it, letting François use his mouth, his eyes watering at the intense, overwhelming sensation. The sound of wet, sloppy friction filled the quiet night, punctuated by François’ heavy, ragged breathing and the soft, needy whimpers escaping Connor's used throat.
“You look so good on your knees,” François said, his hips snapping up forcefully. “With your pretty little mouth wrapped around me. Putain.”
Connor doubled his efforts, completely drunk on the power he held over this impossibly powerful man, while simultaneously loving the absolute loss of control as François dictated the rhythm. He swirled his tongue, creating a tight suction on the upstroke that made François groan loudly, his body going rigid.
“Connor,” François warned, his fingers tightening painfully in Connor’s hair, holding his head firmly in place, not letting him back away an inch. “Bébé, I’m close.”
Connor didn't pull back, a clear sign of what he wanted. He let out a muffled hum of extreme encouragement, swallowing deeply, taking him as deep as he could go.
François cursed in French, a rapid, breathless string of filthy profanities, before his entire body locked up. “Fuck, baby—swallow it!”
Connor did.
He kept his mouth clamped down tightly, his throat working convulsively as François unloaded into him. It was hot, heavy, and seemingly endless, coating the back of his throat. He swallowed every drop, his hand still stroking François’ base until the older man was completely spent, his chest heaving violently in the cool air, his grip in Connor's hair finally relaxing into a gentle caress.
Slowly, Connor pulled back, his lips wet and swollen, licking his lips as he looked up at the CEO.
François looked utterly wrecked. His eyes were half-closed, his jaw slack, a look of pure, devastated bliss and absolute ruin on his face. He looked down at Connor kneeling on the towel, his expression softening into something incredibly intense and tender.
“Come here,” François breathed roughly.
He reached down, gripping Connor securely beneath the arms, and hauled him effortlessly back up. François pulled him directly back onto his lap, settling Connor’s legs on either side of his hips once again, strong arms wrapped completely around him.
Connor went willingly, collapsing heavily against François’ broad chest, wrapping his arms around the man's neck. He was completely exhausted, his body buzzing with pleasure, his erection throbbing painfully against the cotton of his boxers.
“You took such good care of me,” François murmured, his lips pressing a firm, wet kiss to the side of Connor’s neck, teeth scraping the skin. “My turn, love.”
François’ hand slipped down, easily pulling Connor’s boxer briefs down his thighs. He wrapped his thick fingers around Connor’s aching, dripping length.
Connor cried out, his head falling back onto François’ shoulder, his spine arching off the older man's chest.
François’ grip was perfect — firm, demanding, rough, and relentless. He didn't bother with a slow buildup. He began to stroke him fast and hard, his thumb deliberately dragging over the hypersensitive head with a bruising pressure on every single pass.
“Let it go, baby,” François coaxed, his dark voice practically vibrating against Connor’s sweat-slicked skin. “You’ve been so fucking good. I want to feel you come. Come for me.”
It didn't take much. Between the exhaustion, the sheer visual of François underneath him, the taste of the man still on his tongue, and the overwhelming, rough friction of the calloused hand destroying him, Connor unraveled in less than a minute.
He moaned François’ name loudly into the quiet night, totally uncaring if anyone in the massive villa heard them. His back arched as he shattered, coming hot and heavy in thick ropes across his own stomach and François’ hand.
François held him tightly through the tremors, his free hand running soothingly up and down Connor’s bare back, pressing kisses to his temple as Connor gasped desperately for air, his face buried in the crook of François' neck.
They stayed like that, their bodies tangled together on the lounger. The only sounds were the crashing of the Mediterranean waves below them and their own ragged, synchronized breathing, the heavy reality of what they had just done slowly settling over them in the cool, silver moonlight.
The aftermath was an intoxicating collision of contrasts.
The sharp, biting chill of the coastal night air swept across the terrace, but Connor couldn’t feel it — not really. He was cocooned in the overwhelming, furnace-like heat radiating from François’ body.
They remained tangled together on the damp cushions of the lounger, a chaotic sprawl of exhausted limbs and sweat-slicked skin. Connor was practically draped over the older man, his cheek pressed flat against the thick, now dry hair on François’ chest, listening to the erratic, booming rhythm of the his heart slowly attempting to return to a normal pace.
François hadn't let him go. If anything, his hold had grown more possessive. One thick, muscular arm was banded tightly around Connor’s waist, anchoring him flush against François’ hips, while his other hand lazily, possessively traced the bumpy line of Connor’s spine.
“Si parfait,” François murmured into the dark, his chest vibrating beneath Connor’s face. His deep voice was raspy and thick with a profound satisfaction. “You were so incredibly good for me, bébé. So beautiful.”
Connor let out a soft, content sound, his eyes slipping shut. He was floating on a blinding high, his body feeling both impossibly heavy and entirely weightless. He blindly pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the salty skin of François’ collarbone in response, too drained to actually form words.
They stayed exactly like that as the minutes ticked by, trading the softest, most grounding touches. François’ calloused fingers would occasionally scrape gently against Connor’s scalp, and Connor would lean into the touch like a cat, his own hands tracing idle patterns over the sleek, hard muscles of François’ shoulders. It was an intimacy that went far beyond the filthy, desperate acts they had just committed, and it made Connor’s chest ache with something terrifyingly soft.
Slowly, the dense fog of pure endorphins began to lift.
François was the first to shift. He didn't push Connor away, but he deliberately placed his hands on Connor’s hips and eased him back an inch or two, just enough to look at him properly.
Connor blinked heavily, his eyes slowly adjusting to the moonlight again as he looked up.
The firm, commanding man who had gripped his hair and commanded him to swallow was gone, replaced by something intensely serious and carefully guarded.
François’ eyes were narrowed in intense, quiet scrutiny, scanning Connor’s flushed face, his swollen lips, and his slightly glazed eyes, checking, with meticulous care, to ensure Connor’s brain was fully back online.
Once François seemed satisfied that Connor was actively focusing on him, the older man’s expression shifted into something serious.
“Connor,” François started, his voice low. He lifted a hand, his calloused thumb gently brushing a stray curl away from Connor’s forehead. “Was this... was all of this okay? Was it too much?”
There was a heavy, underlying question in his tone. It wasn't just a physical check-in. François was an incredibly intelligent man, and he was acutely aware of the imbalance between them. He was an eighteen-year-older multimillionaire, the owner of the very bed Connor slept in, and the father of the people who had brought Connor here.
Even if the younger man's body had been fiercely, undeniably engaged, François didn't want Connor to have felt even a fraction of pressure.
He needed to be sure Connor hadn't felt bulldozed, needed to know that Connor hadn't felt obligated to drop to his knees simply because the master of the house had looked at him with desire.
François had seen the way Connor looked at him all weekend, he knew the want was there. But it was one thing to harbor a fantasy, and an entirely different, heavier thing to act on it.
He didn't want Connor to feel trapped by the dynamic.
Connor’s heart swelled. The fact that François was stopping to ask this, that he cared enough to make sure Connor hadn't been swallowed whole by the dynamics, made Connor want him ten times more.
Connor moved his hands, covering the large ones holding his face. He leaned in and pressed a soft, deeply earnest kiss to François’s lips
It wasn't a messy, desperate kiss like before. It was slow, deeply reassuring, and firm.
“It was more than okay,” Connor whispered against his lips, pulling back just enough to maintain eye contact. He poured every ounce of sincerity he possessed into his voice. “It was exactly what I wanted, François. You didn't push me into anything I wasn't dying to do.”
A profound, visible wave of relief completely washed the tension out of François’ sharp features. The corners of his eyes crinkled, and a soft, breathtaking smile touched his lips.
He let out a quiet exhale, seemingly content with the answer, and immediately pulled Connor back down for a devastatingly passionate kiss, sweeping his tongue lazily against Connor’s, tasting the remnants of himself there.
“Très bien,” François murmured, pressing one last kiss to the corner of Connor’s mouth before his hands dropped back down to grip Connor’s waist. “Are you okay to stand, mon ange?”
“Yeah, I think so,” Connor agreed, though when he actually tried to shift his weight, a quiet groan escaped him.
He started to move, trying to slide his legs off the side of the lounger, but the moment he put weight on his knees, his muscles completely betrayed him. They felt like absolute jelly, completely dormant and aching from straddling François’ thighs for so long.
He stumbled slightly with a quiet gasp, but François was already there.
The older man moved with surprising, fluid grace, rising from the lounger and catching Connor’s full weight effortlessly against his chest.
“I’ve got you,” François chuckled, the sound low and warm.
With a tenderness that sharply contrasted with the brutal way he had fucked Connor’s mouth earlier, François reached down and gently guided Connor’s dark boxer briefs back up over his thighs and hips, his knuckles brushing warmly against the sensitive skin of Connor’s stomach. Then, he retrieved the discarded, oversized white robe from the floor, shook it out and wrapped it carefully around Connor’s shoulders, pulling the lapels together to trap the body heat.
François stepped into Connor’s space, his hands resting on Connor’s covered shoulders. He leaned down and pressed a firm, lingering kiss to the Connor’s forehead.
“This was great, mon coeur, you’re great. But you’re practically asleep on your feet now,” François instructed, his tone sliding back into that smooth, commanding authority, though it was softened by affection. “Go back inside, get some rest. And... we will talk more about this, eventually. If you want to.”
If.
God, François really didn't understand the absolute chokehold he had just put on Connor’s entire existence.
“I want to,” Connor agreed immediately, his voice thick with sleep and lingering lust.
He didn't want to leave the warmth of the man's orbit just yet. Giving in to the heavy, affectionate pull in his chest, Connor stepped forward and wrapped his arms tightly around François’s waist. He buried his face in the crook of François’s neck, deliberately rubbing his nose against the pulse point there, inhaling the intoxicating smell of chlorine, sea salt, and François’ own scent.
François let out a soft breath, his arms wrapping around Connor in a brief, crushing hug, pressing a kiss into Connor’s messy hair before finally stepping back.
“Goodnight, Connor.”
“Goodnight,” Connor whispered.
He turned and padded softly back across the stone terrace toward the glass sliding doors. Right before he slipped back into the shadowy interior of the villa, he couldn't stop himself from looking over his shoulder one last time.
François had turned to grab his towel. The moonlight hit him perfectly, illuminating the broad, corded muscles of his back, and casting a sharp spotlight on the way his damp, green swimming trunks clung desperately to the heavy, round curve of his ass and thick thighs.
Connor’s mouth instantly went dry. He swallowed hard, burning the image directly into his brain, before quickly sliding the glass door shut and stepping into the shadows of the house.
The silence of villa hit him like a physical wall.
As Connor navigated the long limestone hallways back toward his isolated guest suite, his heart began to race, beating frantically against his ribs, a stark contrast to his exhausted body. His brain felt as though it had been violently rearranged, like the shattering orgasm had finally put a missing piece of his reality firmly into place.
But the resulting picture was utterly terrifying.
He slipped into his room and closed the heavy oak door, leaning his forehead against the cool wood.
François was perfect. François was everything he had ever fantasized about.
But this was so irreparably wrong.
He pushed off the door and fell backward onto his massive, plush mattress, staring up at the ceiling, the guilt instantly warring with the lingering aftershocks of pleasure.
François was the father of his best friends — practically the only real friends Connor had in the entire world. They had invited him on this European vacation out of the sheer goodness of their hearts, paying for a trip he could never afford, just so he wouldn't be miserably alone in his cramped Los Angeles apartment all summer.
And how had he repaid them? By sneaking out onto the terrace in the middle of the night and sleeping with their father. By coming back to this very bed with the heavy, musky taste of their dad’s come still coating his tongue.
A sharp spike of guilt pierced his chest, but it was almost instantly swallowed by a crushing, overwhelming wave of pure arousal.
Because fuck, what an unbelievable taste.
Connor groaned, burying his face in his hands, completely unable to stop the mental highlight reel playing behind his eyelids.
He had always loved sucking cock, had always deeply enjoyed the feeling of yielding, of having his throat unapologetically used.
But this had been an entirely different universe of pleasure. He had almost come strictly from the psychological thrill of the scenario: being on his knees on a towel, under the moonlight, willingly submitting to please a gorgeous, impossibly powerful, older man.
François was the oldest man he had ever been with, despite Connor’s natural inclination toward older partners. But forty-three? A forty-three-year-old millionaire? It was an unimaginable scenario and Connor was already hopelessly addicted after one hit.
Connor’s hands slid down his face to grip the lapels of his robe as he shifted his hips on the mattress, a fresh ache blooming between his thighs.
He remembered the feeling of François’ massive, calloused hand wrapped in a firm grip around his dick. The way François had easily, almost casually, forced him through a shattering climax.
He couldn't help but wonder how that exact same large hand would look wrapped firmly around his throat. He wondered how perfectly those callouses would scrape against the pale, sensitive skin of his inner thighs, how much François could make him beg.
How much of a mess François could make of him if he really let loose.
He desperately hoped that François would fuck him properly. He wanted the man’s weight pinning him down.
The thought was so intense it bordered on physical pain. Connor rolled over, practically humping the mattress, whining into the quiet, dark room.
He had to stop. He forced himself to roll over onto his back, gripping the duvet tightly in his fists, forcing himself to take slow, deep, shuddering breaths to calm the absolute fuck down.
He knew this was wrong. Dangerous, even.
The reality of the situation was a ticking time bomb. But he had never wanted anyone or anything like this in his entire life. He had never felt such a blinding, instinctual need to please someone so completely. The way François’ commanding, rough voice had firmly guided him, demanding things of him, made Connor want to obey. It made him want to be good, even though Connor was a brat to his very core.
François was the only man he had ever met who could effortlessly flip that switch inside him.
But, gosh, he should be disgusted with himself.
He should be absolutely consumed by the reality of what he had just done — the monumental betrayal of Elodie and Sebastian’s trust. He should be packing his bags, faking an emergency in Los Angeles, and catching the first flight out of Marseille.
And that was where the true, sickening depth of his guilt finally set in.
He pulled the heavy duvet up over his chest, curling onto his side in the massive, empty bed. He felt completely wretched. He wasn't just guilty for crossing the line. He wasn't just guilty for the profound betrayal of Elodie and Sebastian's trust
He was agonizingly, overwhelmingly guilty because he didn't regret a single second of it.
He knew exactly how much damage this could cause, and yet, he wanted François to do it again. If François opened that bedroom door right now and ordered him back to his knees, Connor wouldn't even hesitate. He would throw his morals out the window just to feel that large hand in his hair one more time.
It made him feel incredibly selfish.
It made him feel dirty in a way that had nothing to do with sex, and everything to do with the darkness of his own desires. He was enjoying the taboo, thriving on the ruinous nature of it.
He was a terrible person. He had to be.
But as Connor’s breathing finally began to slow, the harsh, cold reality of the situation settled over him like a suffocating blanket.
He knew it was a one-time lapse in judgment.
François would never risk his relationship with his children, or the pristine order of his life, for a twenty-five-year-old mess of a boy he barely knew. It was a one-time mistake. A secret they would bury under polite smiles and small talk over morning coffee.
Tomorrow, the sun would come up over the Mediterranean and François would rebuild the wall between them brick by brick.
He would go back to being just the polite, warm host, and Connor would be firmly relegated back to his proper place as the children’s tag-along friend.
He was sure his chance was gone, that tomorrow would bring nothing but the agonizing torture of proximity to a man he could never touch again.
But as sleep finally began to drag him under, the last conscious thought to flicker through Connor’s mind was a desperate, entirely guilty prayer that he was wrong.