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It hadn’t been a single moment, not really. Charles had brought it up somewhere along the way. Somewhere between the sting of Max’s hand on his hip and the ache that bloomed after. Between the first time Max had bent him over the kitchen bar stools without a word, hands greedy and breath hot against his neck, and the third night Charles had limped into the bedroom on shaky legs, wrecked and boneless, only to find Max already waiting for him.
There were flushed cheeks, bitten lips, eyes cast down and a chest rising and falling too fast with every passing second. There were nights Max pulled him close after, palm splayed low on his stomach, lips brushing his ear, voice a low, velvet threat.
"You like being mine, don’t you?"
Charles hadn’t answered. He didn’t have to. His body gave him away, hips tilting back, thighs still sticky and twitching, his mouth parted and breath shallow, chest rising too fast. He looked ruined, used up, and still somehow hungry for more.
Max leaned over him, fingers sinking into the damp curls at his nape, brushing them aside just to watch him flinch at the sensitivity. Charles was burning up, sweat slicked and red-cheeked. Beautiful in that wrecked, fucked-out kind of way that made Max's jaw tighten and his blood run hot all over again.
"Whenever I want," Max murmured, soft but smug, voice thick with satisfaction. His thumb dragged across Charles’s cheekbone. A claiming touch,"That’s what you said, right?"
And Charles nodded. Just once. But it was all Max needed.
His throat was too tight for words, his body too sore, already pliant with the memory of what Max had just done to him. But his pulse screamed yes. The way he leaned into Max's touch screamed yes. The ache between his thighs screamed yes.
And the anticipation already starting to build again, that screamed loudest of all.
So now —now when Max steps into the kitchen wearing an old toro rosso tee clinging to his still damp skin and a pair of soft grey sweatpants that hang low on his hips, Charles doesn’t flinch. Max’s hair is still wet from the shower, blonde strands curling slightly at the ends, his skin flushed and dewy from heat and exertion. He smells faintly of Charle’s soap and sweat and something unmistakably him, a scent he has memorized down to its last note. There's a kind of lazy grace in the way he moves, like he’s still burning off the last of his adrenaline.
Charles stands at the stove, stirring bubbling pasta, the wooden spoon swirling lazily through the pot as steam curls up into his face. An apron, stained from years of use, is tied snugly around his waist, the fabric crinkling softly with his movements. The scent of garlic and olive oil hangs heavy in the warm air, clinging to his skin, his shirt, even the fine ends of his hair. The kitchen is bathed in late afternoon light, hazy and drowsy, almost romantic.
The window is cracked open, a sliver of breeze slipping through, barely stirring the heat. The hum of the Monaco sun presses against the glass, summer heat clinging to every surface. The tile is cool beneath Charles's socked feet. The pot bubbles softly. The spoon scrapes gently against the metal.
It’s peaceful. Familiar.
Max approaches without a sound, his arms wrapping around Charles’s waist with deliberate strength, big biceps squeezing tight against his ribs, solid muscle pressing in from all sides. His hands settle low on Charles’s broad back, fingers splaying wide, locking him in place. It’s heavy, unmistakably possessive, but Charles just smiles faintly.
Then Max dips his head, lips brushing the sensitive skin at the nape of Charles’s neck. The first kiss is soft, feather-light. The second follows quickly after. Charles can’t help the soft laugh that slips past his lips, the rough drag of stubble tickling his skin too much to stay serious. His grip on the wooden spoon falters.
Max hums low in his throat, a satisfied vibration that travels down Charles’s spine. He leans in closer, tongue sliding out to trace a fat stripe from the base of Charles’s neck all the way up to the hairline, leaving a wet, burning trail behind.
Charles flinches. Shoulders twitch, a half-disgusted, half-aroused grimace tugging at his mouth. "Gross," he mutters, barely above a breath.
"You love it," Max whispers against his skin, tongue flicking again just to make him shudder.
"I really don’t," Charles says, unconvincing as ever.
"Liar." Max presses in closer, and that’s when Charles feels it, hard and hot, thick and demanding pressing insistently against the swell of his ass. The heat radiates through the thin fabric of his shorts, sharp and undeniable. Max is already hard, taut and ready beneath the soft fabric of his sweatpants. He probably has been since the moment he stepped into the kitchen, carrying that dangerous tension in every step.
Charles exhales slowly, the breath dragging out like a release of everything coiled tight inside him. Tension seeps from his limbs like a long, slow sigh, melting away the sharp edges of resistance. His muscles soften, hips tilting back almost instinctively. His body folds beneath Max’s weight and presence without thought, without hesitation. He makes room. Opens himself. Surrenders to that familiar, aching need.
Max’s hands move with a slow, practiced surety, fingers hooking under the waistband of Charles’s shorts, dragging the soft cotton down. The fabric pools around Charles’s ankles with a gentle rustle, exposing the pale skin beneath his shirt. His ass, bare and vulnerable to the warm kitchen air, catches the light filtering through the open window.
A shiver runs through Charles, long and involuntary, not from cold, but from the sheer want of it. The way Max holds him, the weight of his hands, the promise of what's coming. His body knows what to do before his mind catches up, softening, opening, aching to be taken.
One of Max's hands glides slowly up Charles's inner thigh, the rough pads of his fingers dragging over soft, sensitive skin. The other settles firmly at his hip, thumb pressing down right over the spot where Charles bruises easiest, where Max has left his mark before, and no doubt will again. Charles’s breath catches, his knees tightening slightly before relaxing again. Max knows exactly how to handle him, how to make him stand still and take it.
With a gentle push, Max bends him forward just enough, guiding him down until his hips align with the edge of the counter. The apron shifts awkwardly, bunched above his stomach. Charles barely notices. His palms find the cool surface instinctively, bracing himself. The kitchen is filled with the hiss and pop of pasta boiling too fast, a sharp, wet soundtrack to the slow chaos building between his legs.
"You’re already soft for me," Max murmurs, voice low and reverent, like he’s genuinely awed every time.
Charles huffs, turning his head just enough to brush his cheek against his shoulder. "You always do this when I'm cooking."
"That’s because you look good like this," Max replies without hesitation, shifting his stance, adjusting his grip on Charles’s hips. "Domestic. Obedient."
Charles exhales a shaky breath, fingers tightening around the counter’s edge. "You’re the worst," he mutters, but there's no bite to it.
Max just laughs as his hand slips between Charles’s thighs. His fingers drag through slick folds, and Charles jolts forward a little with the contact. Max’s knuckles brush against his clit as he pushes a finger in without warning, stretching him open, knuckles rubbing and dragging with every thrust. Charles’s legs tremble slightly, his hips rocking back against Max’s hand instinctively.
He reaches forward, searching blindly, and braces himself harder against the countertop, knuckles pale and jaw clenched.
The pasta continues to hiss, the scent of overcooked garlic thick in the air, but it’s nothing but background noise, distant and meaningless. Charles can’t focus on anything except the wet, slick sound of Max’s fingers pumping into him, steady and deep, each curl stroking right where he needs it most. His breath stutters, lips parting on a soft moan he tries too late to swallow down.
Max’s other hand spreads him open wider, thumb pressing just beneath the base of his spine, holding him in place. Charles can feel the stretch ease with every thrust, his body so pliant and welcoming for the man behind him. Max’s fingers scissor slightly, spreading him, and Charles whines high and breathless.
Max groans low, leaning over him, his chest pressing hot against Charles's back. "So fucking wet already," he breathes against Charles's ear. "Always so ready for me."
Charles nods, forehead pressing to the cool countertop, hips tilted back desperately. His throat is too tight for words. His mind is too hazy for thought. But he doesn't need any of that, not when he is with Max.
Eventually, Max pulls his fingers free,, letting Charles feel every drag of skin against his sensitive walls. The sudden emptiness makes Charles whimper.
Then Max’s hand is at his own waistband, sweatpants shoved down just far enough. The blunt head of his cock nudges against Charles’s entrance, slick with precum, hot and insistent. Max doesn’t push in yet. He rocks his hips forward just enough to make it clear what’s coming, then pulls back again, repeating the motion in slow, shallow rolls. Not entering. Just knocking.
Each pass drags his cockhead across sensitive, swollen skin, smearing wetness with teasing thrusts. He lets the weight of his cock rest there, firm and heavy against the fluttering rim, then shifts just enough to drag the tip down through the slickness again, brushing softly over Charles’s clit on the way back.
Charles shifts his hips back with a soft, involuntary whine, chasing the pressure like a man starved. Max just grins against the back of his neck, breath warm as he leans in close.
He nudges the tip in, firmer this time and Charles gasps, the sound raw and needy. His fingers tighten around the counter, knuckles gone white. Max holds there for a second, just the head slipping past that first tight resistance, letting Charles feel the weight of it, the burn, the stretch that’s only just begun.
Then finally, finally, Max lines up properly, one hand firm on Charles’s hip, the other spreading him open. He pushes in slow, agonizingly so, feeding inch after inch into Charles’s slick cunt until he’s buried to the hilt.
The stretch is overwhelming, toeing the edge between too much and absolutely perfect. His body yields for Max the way it always does, eager and needy, aching to be filled. His thighs quiver, legs spread as far as they’ll go with his ankles still tangled in the fabric of his dropped shorts.
Max stays there for a second, fully seated inside him, like he’s savoring the feel of Charles wrapped tight around him. His fingers dig into soft skin, grounding himself. Every nerve in his body is alight, every muscle taut and trembling, and still he pushes back, taking Max deeper, wanting more.
"Fuck, baby," Max mutters under his breath, voice strained with restraint. "You feel so fucking good."
Charles lets out a quiet whimper in response, hips twitching back to chase more friction, and Max finally starts to move.
A slow, dragging pull out, just enough to make Charles feel the loss, and then another deep thrust forward, hips slapping against Charles’s ass, filling him all over again. The rhythm is unhurried at first, almost cruel, each drive of Max's cock sinking deep and holding there before retreating.
Max shifts his hands, dragging them up from Charles’s hips. One slides acorss his stomach, gliding up until it finds his neck. The pressure is firm, commanding, and he pushes forward until Charles is upright, back flushed to Max’s chest, spine arched in a deep bow.
Max holds him there, chest heaving against Charles’s back, and his breath stutters at the change in position, the angle hitting deeper, making him see stars. His head tips back onto Max’s shoulder, jaw slack, helpless sounds spilling from his lips.
Max grunts, adjusting his grip, one hand fisting the apron at his stomach, the other keeping him in place. And then he starts to move.
Faster now. Harder. Each thrust slamming upward into Charles with purpose, a rhythmic slap of skin on skin filling the kitchen. The sound is filthy. So is the way Charles cries out with each push, his hands scrambling to find the counter again, anything to hold on to.
Max doesn’t let up. Doesn’t slow down. Just drives into him like he owns him, because he does.
The wet, obscene sound of Charles's cunt sucking Max back in over and over fills the kitchen, leaving nothing to the imagination
Charles can’t even think. His vision blurs at the edges, knees trembling, hands useless where they paw at the counter for something, anything, to ground himself. But there’s nothing. Nothing but Max.
His cock drags against that sweet, sensitive spot inside him that makes Charles whimper, high and cracked. The hand at his neck tightens, firm enough to keep him upright, flush to Max’s chest where he can feel the way Max pants against his ear.
"You hear that?" Max rasps, teeth grazing the shell of Charles’s ear. "That’s how wet you are for me. Every time. Doesn’t matter what you’re doing—" he slams in again "you’re mine to fuck."
Charles nods frantically, too far gone to form words, too full to do anything but take it. His toes curl against the tile. His chest heaves with every raged breath.
Max shifts again, changing the angle just slightly, and Charles nearly sobs from how deep it feels, how devastatingly good. How completely wrecked he already feels.
The hand curled tight around his neck doesn’t move, thumb digging in at the side like Max needs something to grip. The other travels down Charles’s front, rough fingers dragging over his flushed, sweat-slicked chest, skimming his firm stomach, tracing the cut of his abs until it hits the ridge of his pelvic bone.
Charles shudders. Goosebumps break out in waves across his arms, his chest, his trembling thighs. Max doesn't stop.
His hand settles between Charles’s legs, fingers sliding across the front of his cunt, slick and pulsing. He finds the swollen bud of Charles’s clit and catches it gently between two fingers, rubbing maddening little circles. Just enough pressure to make Charles jolt in Max’s hold.
Charles chokes on a moan, legs nearly giving out beneath him. Max just hums against his ear and keeps moving, cock still drilling up into him in deep, punishing thrusts while his fingers tease and torment without any mercy.
It’s so much, and it's so good.
The pleasure builds unbearably, spiraling tight in Charles’s gut until it feels like he’s going to snap. Every thrust of Max’s cock, every cruel swirl of his fingers sends him reeling further into the haze. He’s panting now, desperate sounds falling from his open mouth, barely able to breathe through the overwhelming pressure.
His legs shake, thighs trembling with the effort to stay upright, but they’re done. They might as well be gone, melted under Max’s touch. The only thing keeping him standing is Max’s rough, anchoring hand around his throat and the thick, unrelenting cock spearing him open from behind.
Then Max presses his thumb roughly over his most sensitive spot and Charles breaks.
He comes hard, his whole body tensing before it shudders apart. He pulses around Max’s cock, cunt spasming tight and slick, choking around him like it doesn’t want to let go. The sounds that tear from his throat are swallowed by garlic-scented air of their kitchen. His head drops forward, body limp and shaking as the orgasm tears through him.
Max holds him upright, still grinding through it, cock buried deep, chasing his own release as he moans agaisnt Charles’s ear.
Charles whines at the overstimulation, cunt clenching down around Max’s cock with every twitch of his spent orgasm. He’s trembling, barely holding together, gasping softly with each new thrust as Max uses him with a single-minded focus. There’s no rhythm anymore, just urgency, Max’s hips stuttering, slamming forward in short, desperate snaps as he chases his own release.
His hands find Charles’s waist, fingers bruising, clutching like he needs to hold onto something or else fall apart, his breath comes in ragged bursts, teeth bared as he chases it, fucking Charles hard enough to rock him forward against the counter.
Then Max thrusts all the way in, pelvis flush to Charles’s ass, cock buried so deep inside him he can feel it in his throat, stealing the breath from his lungs. He groans as he spills inside, filling Charles to the brim, flooding him in hot, endless waves that seem to go on forever.
Charles gasps, eyes fluttering shut, feeling it flood him in waves, marking him from the inside out. His cunt clenches around Max instinctively, trying to keep every last drop.
Max stays there, pressed tight against his back, hips twitching as he finishes with a few more lazy, grinding thrusts. Each one pushes deeper, drags against sensitive walls, and Charles can feel him trying to fuck his own cum back inside, like he can't stand the thought of any of it escaping.
Charles would’ve collapsed if Max weren’t holding him up, by his throat, by his waist, by the cock still lodged inside him, keeping him full and owned.
Max lets out a long breath, heavy and satisfied, and lets his chest drape over Charles’s back. The weight of him is solid and warm, pressing Charles harder into the counter, pinning him there in the afterglow. His arms circle around Charles's torso, locking him in place, palms splaying flat against his stomach like he's still claiming him even now.
His nose buries in the damp curls at the back of Charles’s neck, lips brushing lazily against sweaty skin. He sighs again, deeper this time, chest rising and falling against Charles’s spine.
Then, finally, he shifts.
Max’s hands soften, dragging gently down Charles’s waist, almost tender now. He pulls back slowly, cock slipping out of him with a slick, obscene sound. Charles gasps at the loss, his body still fluttering, clenching around nothing, slick with the aftermath of everything Max gave him.
He doesn’t look. He can’t.
But he knows.
Knows Max is staring, knows that piercing gaze drags down his spine, over the sweat-glossed slope of his back, the trembling curve of his ass. Knows Max watches as his cum begins to leak out, messy and thick, painting the inside of Charles’s thighs. He feels it dripping down and the fact alone makes him want to be filled again
But Max is stepping away as Charles stays bent over the counter, ruined and open, every inch of him still trembling, sweat beading at his temples and slicking his forehead. He hears the sharp click of the stove burner being turned off, the sizzling sound and sweaty forehead suddenly making more sense.
He feels filthy. Like he needs a shower, not the meal Max left burning behind them. what's
Max presses a sloppy, hot kiss to the nape of Charles’s neck “Sorry, schat,” he mutters. “We can order whatever you want.”
A beat of silence. Then Max's lips brush against his skin again, softer this time, almost hesitant. "Can I eat you out?"
Charles lifts his head from where it was buried between his arms, cheek peeling from the cool countertop. His thighs press together instinctively at the question alone, a reflexive clench that does nothing to stop the slow trickle of warmth trailing down his skin. He's still leaking, still slick and open and sensitive, and the thought of Max's mouth there, tongue dragging through the mess he just made, sends a fresh wave of heat curling low in his belly.
Charles swallows, heart pounding. He's ruined in every way possible, and still, the only thing his stupid, lovesick brain can focus on is how badly he wants to carry this man's children.