Chapter One: Scissors and Secrets

The late afternoon sun slanted through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Luxe Cuts, casting golden streaks across the polished concrete floors. The salon hummed with quiet energy—soft indie music playing overhead, the occasional snip of scissors, the low murmur of stylists consulting with clients. Ross pushed open the heavy glass door, the scent of high-end hair products and citrus-infused air freshener wrapping around him like a familiar embrace. He had been coming here for over a year, ever since his agent had insisted he needed a stylist who could “make him look like a god, not just a pretty boy.” And Richard had done just that.

He spotted him immediately.

Richard stood near the back, leaning against the sleek black counter that housed an array of gleaming tools—shears, combs, straight razors—all meticulously arranged. He was laughing at something a colleague had said, his head tilted back just enough to expose the strong line of his throat. His blond hair was immaculate, not a strand out of place, and the crisp white button-down he wore stretched just right over his shoulders, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms dusted with fine golden hair. The leather apron tied around his waist only accentuated the lean lines of his body. Ross’s fingers twitched at his sides, an old habit when he was trying not to fidget.

Richard’s gaze flicked up, and the moment their eyes met, something warm and electric passed between them. A slow, knowing smile curved Richard’s lips. “Ross,” he said, his voice smooth, just loud enough to carry over the salon’s ambient noise. “You’re late.”

Ross exhaled, running a hand through his already tousled hair. “Fashionably,” he replied, stepping further inside. “You know how it is.”

Richard pushed off the counter, his movements effortless, predatory in the way a man who knew exactly how good he looked could be. “Mmm. And here I was, thinking you’d finally decided to stand me up.”

The teasing note in his voice sent a prickle down Ross’s spine. He swallowed, forcing his expression to remain neutral as he approached. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Richard’s station was at the far end, tucked beside a wall lined with framed magazine spreads—his work, Ross knew. The chair was already adjusted, the leather warm from the last client. Richard gestured for him to sit, and Ross obeyed, sinking into the plush cushion with a sigh. The apron settled over his chest a second later, Richard’s fingers brushing against his collarbone as he fastened it. The touch was fleeting, but Ross felt it like a brand.

“You’ve been busy,” Richard remarked, stepping back to study him. His gaze was assessing, professional, but there was something else there—something darker, hungrier. “I saw your spread in Vogue. Paris, wasn’t it?”

Ross nodded, trying to ignore the way his pulse jumped. “Last month. Freezing my ass off on the Seine at dawn.”

Richard chuckled, low and rich. “Sacrifices for the art.” His fingers carded through Ross’s hair, testing the weight, the texture. “You let them mess with your cut after I told you not to.”

“It was temporary,” Ross murmured, resisting the urge to lean into the touch. “Gel. A lot of gel.”

Richard tsked, shaking his head. “Crime against nature.” He reached for his shears, the metal glinting under the salon’s track lighting. “Good thing you’re here now. I’ll fix it.”

Ross watched him in the mirror—Richard’s focus was absolute, his brow furrowed just slightly as he sectioned off Ross’s hair, fingers deft and sure. There was something hypnotic about it, the way his hands moved, the way his biceps flexed beneath the rolled sleeves of his shirt. Ross had always been attracted to confidence, to competence, and Richard had both in spades.

“So,” Richard said, comb sliding through the strands at Ross’s temple, “you heading back to Paris anytime soon?”

Ross exhaled, relaxing into the rhythm of the cut. “Not for work. But I’ve been thinking about going back. Just… for me.”

Richard’s eyes flicked up to meet his in the mirror. “Yeah?”

“A week, maybe two. No shoots, no obligations. Just… walking around, eating too much bread, pretending I’m not a cliché.” He smirked, but there was an edge to it—something vulnerable, almost confessional.

Richard’s lips quirked. “You’d pull off cliché better than most.” His fingers paused at Ross’s nape, thumb brushing against the sensitive skin just below his hairline. Ross’s breath hitched. “You should go,” Richard said softly. “Paris in the spring is…” He trailed off, shaking his head slightly, as if the words weren’t enough.

Ross turned his head just enough to catch Richard’s gaze fully. “You’ve been?”

“Once.” Richard’s voice was quiet, almost hesitant. “Years ago. Before I—” He cut himself off, clearing his throat. “Before I had the salon. I was broke, sleeping on a friend’s couch in the Marais. But it was…” His fingers tightened briefly in Ross’s hair. “Magic, you know? The kind of place that makes you feel like you could be anyone.”

Ross held his breath. There was something in Richard’s tone—something raw, unguarded. It made his chest ache. “You should go back,” he said.

Richard laughed, but it was humorless. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Silence settled between them, thick and charged. The snip of the shears filled the space, the occasional brush of Richard’s knuckles against Ross’s jaw, his temple. Each touch sent a jolt through him, subtle but undeniable.

“You ever think about just… leaving?” Ross asked suddenly. The words slipped out before he could stop them. “Packing a bag and disappearing for a while?”

Richard’s hands stilled. For a moment, Ross thought he’d gone too far—crossed some unseen line. But then Richard exhaled, slow and measured, his breath warm against Ross’s ear. “All the time.”

The admission hung between them, heavy and honest. Ross turned his head further, their faces inches apart. Richard’s eyes were dark, his pupils blown wide. The air between them was thick with something unspoken, something that had been building for months in stolen glances and lingering touches.

“Then do it,” Ross whispered.

Richard’s breath hitched. “What?”

“Come with me.” The words were out before Ross could second-guess them. “Paris. Next week. No excuses.”

Richard’s fingers trembled slightly against Ross’s scalp. “You’re serious.”

Ross held his gaze, unflinching. “Deadly.”

For a long moment, Richard just stared at him, his chest rising and falling a little faster than before. Then, slowly, a smile spread across his face—brilliant, disbelieving. “You’re insane.”

“Probably.” Ross grinned. “But you’re thinking about it.”

Richard stepped back, running a hand over his mouth, his rings glinting under the lights. “I can’t just—”

“Yes, you can,” Ross cut in. “Close the salon for a week. You’ve got other stylists. They can handle it.”

Richard’s laugh was sharp, disbelieving. “You make it sound so easy.”

“Because it is.” Ross reached up, catching Richard’s wrist before he could pull away. The contact was electric, Richard’s pulse racing beneath his fingertips. “When’s the last time you did something just because you wanted to?”

Richard’s throat worked. His eyes dropped to where Ross’s fingers circled his wrist, then back up to his face. “I don’t even know you,” he said, but his voice lacked conviction.

Ross’s smile softened. “Then Paris is the perfect place to change that.”

The salon faded around them—the other stylists, the clients, the music. There was only the heat of Richard’s skin under his fingers, the way his breath came faster, the way his lips parted as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.

“Fine,” Richard said finally, his voice rough. “Fine. Next week. But if this is some elaborate plot to murder me in a foreign country, I swear to god—”

Ross laughed, bright and unrestrained. “I’ll make sure it’s painless.”

Richard shook his head, but he was smiling now, really smiling, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He stepped back, clearing his throat as he reached for his comb again. “You’re lucky I like you,” he muttered, but there was no bite to it.

Ross settled back into the chair, his heart pounding. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I am.”

The rest of the haircut passed in a haze—Richard’s hands in his hair, the occasional brush of their shoulders, the way Richard’s voice dropped lower when he spoke, like he was sharing secrets meant only for Ross. By the time Richard spun the chair around to face the mirror, Ross barely recognized himself. His hair was shorter at the sides, longer on top, the dark strands artfully tousled, the scar above his eyebrow more pronounced than ever.

Richard’s fingers traced the line of it gently. “There,” he murmured. “Perfect.”

Ross met his eyes in the mirror. “We’re really doing this, aren’t we?”

Richard’s smile was slow, deliberate. “Looks like it.”

And just like that, the trip was no longer a hypothetical. It was real. It was happening. And for the first time in a long time, Ross felt something unfurl in his chest—something light, something hopeful.

Something dangerously close to anticipation.

Chapter Two: What the Seine Carried

The flight had been long, but the moment Ross stepped onto the balcony of their rented apartment overlooking the Seine, the exhaustion melted away. Paris stretched out before them, a glittering tapestry of golden lights reflected in the dark water below. The air smelled of warm bread, distant rain, and something sweet—like the wine Richard had already uncorked.

Richard leaned against the wrought-iron railing, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the crisp white of his shirt contrasting with the deep blue of the twilight sky. He swirled the wine in his glass, watching the way the liquid clung to the sides before taking a slow sip. “Not bad for a last-minute booking,” he murmured, glancing back at Ross with a smirk. “Though I still can’t believe you talked me into this.”

Ross exhaled, stepping closer until their shoulders nearly brushed. “You say that like you had a choice,” he teased, his voice low. The warmth of the wine spread through him, loosening the tension in his chest. He’d been nervous—more than he wanted to admit. Paris had always been his city, his escape, but sharing it with Richard made it feel different. New.

Richard chuckled, the sound rich and warm, and turned fully toward him. The balcony was small, intimate, the kind of space where every movement felt deliberate. “I always have a choice,” he said, though his gaze flickered to Ross’s mouth for just a second too long. “But I’ll admit, the view is better than I expected.”

Ross caught the shift in his tone, the way his voice dropped, roughened. He didn’t look away. “The view of the city? Or the company?”

A slow smile curved Richard’s lips. “Both.” He took another sip of wine, then set the glass down on the railing with a quiet clink. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

Ross grinned, unrepentant. “Only if you let me be.”

The air between them thickened, charged with something unspoken. Richard’s fingers twitched against the glass, as if he were fighting the urge to reach out. Ross didn’t miss it. He never missed the way Richard’s body betrayed him— the way his breath hitched when Ross stood too close, the way his pupils dilated when their eyes met in the mirror at the salon. But this was different. There were no clients waiting, no scissors in hand, no professional mask to hide behind. Just the two of them, and the hum of the city below, and the wine making Ross’s skin feel too warm.

Richard cleared his throat, breaking the silence before it could grow heavy. “You ever just… do something reckless?” he asked suddenly, his voice quieter now.

Ross arched a brow. “Like inviting my hairdresser to Paris?”

Richard laughed, shaking his head. “No. Like—” He hesitated, then reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folded slip of paper. “Like this.”

Ross took it, unfolding the creased sheet carefully. The paper was soft under his fingertips, worn from being handled. He recognized Richard’s handwriting immediately—sharp, precise, the letters slanting just slightly to the right. But it wasn’t a note. It was a poem.

“I carved my name into the bark of a tree in Pere Lachaise, but the wind stole the letters before they could take root. You told me love was just another kind of hunger, and I believed you— until I learned the difference between wanting and needing so badly it hurts.”

Ross’s breath caught. The words were raw, unguarded in a way Richard never was. He could hear the younger version of him in every line—the ache of longing, the bitterness of being left behind. “You wrote this?” he asked, his voice rough.

Richard didn’t answer right away. He was watching Ross’s face, his expression unreadable. “Years ago,” he admitted finally. “After my first… serious thing. It didn’t end well.”

Ross swallowed. “He didn’t deserve you.”

A muscle in Richard’s jaw twitched. “Or maybe I didn’t deserve him.” He reached for his wine again, but his hand was unsteady. “I haven’t read that aloud in years.”

Ross looked back at the poem, tracing the lines with his thumb. “You should.” The words were out before he could stop them. “Read it to me.”

Richard’s gaze snapped to his, sharp and searching. For a moment, Ross thought he’d refuse. But then Richard exhaled, slow and controlled, and took the paper back. His fingers brushed Ross’s, just barely, but it sent a jolt through him all the same.

Richard unfolded the paper again, his voice dropping into something deeper, richer, when he began to recite. The words spilled out like a confession, like something he’d been holding back for too long. Ross didn’t move. He couldn’t. The timber of Richard’s voice wrapped around him, low and rough at the edges, the kind of voice that made your skin prickle with awareness. It wasn’t just the poem—it was the way he said it, like each line was being pulled from somewhere deep inside him.

“I carved my name into the bark of a tree in Pere Lachaise…”

Ross’s pulse thrummed in his throat. He could see it—the younger Richard, angry and heartbroken, pressing a knife into wood, trying to make something last that was already gone. The image was so vivid it hurt.

“You told me love was just another kind of hunger, and I believed you— until I learned the difference between wanting and needing so badly it hurts.”

The last line hung between them, heavy and raw. Richard’s breath was uneven, his chest rising and falling a little too fast. Ross didn’t think. He reached out, his fingers finding the warm skin of Richard’s wrist, feeling the rapid flutter of his pulse beneath his touch.

“Fuck,” Richard breathed, his voice breaking just slightly.

Ross stepped closer, until their bodies were nearly pressed together. “Tell me what you need,” he murmured.

Richard’s free hand came up, gripping the front of Ross’s shirt, not to push him away but to hold on. His eyes were dark, dilated, his lips parted. “You’re dangerous,” he said, but it wasn’t a warning. It was an admission.

Ross smirked, even as his heart pounded. “Only if you want me to be.”

Richard made a sound—something between a laugh and a groan—and then his mouth was on Ross’s, hot and demanding. The kiss was nothing like their careful, teasing touches back at the salon. This was desperate, bruising, the kind of kiss that left you breathless. Richard’s hands slid into Ross’s hair, fingers tangling in the strands as he angled his head, deepening the contact. His tongue swept against Ross’s lower lip, coaxing him open, and when Ross moaned into his mouth, Richard swallowed the sound like he was starving for it.

Ross’s back hit the railing, the cold metal biting through his shirt, but he barely noticed. All he could feel was Richard— the hard line of his body, the heat of his palms sliding down to grip Ross’s hips, pulling him flush against him. The evidence of Richard’s arousal was impossible to ignore, pressing thick and insistent against Ross’s thigh.

“Fuck, Ross,” Richard growled against his lips, his voice rough with need. “You’ve been driving me out of my mind for weeks.”

Ross gasped as Richard’s teeth grazed his lower lip, sharp and possessive. “Then stop fighting it,” he challenged, his own hands sliding under Richard’s shirt, nails scraping over the warm, firm muscle of his back.

Richard groaned, his hips rolling forward, grinding against Ross in a way that left no room for doubt. “You have no idea what you’re asking for.”

Ross laughed breathlessly, even as his cock ached behind his zipper. “I think I do.”

Richard’s answer was to kiss him again, harder this time, his hands roaming down to cup Ross’s ass, squeezing hard enough to make him whimper. The poem was forgotten on the railing, the wine abandoned, the city lights blurring into streaks of gold and white as Richard spun him around, pressing him against the glass door that led back into the apartment. The cool surface was a shock against Ross’s overheated skin, but Richard’s body covered his, trapping him there, his breath hot against Ross’s ear.

“If we do this,” Richard murmured, his lips brushing the shell of Ross’s ear, his voice a dark promise, “I’m not going to be gentle.”

Ross shivered, his cock throbbing. “I don’t want you to be.”

Richard made a sound that was almost a snarl, his teeth sinking into the tender skin of Ross’s neck just hard enough to sting. “Good,” he growled. “Because I’ve been dreaming about ruining you since the first time you sat in my chair.”

Chapter Three: Glass and Flesh

The kiss didn’t end—it deepened, became something raw and hungry. Richard’s hands slid from Ross’s jaw down to his collarbone, fingers pressing into the warm skin beneath the leather jacket. The taste of wine still lingered between them, sweet and bitter, but the heat of their mouths was all-consuming. Ross gasped when Richard’s teeth grazed his lower lip, a sharp sting that sent a jolt straight to his cock. His back hit the glass door with a dull thud, the cool surface a shock against his overheated skin.

Richard didn’t pull away. Instead, he crowded closer, his thigh sliding between Ross’s legs, the pressure deliberate, teasing. His voice was a rough murmur against Ross’s ear, “You’re fucking dangerous,” he repeated, but this time it wasn’t a warning—it was an admission. His hands dropped to Ross’s waist, gripping the hem of his shirt, fingers brushing the warm skin beneath. The air between them was thick with the scent of arousal—sweat, leather, the faint musk of precome already dampening the front of Ross’s jeans.

Ross arched into the touch, his breath hitching. “Then stop pretending you don’t want this,” he challenged, his voice rough. His own hands weren’t idle; one tangled in Richard’s blond hair, gripping just tight enough to make the older man hiss, while the other slid down to palm the hard ridge of Richard’s cock through his fitted black jeans. The sound Richard made—a guttural, needy groan—sent a thrill through Ross. He’d wanted this for weeks, had fantasized about breaking through Richard’s carefully constructed control.

Richard’s response was immediate. He spun Ross around, pressing him flat against the glass, the city lights blurring beyond them. His body pinned Ross in place, the heat of him searing through their clothes. “I want,” Richard growled, his lips brushing the shell of Ross’s ear. “I want to see you. All of you.” His hands moved to Ross’s belt, fingers working the buckle with practiced ease. The metallic clink of the leather slipping free was obscenely loud in the quiet of the balcony.

Ross’s breath came in sharp bursts, his cock throbbing against the confines of his jeans. He didn’t resist—he spread his legs slightly, a silent invitation. The night air hit his exposed skin as Richard popped the button of his fly, the zipper dragging down slow, torturous. The sound of it was almost as erotic as the way Richard’s knuckles brushed against the bulge of his briefs, the fabric already damp with arousal. “Fuck,” Ross whispered, his forehead pressing against the glass. The contrast of the cool surface and Richard’s scorching touch was maddening.

Richard didn’t answer with words. His fingers hooked into the waistband of Ross’s briefs, dragging them down just enough to free his cock. It sprang free, thick and flushed, the tip already glistening. Richard’s breath hitched, his own arousal pressing painfully against his jeans. “Look at you,” he murmured, his voice dark with hunger. His palm wrapped around Ross’s shaft, stroking once, twice, his thumb swiping over the slick head. Ross shuddered, a broken moan tearing from his throat.

“Richard—fuck—” His hips jerked forward, chasing the touch, but Richard pulled his hand away, leaving Ross aching. The denial was cruel, deliberate. Richard’s lips found the back of Ross’s neck, his teeth sinking in just enough to sting. “Patience,” he murmured, though his own voice was strained. His hands returned to Ross’s waist, pushing the jeans and briefs down further, exposing his ass to the night air. The vulnerability of it—being half-naked, pressed against the glass while Richard remained fully clothed—sent a fresh wave of heat through Ross.

Richard’s fingers traced the curve of Ross’s ass, teasing the crease before dipping lower, brushing against his balls. Ross’s legs trembled. “You’re dripping,” Richard observed, his voice a dark purr. His finger slid further back, pressing lightly against Ross’s hole. The touch was electric, sending a jolt through Ross’s entire body. He bit his lip to stifle a whimper, his cock twitching against the glass.

“Please—” The word was a broken whisper, barely recognizable. He didn’t even know what he was begging for—more touch, less teasing, something—but Richard seemed to understand. His finger pressed harder, circling the tight muscle without breaching it. “You want me to fuck you right here?” Richard’s breath was hot against Ross’s ear, his free hand sliding up to grip Ross’s hip, his fingers digging in possessively. “Where anyone could see?”

Ross’s answer was a desperate, needy sound, his body arching back into Richard’s touch. The thought of being taken like this—exposed, vulnerable, owned—was intoxicating. “Yes,” he managed, his voice rough. “Fuck, yes—”

Richard’s chuckle was dark, triumphant. His finger finally pushed inside, just the tip, stretching Ross open with slow, deliberate pressure. Ross’s breath hitched, his body clenching around the intrusion. The burn was delicious, the stretch exactly what he needed. “Good,” Richard murmured, his lips brushing Ross’s shoulder. “Because I’ve been thinking about this since the first time you walked into my salon.” His finger sank deeper, crooking slightly, and Ross’s knees nearly buckled at the sensation.

The city lights blurred beyond the glass, the distant hum of Paris a surreal backdrop to the intimacy unfolding on the balcony. Richard’s free hand found Ross’s cock again, stroking in time with the slow thrust of his finger. Ross’s moans were loud now, unashamed, his body moving in helpless rhythm between Richard’s touch and the unyielding glass. “You’re mine,” Richard growled, his voice rough with desire. “Say it.”

Ross’s mind was a haze of pleasure, his body coiled tight with need. The command sent a thrill through him. “Yours,” he gasped, his voice breaking. “Fuck, I’m yours—”

Richard’s response was a sharp bite to Ross’s shoulder, his finger driving deeper as his other hand stroked Ross’s cock with punishing precision. The dual sensations were overwhelming—pleasure and pain, possession and surrender. Ross’s orgasm crashed over him with a choked cry, his release spilling over Richard’s fingers, hot and messy against the glass. His legs shook, his body held up only by Richard’s unyielding grip.

Richard didn’t stop. His finger kept moving, drawing out every last shudder, his breath hot against Ross’s neck. “Again,” he demanded, his voice a dark promise. “You’re going to come again, and this time, I want to hear you scream.”

Ross whimpered, oversensitive and trembling, but the threat—no, the promise—in Richard’s voice sent another wave of arousal through him. He was already hardening again, his body responding helplessly to Richard’s touch. The night air was cool against his sweat-slicked skin, but all he could feel was the heat of Richard behind him, the unrelenting pressure of his finger, the possessive grip of his hand.

Richard’s free hand slid up to tangle in Ross’s hair, yanking his head back just enough to expose his throat. His lips found the pulse point beneath Ross’s jaw, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. “You’re mine,” he repeated, his voice a dark, possessive growl. “And I’m not done with you yet.”

Chapter Four: Kneel

Ross’s fingers dug into Richard’s wrist, his nails biting into skin as he forced himself to break the rhythm—his hips stuttering against the glass, his cock throbbing in Richard’s grip. The night air was cool against his sweat-slicked chest, but it did nothing to temper the heat pooling low in his gut. His breath came in sharp, uneven gasps, his body still trembling from the last orgasm Richard had wrung from him, his cock already half-hard again, betraying how fucking eager he was for more. But this—this wasn’t just about pleasure anymore. It was about power.

“Stop,” Ross rasped, his voice raw, the word more command than plea. His free hand shot up, gripping Richard’s jaw, forcing those sharp blue eyes to lock onto his. The fingers inside him stilled, Richard’s breath hitching as if Ross had just slapped him. Good. Let him feel it. “Your turn.”

Richard’s eyebrows twitched, his lips parting as if to argue, but Ross didn’t give him the chance. He twisted his grip, his thumb pressing into the hinge of Richard’s jaw just enough to make his point. “Undress. Now.”

For a heartbeat, Richard didn’t move. His chest rose and fell, the crisp white of his button-down straining against the shift of muscle beneath. The city lights painted his face in gold and shadow, his expression unreadable—until his lashes flickered, something dark and hungry flashing in his gaze. A challenge. A test. Ross felt the moment Richard decided to play along, the subtle shift in his stance, the way his fingers finally, reluctantly, slid free from Ross’s body.

Ross didn’t let him retreat. He caught Richard’s wrist, bringing those glistening fingers to his mouth, his tongue swiping over the knuckles, tasting himself on Richard’s skin. The flavor was salt and musk, heady, and Richard’s breath hitched again, his pupils blowing wide. “You heard me,” Ross murmured against his fingers, his voice a low, filthy purr. “Every. Fucking. Button.”

Richard’s throat worked. His free hand flexed at his side, fingers curling into a fist before relaxing. Then—slowly, deliberately—he reached for the top button of his shirt. The silver glinted in the ambient light as he undid it, his movements precise, controlled. But Ross saw the way his pulse jumped in his throat, the way his breath came just a little faster. Good. He wanted to unravel him.

The second button followed. Then the third. Richard’s chest was pale in the dim light, the faintest dusting of blond hair trailing down the center, disappearing into the fabric still clinging to his waist. Ross’s mouth watered. He wanted to bite there, to mark that perfect, controlled skin with his teeth.

“Faster,” Ross demanded, his voice rough. He didn’t let go of Richard’s wrist, his grip a silent reminder of who was in charge now. Richard’s jaw tightened, but he obeyed, his fingers moving quicker, the buttons popping free one after another until the shirt hung open, revealing the lean planes of his torso, the defined lines of his abs. The silver hoop in his left nipple caught the light as he shrugged the fabric off his shoulders, letting it pool on the balcony floor.

Ross exhaled sharply, his cock twitching against his stomach. Fuck. He’d seen Richard in fitted shirts, in aprons that hugged his waist, but this—this was different. This was his. He released Richard’s wrist only to press his palm flat against his sternum, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat beneath his skin. “Jeans,” he ordered, pushing just enough to make Richard stumble back a step. “Now.”

Richard’s hands went to his belt, his movements jerky for the first time all night. The leather hissed as he pulled it free, the buckle clinking against the glass door. Ross watched, transfixed, as he popped the button of his jeans, the zipper following with a slow, teasing drag of metal. The denim was dark, molded to his thighs, and when he hooked his thumbs into the waistband and pushed them down, Ross’s breath stalled in his throat.

Richard wasn’t commando.

The black briefs were snug, the outline of his cock thick and obvious against the fabric, the tip already damp. Ross’s fingers twitched. He wanted to rip them off, to see what Richard had been hiding all this time, but he forced himself to stay still, to let the anticipation coil tighter between them.

“Kneel,” Ross said, his voice dropping into something darker, something that made Richard’s eyes flare.

For a second, he thought Richard might refuse. His shoulders tensed, his fingers flexing at his sides. But then—slowly—he sank to his knees on the balcony tiles, the cool surface making him hiss. The position put him eye-level with Ross’s cock, still flushed and leaking, and Ross groaned at the sight, his hips jerking forward involuntarily.

“Hands behind your back,” Ross ordered, and Richard obeyed, lacing his fingers together at the small of his back, his biceps flexing. The move thrust his chest out, his nipples hard little points, the silver hoop glinting. Ross reached out, tracing the edge of it with his thumb, watching Richard’s breath hitch. “You look so fucking pretty like this,” he murmured, his voice thick. “All mine.”

Richard’s throat worked. His cock twitched against the fabric of his briefs, a dark spot spreading at the tip. “Ross—”

“Shut up.” Ross tangled his fingers in Richard’s hair, yanking his head back just enough to expose the long line of his throat. He leaned in, his lips brushing the pulse point beneath Richard’s jaw, feeling the way it jumped against his mouth. “You don’t get to talk unless I say so.” He nipped at the skin, not hard enough to bruise, but enough to make Richard gasp. “Understood?”

Richard’s fingers twisted together behind his back. “Yes.”

Ross smirked against his skin. “Yes what?”

A shiver ran through Richard’s body. His cock jerked, precome leaking through the fabric. “Yes, sir,” he ground out, the word sounding torn from him.

Heat flooded Ross’s groin, his own cock throbbing. Fuck. He’d never heard Richard sound like this—desperate, needy, submissive. It was intoxicating. He tightened his grip in Richard’s hair, tilting his head further back, and then—finally—he gave in to the urge he’d been fighting since Richard first dropped to his knees. He kissed him.

It wasn’t gentle. It was filthy—tongue forcing its way past Richard’s lips, teeth clashing, Ross’s free hand gripping Richard’s jaw hard enough to bruise. Richard moaned into his mouth, his body straining forward, but Ross held him in place, controlling the kiss, the angle, the depth. When he finally pulled back, Richard’s lips were swollen, his eyes glazed.

“Good boy,” Ross murmured, his thumb brushing over Richard’s bottom lip. Then he dropped his hand, trailing his fingers down Richard’s chest, over the ridges of his abs, until he hooked them into the waistband of his briefs. “Now let’s see what you’ve been hiding.”

He didn’t tease. He yanked the fabric down in one sharp motion, freeing Richard’s cock. It sprang free, thick and flushed, the head already weeping, a pearl of precome glistening at the tip. Ross’s mouth watered. He wrapped his hand around the base, stroking upward, his thumb smearing the wetness over the crown. Richard’s breath hitched, his hips jerking forward into the touch.

“Fuck,” Richard gasped, his voice breaking.

Ross chuckled, low and dark. “That’s the idea.” He tightened his grip, stroking again, slower this time, his thumb pressing into the sensitive underside of the head. Richard’s thighs trembled, his fingers clawing at the air behind his back. “You like that?” Ross murmured, leaning in close enough that his lips brushed the shell of Richard’s ear. “You like being on your knees for me?”

“Y-yes,” Richard stuttered, his cock twitching in Ross’s grip.

Ross hummed, his breath hot against Richard’s skin. “Good.” He released him abruptly, stepping back just enough to admire the sight—Richard on his knees, cock hard and leaking, chest heaving, his usual composure shattered. Ross palmed himself through his own jeans, his cock aching. “Suck me,” he ordered, his voice rough. “And if you’re very good, I’ll let you come.”

Richard didn’t hesitate. He surged forward, his hands still locked behind his back, his mouth opening over the head of Ross’s cock. The wet heat was instant, his tongue swirling over the tip before he took him deeper, his throat opening on a gagging moan. Ross groaned, his head falling back against the glass, his fingers tangling in Richard’s hair again.

“That’s it,” he gasped, his hips rolling forward, fucking shallowly into Richard’s mouth. “Take it. Take all of it.”

Richard obeyed, his lips sealing around the base, his nose pressing into the trim hair at Ross’s groin. His throat worked, swallowing around the head, and Ross felt it, the tight, wet clench of muscle, the way Richard’s body trembled with the effort. He pulled back just enough to let Richard breathe, then pushed in again, setting a brutal pace.

“Fuck, yes,” Ross hissed, his fingers tightening in Richard’s hair. “Look at you. Such a good little slut for me.” Richard moaned around his cock, the vibration making Ross’s knees weak. “You love this, don’t you? Love being used. Love being mine.”

Richard’s cock dripped onto the tiles, his body shuddering. He pulled off with a wet pop, his lips swollen, his breath ragged. “Please,” he begged, his voice raw. “Please, let me—”

Ross cut him off with a sharp tug on his hair, forcing his head back. “Not yet.” He stroked himself, his cock glistening with Richard’s saliva, then pressed the tip against Richard’s lips. “Open.”

Richard obeyed, his mouth falling open, his tongue flat. Ross fed him the first inch, then another, watching his own cock disappear between those perfect, parted lips. “You’re going to take it all,” he said, his voice a growl. “And you’re going to swallow.” He thrust deeper, hitting the back of Richard’s throat, and Richard gagged, his eyes watering, but he didn’t pull away. He took it, his throat fluttering around the head, his hands still locked behind his back.

Ross’s vision blurred at the edges. He was close—so fucking close—but he wasn’t ready to finish yet. He pulled out with a wet sound, his cock slipping free, and Richard gasped, his chest heaving, his cock leaking onto the tiles.

“On the chair,” Ross ordered, nodding toward the wrought-iron balcony chair behind them. “Now.”

Richard stumbled to his feet, his movements unsteady, his cock bobbing with each step. He sank onto the chair, the cold metal making him hiss, his thighs spread wide in silent invitation. Ross followed, dropping to his knees between them, his hands sliding up Richard’s inner thighs, his thumbs brushing the sensitive skin just behind his balls.

“You’re dripping,” Ross murmured, his breath ghosting over the head of Richard’s cock. “Look at this mess.” He leaned in, his tongue swiping over the slit, lapping up the precome. Richard’s hips jerked, a broken sound tearing from his throat.

Ross chuckled, the vibration making Richard’s cock twitch. “Someone’s eager.” He wrapped his lips around the head, his tongue tracing the ridge, before pulling back with a wet pop. “Beg for it.”

Richard’s fingers clawed at the arms of the chair. “Please,” he gasped, his voice cracking. “Please, fuck, Ross—”

“Please what?” Ross teased, his breath hot against the damp skin of Richard’s cock.

“Please suck me,” Richard begged, his hips lifting off the chair. “Please, I need—”

Ross didn’t make him wait. He took him deep, his lips sealing around the base, his throat opening as he swallowed around the head. Richard cried out, his back arching, his fingers white-knuckled on the chair. Ross hollowed his cheeks, pulling back until just the tip remained, then plunged down again, his nose pressing into the trim hair at the base.

“Fuck—fuck—” Richard’s voice was a wrecked, desperate thing, his cock throbbing against Ross’s tongue. “I’m gonna—”

Ross pulled off with a wet sound, his hand replacing his mouth, stroking hard and fast. “Not yet,” he growled, his grip tightening at the base, cutting off the flow. Richard whimpered, his body trembling, his cock weeping.

Ross leaned in, his lips brushing the head. “You come when I say so.” He lapped at the precome, his tongue swirling over the slit. “Understood?”

Richard nodded frantically, his breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. “Yes. Yes.”

Ross hummed, satisfied. He released the base of Richard’s cock, stroking him again, his thumb pressing into the damp skin behind his balls. “Then come for me,” he ordered, his voice a dark purr. “Come now.”

Richard’s body locked up, his back bowing off the chair as his orgasm crashed over him. His cock pulsed in Ross’s grip, thick ropes of come spilling over his fingers, his stomach, his thighs. Ross watched, transfixed, as Richard shuddered through it, his mouth open in a silent cry, his body trembling with the force of it.

When he finally collapsed back against the chair, spent and breathing hard, Ross leaned in, pressing a slow, filthy kiss to his inner thigh, tasting salt and come on his skin. He looked up, meeting Richard’s dazed, blown-out gaze.

“Mine,” he murmured, his thumb swiping through the mess on Richard’s stomach, bringing it to his lips. He sucked it clean, never breaking eye contact.

Richard’s lips parted, but no sound came out. His chest heaved, his skin flushed, his body still trembling with aftershocks. Ross smirked, wiping his hand on Richard’s thigh before standing, his own cock still hard and aching.

“Good boy,” he said, his voice rough with satisfaction. He leaned down, pressing a final, possessive kiss to Richard’s mouth. “Now clean me up.”

Chapter Five: Champagne and Surrender

The cool night air clung to their sweat-slicked skin as Richard knelt on the balcony tiles, his breath still uneven from the force of his orgasm. His fingers twitched against the small of his back, where his wrists remained locked together—not by command now, but by the lingering ghost of Ross’s dominance. The city lights of Paris blurred at the edges of his vision, the golden glow painting streaks across Ross’s bare chest as he stood over him, the picture of satisfied control.

Then, without warning, Richard’s lips curled into something wicked.

Before Ross could react, Richard surged upward, his palms pressing flat against Ross’s stomach. The sudden contact made Ross hiss, his abs flexing instinctively, but Richard didn’t give him time to protest. With a sharp shove, he sent Ross stumbling back into the wrought-iron chair, the metal groaning under his weight. Ross landed with a grunt, his jeans still unbuttoned, his cock half-hard and glistening with the remnants of Richard’s release. His eyes flashed—indignant, surprised—but Richard was already moving, his own spent dick swinging freely as he crouched beside his suitcase.

“What the—?” Ross started, but the words died in his throat as Richard yanked out a bottle of champagne, the label already damp from the ice bucket it had been nestled in. The condensation beaded on his fingers as he tore away the foil, the pop of the cork echoing off the balcony railing like a gunshot. Golden liquid frothed over the rim, spilling down Richard’s wrist as he turned back toward Ross, his grin sharp enough to cut.

“You look thirsty,” Richard murmured, his voice rough with post-orgasm gravel.

Ross barely had time to brace before Richard tipped the bottle, the champagne cascading in a cold, effervescent rush over his chest. The shock of it made him gasp, his back arching off the chair as the liquid pooled in the hollow of his collarbone, trickled down the defined planes of his stomach, and soaked into the waistband of his jeans. The bubbles popped against his heated skin, the contrast so stark it bordered on painful—but Ross didn’t push him away. His fingers dug into the arms of the chair, his knuckles white, his cock twitching back to full hardness as the champagne mixed with the sweat already glistening on his torso.

“Fuck—!” Ross hissed, his voice breaking. “That’s cold, you sadistic—”

Richard didn’t let him finish. The bottle clinked against the tiles as he set it down, then leaned in, his breath hot against Ross’s chilled skin. His tongue dragged up the center of Ross’s chest, slow and deliberate, lapping at the champagne like a cat with cream. The flavor exploded on his taste buds—sweet, crisp, with the underlying salt of Ross’s sweat, the musk of sex still clinging to them both. Richard groaned, the sound vibrating against Ross’s sternum, and did it again. And again. Each long, flat stroke of his tongue left Ross shuddering, his breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts.

“You bastard,” Ross managed, but there was no real heat in it. His free hand tangled in Richard’s hair, not to push him away, but to hold him there, his fingers tightening as Richard’s mouth found his nipple. The chill of the champagne had made the flesh pucker, and Richard took full advantage, his lips sealing around the tight bud, his tongue flicking against it before he pulled back just enough to blow a stream of cool air over the wet skin.

Ross’s entire body jerked. “Fuck—!”

Richard chuckled, the sound dark and satisfied, before he moved lower. His hands braced on Ross’s thighs, spreading them just enough to make room as he followed the trail of champagne downward. The liquid had seeped into the waistband of Ross’s jeans, the denim now damp and clinging, and Richard didn’t hesitate. He tugged the fabric down another inch, exposing the sharp V of Ross’s hips, the trail of dark hair leading down to his cock. The champagne had dripped there too, collecting in the shallow dip of his navel, and Richard dipped his tongue into it, swirling, savoring.

Ross’s stomach clenched. “You’re trying to kill me.”

“Mmm.” Richard’s response was muffled against his skin. He lapped at the champagne pooling in the groove of Ross’s hipbone, his beard scraping lightly, deliberately, before he nipped at the sensitive flesh just above the waistband of his briefs. Ross’s cock twitched violently, pre-cum beading at the tip, and Richard finally—finally—glanced up at him, his lips glistening, his eyes dark with mischief.

“You taste even better like this,” Richard admitted, his voice a rough purr. “Sweet and bitter and mine.”

Ross’s breath hitched. For a second, he looked like he might argue—his pride flaring, his dominant instincts bristling—but then Richard’s tongue dragged up the length of his cock, flat and wet, and whatever protest he’d been about to voice dissolved into a broken moan. His head fell back against the chair, his throat exposed, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard.

Richard didn’t give him time to recover. He took Ross’s cock into his mouth, the heat of his lips a stark contrast to the chill of the champagne still dripping down his shaft. He didn’t suck—not yet. Instead, he let his tongue explore, tracing the thick vein on the underside, swirling around the crown, teasing the slit where pre-cum welled. The flavor of Ross—musky, rich, with the faintest hint of the champagne—filled his mouth, and Richard groaned around him, the vibration making Ross’s hips buck helplessly.

“Richard—please—” Ross’s voice was raw, his fingers now clenched in Richard’s hair, guiding him without shame. “Suck me. Now.”

Richard pulled back just enough to smirk. “Since you asked so nicely.”

Then he took him deep, his throat opening around the thick length, his lips sealing around the base. Ross’s entire body locked up, a guttural sound tearing from his chest as Richard hollowed his cheeks and pulled back, his head bobbing in a slow, deliberate rhythm. The champagne had made Ross’s skin tacky, his cock slick under Richard’s lips, and every time Richard swallowed around him, Ross’s thighs trembled, his breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps.

“Gonna—fuck—” Ross warned, his voice breaking, but Richard didn’t stop. He took him deeper, his nose pressing into the damp curls at the base of Ross’s cock, his throat working around the head. Ross’s fingers tightened in his hair, his hips lifting off the chair as he came with a choked cry, his cum spilling down Richard’s throat in thick, salty pulses.

Richard swallowed every drop, his own cock stirring back to life as he milked Ross through the last of his orgasm. Only when Ross sagged back against the chair, boneless and panting, did Richard finally pull away, his lips swollen and shiny. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, then leaned in, pressing a slow, filthy kiss to Ross’s stomach, just above where his cock still twitched against his abs.

“Still think you’re in charge?” Richard murmured, his breath hot against Ross’s skin.

Ross’s laugh was breathless, disbelieving. “You fucking—”

Richard cut him off with another kiss, this one on his mouth, letting Ross taste himself on his tongue. When he pulled back, Ross’s eyes were dark, his lips parted, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Round two,” Ross growled, suddenly shoving Richard back. The movement was so unexpected that Richard stumbled, landing on his ass on the cold tiles with a grunt. Before he could recover, Ross was on him, straddling his lap, his fingers already working at the button of Richard’s jeans. “My turn to play.”

Richard’s cock jerked at the promise in his voice, his earlier playfulness dissolving into something far more desperate as Ross’s lips crashed onto his. The champagne bottle lay forgotten beside them, the night air cool against their heated skin, but neither of them noticed.

The game was far from over.

Chapter Six: City Lights and Broken Pleasures

Ross’s thighs flexed as he braced his hands against the cold wrought-iron arms of the chair, his fingers gripping the intricate scrollwork. The metal bit into his palms, grounding him as he arched back, letting the night air brush over his damp skin. His cock, still half-hard from the orgasm Richard had wrung from him, twitched against the rough denim of his unbuttoned jeans. The city lights fractured across his chest, turning his sweat into a shimmering second skin—gold and amber streaks painting him like some decadent statue come to life.

Richard’s hands slid up Ross’s thighs, thumbs pressing into the tense muscle just above his knees, tracing slow, deliberate circles. His own breath was still uneven, his chest rising and falling in sharp contrast to the lazy, rolling motion Ross had started. The chair creaked beneath them, a soft groan of protest that only made Richard’s smirk deepen. He could feel the heat of Ross’s body through the thin fabric of his jeans, the way his hips rolled in a rhythm that was equal parts challenge and invitation. “Think you’re back in charge now, do you?” Richard’s voice was a low rumble, rough with the aftertaste of champagne and cum. He didn’t wait for an answer before his fingers dug in harder, pulling Ross down against him with a sharp tug.

Ross gasped, his back bowing further as the sudden pressure sent a jolt through him. His ass ground against Richard’s lap, the denim of Richard’s jeans abrasive against his bare skin where his shirt had ridden up. “Fuck—” The word hissed out between his teeth, more reaction than reply. He could feel Richard’s cock stirring beneath him, thickening against his thigh, and the knowledge sent a fresh wave of heat pooling low in his gut. His own length twitched, filling out again, the sensitive head catching on the zipper of his jeans with every shift of his hips. The city sprawled beneath them, indifferent to the way their bodies moved together, the way Ross’s breath hitched as Richard’s fingers trailed higher, skimming the waistband of his jeans before dipping beneath.

Richard’s touch was maddening—teasing, possessive. He didn’t rush. Instead, he mapped the dip of Ross’s hipbone with his thumb, then followed the line of muscle down toward his inner thigh, stopping just shy of where Ross ached for it. “You’re dripping,” he murmured, his breath hot against Ross’s collarbone. “Still think you’re the one calling the shots?” His other hand slid up Ross’s spine, nails scraping lightly over the bumps of his vertebrae, before tangling in the damp hair at the nape of his neck. He yanked, just enough to tilt Ross’s head back, exposing the long line of his throat. The pulse there fluttered wildly beneath Richard’s lips as he pressed a open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive skin, tongue flicking out to taste the salt and champagne still clinging to him.

Ross’s fingers tightened on the chair arms, his knuckles whitening. “Shut the fuck up and touch me,” he growled, but there was no real bite to it—just desperation, his voice rough with need. His hips rolled again, this time with purpose, grinding down against Richard’s thickening cock. The friction sent sparks up his spine, his own length throbbing in time with his heartbeat. He could feel Richard’s smirk against his skin, the way his teeth grazed his pulse point before nipping sharply. “Goddamn it—” Ross’s breath stuttered as Richard’s hand finally, finally cupped him through his jeans, palm pressing against the outline of his cock. The denim was too much and not enough, the pressure both maddening and perfect.

Richard chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating against Ross’s throat. “Begging already?” His fingers worked the button of Ross’s jeans open with practiced ease, the zipper following with a slow, deliberate drag of metal teeth. The cool night air hit Ross’s exposed cock, making him shudder, his length already flushed and leaking at the tip. Richard didn’t waste time. His hand wrapped around Ross’s shaft, his grip firm, his thumb smearing the bead of precome over the swollen head. “Look at you,” he murmured, his voice a filthy caress. “So fucking hard for me again. Can’t even last five minutes without needing more.” His strokes were lazy at first, just enough to make Ross’s hips jerk, his body seeking friction like a man starved.

Ross’s breath came in sharp, uneven bursts, his chest heaving as Richard’s hand worked him. “Fuck you,” he managed, but it lacked conviction, his voice breaking as Richard’s thumb swiped over the slit of his cock, gathering the slickness there. His thighs trembled, his ass clenching as he rocked into Richard’s touch, his movements growing more erratic. The city lights blurred at the edges of his vision, the only thing in focus the way Richard’s fingers tightened around him, the way his other hand slid down to cup Ross’s ass, squeezing hard enough to leave marks. “That’s it,” Richard coaxed, his voice a dark purr. “Ride my hand, sir.” The last word was a taunt, a deliberate echo of their earlier dynamic, and it sent a fresh wave of heat crashing through Ross.

His pride warred with the pleasure coiling tight in his gut, but when Richard’s fingers teased lower, brushing against his balls before slipping further back, Ross’s protest died in his throat. “Oh—fuck—” His voice cracked as Richard’s fingertip pressed against his entrance, not breaching, just there, a promise of what was to come. His cock twitched violently in Richard’s grip, a fresh bead of precome welling at the tip. “You’re a fucking tease,” Ross gasped, his hips stuttering as he tried to chase the pressure, to force Richard’s finger inside him.

Richard’s laugh was a low, dark thing, his breath hot against Ross’s ear. “And you love it.” His finger pressed in just enough to make Ross’s breath hitch, the stretch burning in the best way. “Tell me how much.” His free hand kept stroking Ross’s cock, his grip tightening as Ross’s body tensed around the intrusion. “Tell me, or I stop.”

Ross’s nails dug into the chair arms, his entire body strung tight. “Don’t you dare—” He swallowed hard, his throat working. “Fuck, please—” The word tore out of him, raw and desperate. “I need it. Need you inside me. Fucking wreck me already.”

Richard groaned, the sound guttural, his cock throbbing against Ross’s thigh. “Since you asked so nicely.” His finger pushed in deeper, knuckle popping past the tight ring of muscle, and Ross’s body bowed, a broken moan spilling from his lips. Richard didn’t stop there. He crooked his finger, searching, and when he found the spot that made Ross’s cock jerk violently in his grip, he stayed, rubbing in slow, deliberate circles. “That’s it,” he murmured, his voice rough with arousal. “Take it. Take me.”

Ross’s vision whited out for a second, his body locking up as pleasure arced through him. His cock pulsed in Richard’s grip, his balls drawing up tight. “I’m—fuck, I’m gonna—” Richard’s finger pressed harder against his prostate, his strokes on Ross’s cock turning punishing, and Ross came with a choked cry, his release spilling over Richard’s fingers in thick, hot ropes. His body shuddered, his ass clenching around Richard’s finger as the orgasm wrung him out, leaving him gasping, his skin slick with sweat.

Richard didn’t let him recover. Before Ross could even catch his breath, Richard’s hands were on his hips, lifting him just enough to shove his own jeans down, his cock springing free, flushed and leaking. “Your turn to ride,” he growled, guiding Ross back down, this time onto his length. The head of his cock pressed against Ross’s entrance, and Richard didn’t wait—he pulled Ross down hard, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth thrust.

Ross’s back arched, a broken sound tearing from his throat as he was stretched wide, filled in a way that burned and ached and was so fucking perfect. His hands flew to Richard’s shoulders, his nails digging in as he adjusted, his body trembling with the aftershocks of his orgasm and the overwhelming fullness of Richard inside him. “Fuck—” he gasped, his voice raw. “You’re—god, you’re huge—”

Richard’s hands gripped Ross’s hips, his fingers bruising as he held him still, letting him feel every inch. “And you’re mine,” he snarled, before pulling Ross down onto another deep, punishing thrust. The chair scraped against the balcony tiles, the sound lost beneath Ross’s moan, the wet slap of skin on skin as Richard set a brutal pace. “Ride me,” he commanded, his voice a dark growl. “Show me how much you fucking wanted this.”

Ross didn’t hesitate. He braced his hands on Richard’s shoulders and moved, rolling his hips in a deep, grinding rhythm that had Richard’s breath stuttering. Every drag of his body over Richard’s cock sent sparks skittering up his spine, his own spent length twitching with overstimulation. The city lights blurred, the night air cool against his heated skin, but all he could focus on was the way Richard’s cock filled him, the way his hands gripped him like he’d never let go. “Yours,” Ross gasped, the word torn from him, raw and honest. “Fuck, I’m yours—”

Richard’s control snapped. With a growl, he surged up, capturing Ross’s mouth in a bruising kiss as he flipped them, pinning Ross to the chair. His hips pistoned, his cock driving into Ross with relentless precision, each thrust hitting that spot inside him that made his vision blur. “Say it again,” he demanded, his voice a ragged snarl. “Louder.”

Ross’s back arched off the chair, his fingers clawing at Richard’s back as he came undone beneath him. “Yours!” he cried, his voice breaking. “Only yours—” And when Richard’s teeth sank into his shoulder, marking him as his own, Ross came apart all over again, his body trembling as Richard followed him over the edge with a groan, his release spilling deep inside him. The night swallowed their sounds, the city lights bearing silent witness as they collapsed together, breathless and wrecked and utterly, completely owned.

Chapter Seven: Washed in Want

The air between them still crackled with the aftershocks of their collision—Ross’s body humming, his skin slick with sweat and the faint stickiness of champagne, his chest rising in uneven breaths. Richard’s fingers twitched against his thighs, his own pulse still erratic, his cock half-hard and pressing against the damp fabric of his jeans. The city lights blurred beyond the balcony railing, the distant hum of Paris reduced to white noise beneath the roar of blood in their ears.

Richard exhaled sharply, his breath warm against Ross’s collarbone as he pulled back just enough to meet his gaze. His deep blue eyes were dark with something raw, something that made Ross’s stomach tighten. “You’re incredible,” Richard murmured, his voice rough, like gravel underfoot. The words hung between them, heavy and unguarded, and for a second, Ross forgot how to breathe. He’d heard praise before—plenty of it—but never like this, never with the weight of a man who’d just fucked him senseless still trembling against him.

Before Ross could respond, the sharp buzz of Richard’s phone cut through the silence like a blade. The screen lit up between them, casting a harsh blue glow over Richard’s flushed skin. His jaw tightened, his fingers twitching toward the device before he caught himself. Ross watched the shift in him—the way his shoulders tensed, the way his lips pressed into a thin line. “Fuck,” Richard muttered, glancing at the screen. A name flashed there, something official-sounding, and Ross didn’t need to ask to know it was work. Again.

Ross didn’t hesitate. He reached out, his movements slow but deliberate, and plucked the phone from Richard’s grip. His thumb hovered over the screen for a heartbeat before he silenced it, the vibration dying with a final, defeated pulse. “Later,” he said, his voice low but firm, brooking no argument. He didn’t throw the phone, didn’t slam it down—just set it aside on the wrought-iron table with a quiet click, as if the entire world beyond this balcony had ceased to exist.

Richard’s breath hitched, his gaze flickering between Ross’s face and the abandoned phone. There was a beat of resistance in him, the ghost of an argument forming—but then Ross stood, his body still thrumming with the aftermath of their fucking, and held out a hand. The invitation was clear. No words needed. Just this. Just us.

Richard took it.

The shower was already running by the time they stumbled inside, the bathroom filled with steam that clung to their skin like a second layer. Ross didn’t bother with the lights—let the dim glow from the half-open door paint them in gold and shadow. He turned Richard toward him under the spray, the water hot enough to make them both hiss as it sluiced over their bodies, washing away the sweat, the champagne, the sticky evidence of what they’d just done. Ross’s fingers found the hem of Richard’s shirt first, peeling it up and over his head before tossing it aside with a wet thud. His own jeans were next, kicked off in a tangle of denim, leaving them both naked, skin slick and flushed under the water’s relentless pulse.

Richard’s hands found his waist, his touch lighter now, almost reverent, as if he were memorizing the shape of him. The contrast from the balcony—where he’d been all teeth and demand, where he’d fucked Ross into submission—made Ross’s chest ache. He leaned in, pressing their foreheads together, the water cascading between them. “You’re still hard,” Ross murmured, his lips brushing Richard’s as he spoke. It wasn’t a question. He could feel the thick, insistent press of Richard’s cock against his hip, hot and heavy despite the shower’s heat.

Richard groaned, his fingers digging into Ross’s flesh just enough to sting. “Can you blame me?” he rasped. “Look at you.” His gaze raked down Ross’s body, lingering on the faint bruises already blooming on his thighs from where Richard had gripped him, the reddened marks from his teeth on Ross’s shoulder. “Fuck, I did that.” There was something like wonder in his voice, something that made Ross’s pulse jump.

Ross didn’t answer with words. Instead, he reached for the soap, lathering his hands before sliding them over Richard’s chest, his thumbs circling his nipples until they peaked under his touch. Richard’s breath hitched, his head falling back against the tile with a dull thunk. “Ross—” His voice was a warning, a plea, but Ross ignored it, his slick fingers trailing lower, over the ridged planes of his abdomen, the sharp V of his hips, before wrapping around his cock.

Richard shuddered, his hips jerking into the touch. “Fuck, just like that—” His words dissolved into a groan as Ross stroked him, slow and deliberate, his other hand cupping his balls, rolling them gently. The water pounded down around them, the steam thickening the air until it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began. Richard’s hands found Ross’s hair, tangling in the damp strands, pulling just enough to make his scalp prickle. “You’re killing me,” he gasped, his voice raw.

Ross smirked, his own cock throbbing with neglected need, but he didn’t rush. Not this time. He wanted to draw it out, wanted to feel Richard unravel under his hands the way he had on the balcony. His thumb swiped over the slick head of Richard’s cock, spreading the precum in slow, teasing circles. “Who’s in control now?” he murmured, his lips against Richard’s ear.

Richard’s laugh was breathless, strained. “You always were.” His hands slid down Ross’s back, gripping his ass hard enough to bruise, pulling him flush against him. The friction was maddening—cock sliding against cock, the water making everything slick, everything too much. Ross moaned, his own control fraying, but he didn’t stop, his strokes growing tighter, faster, his breath coming in sharp gasps against Richard’s neck.

“Come on,” Richard growled, his voice a dark velvet rasp. “Let me hear you.” His fingers found Ross’s cock, wrapping around it with a possessive squeeze. “Come with me.”

Ross’s vision whited out for a second, pleasure coiling tight in his gut. “Fuck—” The word tore from him as Richard’s thumb pressed against the sensitive underside of his cock, his own hips stuttering into Ross’s grip. They moved together, their rhythms syncing, the water drowning out everything but the slick slide of skin and the ragged sounds of their breathing.

When Richard came, it was with a choked cry, his release spilling over Ross’s fingers, hot and thick. Ross followed seconds later, his orgasm ripping through him with a violence that left him trembling, his cum mixing with the water swirling at their feet. Richard caught him as his knees buckled, his mouth crashing onto Ross’s in a kiss that was all teeth and desperation, their tongues tangling as the last waves of pleasure wrung them dry.

For a long moment, they just stood there, foreheads pressed together, chests heaving. The water ran cold around them, but neither moved. The outside world—the phone, the clients, the unanswered messages—didn’t exist. There was only this. Only them.

Richard’s lips brushed Ross’s temple, his voice barely above a whisper. “We’re not done.” Not a question. A promise.

Ross shivered, but not from the cold.

“Good,” he murmured.

Because he wasn’t either.

Chapter Eight: Hunger Unbound

The warm water had long since rinsed away the sweat and champagne from their skin, but the heat between them lingered, thick and intoxicable. Ross leaned back against the cool marble of the shower wall, his damp hair clinging to his forehead as he watched Richard turn off the water. The last droplets slid down Richard’s chest, tracing the defined lines of his torso before disappearing into the dark blond trail below his navel. Ross exhaled slowly, his fingers twitching with the urge to reach out again, but he held back—just for a moment—savoring the way Richard’s breath hitched when their eyes met.

Richard stepped out first, grabbing a plush white towel from the heated rack and wrapping it loosely around his waist. He didn’t bother drying off completely; the sheen of water still glistened on his shoulders, catching the dim light from the kitchen beyond. Ross followed, deliberate in his movements, letting his own towel hang open as he padded barefoot across the heated floors. The air was cool against his damp skin, raising goosebumps, but the chill didn’t last. Not when Richard turned, his gaze dark and hungry, tracking every step Ross took toward him.

“You’re dangerous when you look at me like that,” Richard murmured, his voice rough.

Ross smirked, dragging a finger along the waistband of Richard’s towel. “And how’s that?”

“Like you’re already deciding how to ruin me.”

Ross chuckled, low and dark, before stepping back just enough to break the contact. His stomach growled, loud and unignored, and Richard’s eyebrows shot up in amusement.

“Or,” Ross drawled, “we could eat first.”

Richard blinked, then laughed—a real, unguarded sound that sent a thrill down Ross’s spine. “You’re serious?”

“Deadly.” Ross grabbed Richard’s wrist and tugged him toward the kitchen, where the city lights bled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting everything in gold and amber. “Room service. French. Something we can feed each other.” His thumb traced idle circles over Richard’s pulse point, feeling the way it jumped beneath his touch. “Slowly.”

Richard’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “You’re going to kill me.”

“Maybe.” Ross released him only to snatch the room service menu from the counter, flipping it open with one hand while the other found Richard’s hip, pulling him close again. “But what a way to go.”

The food arrived faster than expected—warm, fragrant, and obscenely decadent. Ross had ordered without looking, trusting the concierge’s recommendation: confit de canard so tender it fell apart at the touch, foie gras rich enough to make Richard groan when he tasted it, and a selection of chocolates so dark they bordered on sinful. They spread everything out on the kitchen island, the low light catching the glaze on the duck, the sheen of truffle oil on the potatoes. Ross popped the cork on a fresh bottle of champagne with a practiced twist, the sound sharp and celebratory.

“No glasses,” Ross decided, pressing the bottle to his lips and taking a long, deliberate sip before offering it to Richard.

Richard hesitated for half a second—just long enough for Ross to raise an eyebrow—before taking the bottle, their fingers brushing. The champagne was cold, bubbling against Richard’s tongue, but the heat in Ross’s gaze burned hotter. He swallowed, then licked his lips, watching as Ross’s eyes darkened.

“Your turn,” Richard murmured, setting the bottle down.

Ross didn’t reach for the food. Instead, he dipped his fingers into the foie gras, the silky fat clinging to his skin, and brought them to Richard’s mouth. “Open.”

Richard obeyed, his lips parting, tongue flicking out to taste. The flavor exploded—rich, buttery, decadent—and he moaned, the sound vibrating against Ross’s fingertips. Ross didn’t pull away. He let Richard suck his fingers clean, slow and thorough, until Richard’s teeth grazed his knuckles and Ross hissed.

“Fuck, just like that,” Ross breathed, his free hand tangling in Richard’s damp hair. “You’re so good at taking what you’re given.”

Richard’s cock twitched against the towel, the fabric doing little to hide his growing arousal. He grabbed Ross’s wrist, turning his hand to press a kiss to his palm before biting down—just enough to sting. “And what if I want more?”

Ross’s grin was all teeth. “Then take it.”

The challenge hung between them, electric. Richard didn’t hesitate. He lunged, his mouth crashing against Ross’s in a kiss that was all tongue and teeth, champagne and hunger. Ross groaned into it, his hands sliding down to grip Richard’s ass, pulling him flush against him. The towels were a useless barrier now, both of them hardening, leaking, the friction maddening.

They broke apart only when Ross’s hip knocked against the island, sending a chocolate truffle rolling onto the floor. Richard laughed breathlessly, dropping to his knees to retrieve it—but instead of handing it back, he popped it into his mouth, his gaze locked on Ross’s as he let it melt on his tongue.

“You’re wasting good chocolate,” Ross accused, though his voice was thick.

Richard swallowed, then deliberately let the towel pool around his knees. His cock stood thick and flushed, the tip already glistening. “I’m making it better.”

Ross’s breath hitched. He watched, transfixed, as Richard dipped his fingers into the confit de canard, the meat falling apart in sticky, savory strands. Richard painted them over his own chest, dragging them down his sternum, circling his nipples until they pebbled. The scent of duck fat and herbs mixed with the musk of arousal, intoxicating.

“Your turn,” Richard taunted, offering his fingers to Ross.

Ross didn’t take them. He took Richard’s wrist instead, guiding his hand to his own cock. “Stroke me. Use the grease.”

Richard’s pupils blew wide. He wrapped his slick fingers around Ross’s shaft, the heat and slipperiness making Ross’s knees weak. “Like this?”

“Harder.” Ross’s head fell back as Richard obeyed, his grip tight and sure, the duck fat making obscene, wet sounds with every pump. “Fuck, yes—just like—”

Richard twisted his wrist on the upstroke, and Ross’s words dissolved into a broken moan. He grabbed Richard’s shoulder for balance, his own fingers finding Richard’s cock, stroking in time. They moved together, a messy, desperate rhythm, the food forgotten, the kitchen floor cold against their knees when they finally sank down, too lost in each other to stay standing.

Champagne sloshed from the bottle as Ross knocked it over, the liquid pooling around them, sticky and sweet. Richard laughed, breathless, as Ross pinned him down, their cocks sliding together between their bodies, the friction almost too much.

“You’re a fucking mess,” Ross growled, nipping at Richard’s jaw.

“Your mess,” Richard gasped, his hips bucking up, seeking more.

Ross kissed him, deep and filthy, their tongues tangling as their hands explored—fingers slick with chocolate and duck fat, smearing it between them, marking each other. Richard’s back arched as Ross’s teeth found his nipple, biting down just enough to make him whimper.

“Gonna come all over you,” Ross warned, his voice rough. “Gonna let you lick it off after.”

Richard’s answer was a broken “please”, his nails digging into Ross’s hips as he came first, his release hot and thick between them. The sight of him falling apart sent Ross over the edge, his own orgasm tearing through him, his cock pulsing as he painted Richard’s chest with stripes of cum.

They collapsed together, laughing, breathless, the kitchen floor a disaster of food and champagne and them. Ross pressed a lazy, open-mouthed kiss to Richard’s shoulder, tasting salt and chocolate and something uniquely him.

“Told you we weren’t done,” Richard murmured, his fingers tracing idle patterns in the mess on Ross’s skin.

Ross grinned, rolling his hips just enough to make Richard groan. “Baby, we’ve only just started.”

Chapter Nine: Marble and Mess

Ross’s laughter still hung in the air, warm and low, as he leaned in to press another kiss to Richard’s shoulder. The taste of champagne and chocolate lingered between them, their skin slick with sweat and the remnants of their earlier mess. Richard’s fingers tightened around the base of Ross’s spine, his touch possessive, almost bruising. The towel around his waist had long since given up, pooling at his feet, leaving him fully exposed—his cock already half-hard again, twitching against Ross’s thigh.

“Told you we weren’t done,” Richard murmured, his voice rough, his breath hot against Ross’s ear. His other hand slid up, tangling in the damp strands of Ross’s hair, yanking just enough to tilt his head back. Ross gasped, his own towel slipping further open, the cool air of the kitchen raising goosebumps along his skin. The marble island dug into his hips as Richard walked him backward, step by step, until the edge pressed against the backs of his thighs.

“Fuck, you’re insatiable,” Ross breathed, but there was no resistance in his voice, only a dark, hungry amusement. His hands found the island’s edge, fingers splaying against the smooth surface as Richard crowded him, their bodies flush. The scent of duck fat and herbs still clung to the air, mixing with the musk of sex and the sharp, metallic tang of champagne. Richard’s cock, thick and heavy, dragged against Ross’s ass, the friction maddening.

“You love it,” Richard growled, his teeth grazing the shell of Ross’s ear before he bit down—just hard enough to make Ross hiss. His free hand slid between them, fingers slick with the remnants of confit de canard and their earlier release, tracing the cleft of Ross’s ass. “You love how I can’t keep my hands off you. How I can’t stop.”

Ross’s breath hitched as Richard’s fingers teased lower, circling his entrance with deliberate slowness. The first press was shallow, just the tip of one finger breaching him, and Ross’s knees nearly buckled. “Christ—yes—” His voice cracked, his grip on the marble white-knuckled. The island was littered with the wreckage of their meal—crushed chocolates, the champagne bottle lying on its side, a smear of foie gras glistening under the dim light. None of it mattered. The only thing that existed was the slow, relentless stretch of Richard’s finger, the way his beard scratched against Ross’s neck as he whispered filthy promises.

“Gonna fuck you right here,” Richard rasped, his finger sinking deeper, twisting just enough to make Ross’s cock jerk against the marble. “Gonna bend you over this island and ruin you. Make you take every inch until you’re sobbing for it.” His other hand fisted in Ross’s hair again, yanking his head back further, exposing the long line of his throat. “You want that, don’t you? Want me to split you open?”

Ross’s answer was a broken moan, his hips rocking back into the intrusion, desperate for more. “Fucking do it—” His voice was raw, his body already trembling with the promise of it. Richard didn’t need to be told twice. He pulled his finger free with a wet, obscene sound, then lined himself up, the broad head of his cock pressing against Ross’s entrance. There was no finesse this time, no slow buildup—just the brutal, perfect stretch of Richard shoving inside in one deep, unrelenting thrust.

Ross’s breath left him in a choked cry, his fingers scrambling for purchase on the marble as Richard bottomed out. The burn was exquisite, the fullness almost too much, but he loved it—the way Richard’s thighs slammed against his ass, the way his cock pulsed deep inside him, already so fucking hard. “God, you’re tight—” Richard groaned, his voice straining as he pulled back just enough to slam home again. The island shuddered under the force, a half-empty plate of foie gras rattling against the marble.

Ross’s laugh was breathless, bordering on hysterical. “You’re gonna break this thing—” But his words dissolved into a gasp as Richard’s next thrust hit that perfect, devastating angle, his cock dragging over Ross’s prostate. Pleasure lanced through him, sharp and electric, his own cock leaking against the cool stone.

“Let it,” Richard snarled, his hands gripping Ross’s hips hard enough to leave marks. “Let me fucking wreck you.” His rhythm was punishing, each snap of his hips driving Ross forward, his chest pressing against the island, his breath coming in ragged bursts. The city lights outside painted their skin in gold and amber, the shadows stretching long and hungry across the floor.

Ross turned his head, his lips finding Richard’s in a messy, open-mouthed kiss. Their teeth clashed, their tongues twisting together as Richard fucked into him, the wet sounds of their bodies filling the kitchen. “Harder,” Ross demanded against his lips, his voice a filthy plea. “Fuck me harder—”

Richard groaned, his fingers digging into Ross’s flesh as he obeyed, his thrusts turning brutal, the slap of skin on skin echoing off the high ceilings. The island creaked under them, the champagne bottle rolling off the edge with a dull thud, forgotten. Ross’s cock was trapped between his body and the marble, the friction maddening, his balls drawing up tight with the need to come. But he wouldn’t—not yet. Not until Richard was right there with him, his breath ragged, his body trembling with the effort of holding back.

“Touch yourself,” Richard ordered, his voice a guttural growl. “I want to feel you come on my cock.”

Ross didn’t hesitate. His hand flew to his cock, his fingers wrapping around the thick length, stroking in time with Richard’s thrusts. The first stroke was almost too much, his body coiled tight, his orgasm already curling low in his spine. “Fuck—fuck—” He was babbling, his words dissolving into broken moans as Richard’s cock pounded into him, each thrust sending sparks behind his eyelids.

“That’s it,” Richard snarled, his own release bearing down on him. “Come for me, you filthy thing—” His hand left Ross’s hip, wrapping around his throat, pulling him up until his back was flush against Richard’s chest. The change in angle made Ross see stars, his cock twitching violently in his grip. “Now, Ross—”

The command sent him over the edge. His orgasm ripped through him, his cock pulsing in his fist as thick ropes of cum splattered across the marble, mixing with the remnants of their meal. His body clenched around Richard’s cock, the sensation pushing Richard over with a choked cry. He buried himself deep, his hips stuttering as he came, his cum filling Ross in hot, endless pulses.

For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of their ragged breathing, the way their bodies trembled against each other, the sticky heat of release clinging to their skin. Richard’s forehead dropped to Ross’s shoulder, his lips pressing against the damp skin. “Fuck,” he breathed, his voice wrecked. “Fuck, fuck—”

Ross laughed weakly, his body still thrumming with aftershocks. He reached back, his fingers tangling in Richard’s hair, pulling him into another kiss. This one was slower, lazier, their tongues moving together as their heartbeats gradually steadied. The kitchen was a disaster—food smeared across the island, champagne pooling on the floor, their cum glistening under the dim lights. None of it mattered.

Richard pulled back just enough to meet Ross’s gaze, his blue eyes dark with satisfaction. “Still think we’re just starting,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over Ross’s bottom lip.

Ross grinned, slow and wicked. “Baby,” he said, his voice rough, “we haven’t even begun.”

Chapter Ten: Sandalwood and Steam

The air between them was still thick with the scent of sex and champagne, their bodies slick with sweat and the remnants of their earlier passion. Ross leaned back against the marble island, his breath slowly steadying as Richard’s forehead rested against his shoulder. The kitchen was a wreck—plates overturned, chocolate smeared across the counter, the bottle of champagne empty and forgotten. But none of that mattered. Not when Richard’s lips brushed against his collarbone, slow and deliberate, like he was savoring the taste of him.

Ross exhaled, his fingers tracing idle patterns along Richard’s damp back. “We should clean up,” he murmured, though there was no conviction in his voice. The last thing he wanted was to move.

Richard lifted his head just enough to press a lingering kiss to the side of Ross’s neck before pulling back slightly, his deep blue eyes dark with satisfaction—and something else, something hungrier. “Later,” he rumbled, his voice rough. Then, as if the idea had only just occurred to him, he smirked. “Or… we could take this somewhere else.”

Ross arched a brow, a slow grin spreading across his lips. “Oh? And where did you have in mind?”

Richard didn’t answer with words. Instead, he stepped back just enough to take Ross’s hand, his grip firm as he led him toward the bathroom. The room was already steamy, the air thick and warm from the shower Richard must have run earlier. The bathtub was half-full, the water still rippling slightly, bubbles clinging to the porcelain edges. The scent of sandalwood and bergamot—Richard’s soap—filled the space, mixing with the musk of their bodies.

Ross let out a low laugh as Richard released his hand, turning to face him. “You planned this?”

“No,” Richard admitted, his fingers finding the hem of Ross’s shirt—only to realize it was already gone, discarded somewhere in the chaos of the kitchen. His hands settled on Ross’s hips instead, thumbs brushing over the sharp bones. “But I like the idea.”

Ross didn’t bother hiding his smirk as he stepped closer, his body pressing flush against Richard’s. The heat between them wasn’t just from the steam. “Then let’s not waste it.”

They moved together, slow and unhurried, stepping into the tub. The water was perfect—hot enough to make Ross’s skin prickle, but not scalding, the bubbles clinging to their legs as they sank down. Ross let out a quiet groan as the heat seeped into his muscles, easing the lingering ache from Richard’s earlier attentions. He leaned back against the curve of the tub, his eyes never leaving Richard’s as the other man settled between his legs, the water lapping at their chests.

Richard reached for the soap, his movements deliberate. He lathered his hands, the suds thick and white, before bringing them to Ross’s chest. The first touch was almost reverent—fingers gliding over collarbone, thumbs circling nipples that were already tight with anticipation. Ross’s breath hitched, his head falling back against the tub’s edge as Richard’s hands explored him, mapping every dip and rise of his body like he was memorizing it.

“Fuck,” Ross breathed, his hips shifting restlessly under the water. The slickness of the bubbles made every touch feel sharper, more intense. Richard’s fingers trailed lower, over the defined planes of his stomach, dipping into the shallow well of his navel before skimming the water’s surface to wrap around his cock. Ross’s breath stuttered, his body arching into the touch, but Richard didn’t stroke him—not yet. Instead, he simply held him, his thumb tracing the thick vein along the underside, his grip just tight enough to make Ross whimper.

“Patience,” Richard murmured, his voice a dark purr. He leaned in, his lips brushing Ross’s ear. “We’ve got all night.”

Ross let out a shaky laugh, his hands finding Richard’s wrists, not to push him away but to ground himself. “You’re going to kill me.”

Richard chuckled, low and rough, before pulling back just enough to meet Ross’s gaze. His own cock was hard, pressing against Ross’s thigh under the water, but he didn’t rush. Instead, he shifted, turning Ross slightly so he could reach the soap again. This time, he pressed it into Ross’s hands. “Your turn.”

Ross didn’t need to be told twice. He took the soap, working it between his palms until the lather was rich and thick, then brought his hands to Richard’s chest. The other man’s skin was smooth under his fingers, still flushed from their earlier exertions. Ross took his time, his touch lingering as he traced the lines of Richard’s pecs, his thumbs brushing over nipples that hardened under the attention. Richard’s breath hitched, his lashes fluttering as Ross’s hands moved lower, over the ridged planes of his stomach, the trail of dark blond hair that led beneath the water.

When Ross’s fingers finally wrapped around Richard’s cock, the other man let out a sharp inhale, his hips jerking forward instinctively. Ross stroked him slow and firm, his grip slick with soap and water, his thumb swirling over the leaking tip. Richard’s head fell back, a groan tearing from his throat, his hands gripping the edges of the tub hard enough to whiten his knuckles.

“Fuck, Ross—”

Ross leaned in, his lips brushing Richard’s jaw, his breath hot against his ear. “You like that?”

Richard’s answer was a broken sound, half-laugh, half-moan, as Ross’s hand tightened, his strokes growing more deliberate. The water sloshed around them, bubbles clinging to their skin as they moved together, their bodies slick and hot. Richard’s free hand found Ross’s cock again, his grip matching Ross’s rhythm, their breaths syncing as pleasure coiled tighter between them.

It wasn’t just the physical—though god, the way Richard’s cock twitched in his grip, the way his own body ached with need—it was the intimacy of it. The way Richard’s eyes burned into his, the way his touch was both possessive and worshipful. Ross had been with plenty of men, but none of them had ever made him feel so seen. So wanted.

Richard’s thumb swiped over the head of Ross’s cock, spreading the precum that beaded there, and Ross’s hips jerked, a broken sound escaping him. “Fuck, I’m—”

“I know,” Richard growled, his voice rough. “Let go.”

That was all it took. Ross’s orgasm crashed over him, his body locking up as cum spilled into the water between them, his cock pulsing in Richard’s grip. Richard followed seconds later, his own release tearing through him with a guttural groan, his cum mixing with the bubbles as his body shuddered.

For a long moment, neither of them moved, their breaths ragged, their bodies still trembling with the aftermath. Then Richard shifted, pulling Ross against him, their chests slick and warm. His lips found Ross’s, the kiss slow and deep, their tongues moving lazily against each other.

When they finally broke apart, Ross’s smile was soft, his fingers tracing idle patterns over Richard’s shoulder. “We’re going to need another bath after this.”

Richard laughed, low and breathless, pressing a kiss to Ross’s temple. “Worth it.”

Ross hummed in agreement, his head tilting back against Richard’s chest as the water lapped gently around them. The steam had started to fade, the air cooling just enough to make the warmth of Richard’s body against his even more intoxicating. He could have stayed like this forever—wrapped in Richard’s arms, the scent of soap and sex clinging to their skin, the quiet understanding between them more intimate than any words.

But eventually, Richard stirred, his fingers trailing up Ross’s arm before tangling with his. “Come on,” he murmured, pressing a final kiss to Ross’s shoulder. “Let’s get you dried off before you turn into a prune.”

Ross laughed, letting Richard pull him to his feet. The water sluiced off their bodies as they stepped out of the tub, Richard reaching for a towel and wrapping it around Ross’s shoulders before grabbing another for himself. The movement was tender, almost domestic, and Ross found himself watching Richard with a warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with the steam.

As Richard towelled him off, his touches lingering, Ross caught his wrist, pulling him in for another kiss. This one was softer, slower—less about hunger and more about promise. When they parted, Ross rested his forehead against Richard’s, their breaths mingling.

“Stay with me,” Richard said quietly, the words barely more than a whisper. Not a demand. A request. A hope.

Ross didn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”

And just like that, the last of the tension between them dissolved. There was no need for grand declarations, no need for overthinking. They had Paris, they had this moment, and for now, that was enough.

Richard’s smile was slow, his hands cupping Ross’s face as he kissed him again, deeper this time, like he was sealing a vow. When they finally pulled apart, Ross’s lips were swollen, his body humming with the afterglow of pleasure—and something else. Something that felt dangerously like contentment.

They dressed slowly, stealing kisses between buttons and zippers, their laughter easy, their touches lingering. The kitchen was still a mess, but neither of them cared. Instead, Richard poured the last of the champagne into two glasses, handing one to Ross as they settled onto the couch, their bodies pressed together, the city lights twinkling beyond the window.

Ross took a sip, the bubbles sharp on his tongue, before setting the glass aside. He turned to Richard, his fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “So. What now?”

Richard caught his hand, pressing a kiss to his palm. “Now?” His smile was wicked, his eyes dark with promise. “Now we do it all over again.”