Charles by Con Riley

22

Hugo took action instead of waiting, pulling Charles back the way they’d come, no sign of his knee giving him trouble as he walked fast, Charles having to jog to keep up.

Charles glanced over his shoulder at a view over the sea that glittered, and at pathways they hadn’t taken, barely any of this garden explored yet. “You don’t want to see the rest?”

“You do?” Hugo faltered, turning. “If you want to stay here….”

How could Charles? How could he, now it wasn’t the view down to the sea that he saw, or sculptures between wild herbaceous borders? It was Hugo, back in that ruined garden, gazing into his eyes and telling Charles that he was something he knew he wasn’t.

The words perfectfor him hung in the air above them.

Being anyone’s version of perfect hadn’t ever been on his agenda. And that wasn’t him being humble. Charles was self-aware enough to know he was a good friend, and robust enough to defend his job choice, but him living up to expectations didn’t ever end well, did it?

Could it?

Surely for Hugo, someone perfect would share all of the same values? Like always being ready to listen?

That’s you,he heard Keir whisper. That’s you, Charles, always.

Share the same strength of faith, then. Be someone Hugo could joke with in Latin, then risk his life with to rescue lost souls, like Nathan.

That comparison snagged like barbed wire.

Hugo watched, a smile hovering, about to blossom, but as seconds passed, with no answer from Charles, it faded. Hugo loosened his grip on his hand. “I-I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought we could….” He shook his head. “Thought you wanted to….”

“I’m not perfect,” Charles blurted.

He wasn’t a stranger to being stared at. He’d felt eyes on him so often before—in classrooms while facing problems that might as well have been written in Greek. In his father’s study, his school report open on his desk, the letter F its only constant. In nightclubs, where eyes skimmed his surface. But now—here—he felt more seen than he had been in his entire lifetime.

“I said you were perfect for me.” Hugo’s loose grip tightened. “So no, I don’t want to look at this garden. Not even if it’s gorgeous. Or go back to that ugly part either, even though it reminded me of how I almost bled out in a burning city and promised not to waste a minute of my life, if I made it. I want to look at you, Charles. At all of you. And show you how alive you make me feel.” He crowded close and kissed him, deep, and long, and needy, then pulled himself away, holding out a hand to Charles, not demanding, but asking a question without words that Charles had no problem answering this time.

They left the garden behind, and neither of them looked back.

* * *

* * *

There still weren’tany other cars in the car park. Charles got in, turning to fasten his seatbelt, to find Hugo angled to face him, his eyes shadowed, his face still in that way Charles hadn’t been able to interpret when they’d first met.

Now he had no trouble.

He let go of the seatbelt and leaned over to meet Hugo’s kiss, if only briefly, needing to check in first. “We’re going back to have sex, right? Actual sex. Not role play. No answering the door if anyone knocks on it. Are you sure you want to?”

“I’m sure,” Hugo said, his voice low and gravelly, doing strange things to his stomach. Hugo kissed his jaw next, his lips skimming, catching where Charles hadn’t shaved that morning, finding that sensitive, smooth patch below his ear, lingering there, his breath making Charles shiver. “Are you?” Hugo slid his mouth down the column of his throat to find the thrum of his pulse. “Do you want to, with me?” he asked before fixing his lips over that pulse point and sucking.

Charles closed his eyes.

He’d taught Hugo to do that—had kissed his way down Hugo’s throat and sucked that same spot, Hugo learning to love through his example. Why that twisted something inside his chest, Charles didn’t know. Couldn’t verbalise. Too busy finding Hugo’s shoulders to speak, spanning their breadth and tugging him closer.

Hugo came where Charles pulled him, moving as close as the gearstick let him. “Do you?” he asked again between rough, biting kisses. He pulled back a fraction, eyes dark with want that Charles loved to see on him. Was sure he mirrored. “Want to pick up where we left off?”

“Yeah,” Charles managed to get out hoarsely. “I want that.”

You.

I want you.

More than I should.

More than I know what to do with.

Somehow he clambered over Hugo’s lap, foot catching on the gearstick, and not caring, straddling him to kiss him. Everything about Hugo’s embrace felt right—strong and unrelenting, clasping Charles as though him being that close was exactly what he needed. Their kiss went on forever, breaking for Hugo to groan at Charles rocking against him, seeking friction.

We must look like we’re fucking.

Charles wanted all of their clothes off. Wanted Hugo to feel how much he got to him. Wanted to get fucked right here, naked, with the sun streaming through the windscreen. It wouldn’t have been the first time the Defender had seen some bare-back action.

That thought stopped him.

Gave him the strength to stop, even though Hugo’s lips still chased his.

To back off, despite Hugo’s hand catching with his as he fastened his seatbelt, their fingers threading.

Charles managed to start the engine and steer one-handed away from the gardens to where the lane joined the main road, Glynn Harber just a few miles distant.

He stopped at the junction, and made himself look at this man who was far too good for a quick fuck on a bench seat; who was too important to him to get this wrong. For the first time in the face of a sure thing, Charles froze, hesitating.

“Charles?” Hugo asked after he’d missed gaps in the traffic he could have pulled out into. Then he said what Charles hadn’t known he’d needed until he heard it. “Drive,” Hugo ordered.

Charles checked both ways, and then put his foot his down.

* * *

They must have passedthe same landmarks on the way back. Must have seen the same granite peaks in the distance, and woods shading the lane leading to Glynn Harber. But Charles didn’t notice. The moment he parked in the courtyard, he unfastened his seatbelt at the same time as Hugo, both of them out of the car and crossing the courtyard in the same hurry.

Charles didn’t wait for Hugo to dig through his full pockets for his key. He found his own and slid it into the lock, Hugo right behind him, crowding him, his mouth finding bare skin at the side of his throat to kiss while Charles fumbled to get the front door open.

He must have let them inside; must have crossed the living room too, because the stable door slammed closed behind them. The hallway door leading to their bedrooms did too, but all Charles was aware of was Hugo beside him, not pausing or limping, matching him step for step until they both stopped outside Hugo’s bedroom.

Charles hesitated there for a different reason, picturing the books on Hugo’s bedside table. “My room,” he said, pulling Hugo to the end of the hallway. He got the door open, but then Hugo took over, guiding him inside and closing it only to push Charles against it in a way that had become familiar—that felt like theirs now that they’d kissed behind closed doors so often.

The weight of Hugo’s body held him there, his mouth finding his throat again a split second later.

Charles tilted his head back, revelling in the sensation, the rasp of Hugo’s stubble striking something alight inside him. That flare brightened as Hugo found the hem of the shirt Charles wore, pushing it up, exploring each inch of bared skin with the flat of his palms, fabric rucking until he lost patience. “Take it off.”

Charles did, the wood of the door warming against his back, but goosebumps followed as Hugo bent, revisiting everywhere he’d touched, using his mouth this time. His teeth grazed across skin as though he’d heard Charles say a rough touch got him going, and had stored it until this moment.

Charles held Hugo’s head close to him, each nip feeling like worship, his arousal spiking so fast that he felt dizzy with it. Hugo seemed as dazed. He came up for air, his pupils massive, and yanked at his own shirt buttons, tugging until his shirt fell open, his hand on his fly before Charles stopped him.

“Tell me first.” He pushed Hugo’s hands away and took over, his thumb on Hugo’s fly button, ready to push it through its hole and tug at the zipper as soon as Hugo answered. “You’re absolutely sure you want to do this?”

Hugo didn’t answer right away. He mirrored what Charles had started, unfastening the belt Charles wore, but he went further, popping the fly buttons of skinny jeans Charles wouldn’t have worn if he’d guessed he’d be getting undressed in a hurry. There wasn’t any hesitation in Hugo shoving his hand inside to grasp his cock once they were unfastened, wrapping a hand around Charles that felt firm and steady. “I’ve never been surer,” Hugo promised. He kissed Charles, tongue stroking in just as steadily as his hand moved.

How can a simple hand job feel this good?

And it was good. So good that Charles couldn’t catch his breath, or unzip Hugo’s fly, his chest heaving when Hugo finally broke off and braced a hand on the door before looking down between them. Charles saw him watching, learning, absorbing how the head of his cock emerged on the down stroke of Hugo’s hand, rosy and already glistening, and heard the low groan Hugo let out.

Charles pulled at his wrist, lifting Hugo’s palm to his mouth to lick it. He got it wet and then dragged at Hugo’s boxers so his cock sprang free, thick and red and heavy. Charles hefted its weight, stroked it, saw his foreskin pull back over a wide crown he wanted to get his mouth on, and almost whimpered.

Hugo’s movements faltered, his hand slackening before tightening again around Charles’s cock. “Bed,” he said, not letting go of Charles. “Now.”

And for once, Charles willingly followed orders.