Charles by Con Riley

23

Charles stopped at the side of his bed to riffle though his bedside drawer like Hugo had so many times through his pockets, only Charles searched for condoms. Hugo pressing up close behind him was a distraction. Charles felt the damp kiss of his cock nudging the small of his back, and found that his hands lost the power to grip. And like they had at Casterley on the morning of his interview here, condoms fell to the floor like confetti.

“That’s quite the supply,” Hugo murmured, Charles shuddering at the graze of his teeth against his shoulder. “Did you expect to find someone here to get through all of them with?” Hugo asked, sounding much more together than Charles felt at the moment, especially when Hugo pulled him upright, his chest hair rough against his back.

“I didn’t exactly have plans.” Charles turned, his hands drawn to Hugo’s bare chest, pushing so his open shirt bunched, then fell from his shoulders. Charles spanned them first, then clung, knees weak at the feel of Hugo’s hands, which slid inside the back of his jeans and underwear to grasp the cheeks of his arse. He couldn’t help being honest. “But I do this a lot, remember?”

“And yet you sound nervous,” Hugo said, pulling Charles closer, his fingers spreading over his bare bottom, clasping him in a way that was distracting.

“I’m not,” Charles said, breathless, almost whimpering again when Hugo stopped that gorgeous kneading to pull his hands free.

Hugo repeated something Charles had told him. “Of course. Why would you be nervous when this is natural? Purely physical? Us working out how we’ll fit together?”

Charles let him guide him. Let him control what they did next. He held Hugo’s cock with trembling fingers, and Hugo squeezed his own around them in a way that did make Charles whimper aloud.

“We’re finding out how tab A”—Charles felt Hugo’s cock throb in his hold—“fits into slot B, remember? Being practical. Nothing too serious, or long-term,” he added quietly. “After all, you don’t believe in romance, do you? What did you call it? Nonsense, wasn’t it?”

Charles drew in a stuttering breath, but he shook his head and closed his eyes rather than answer aloud. Had to when confirming that would feel like a lie. One that Hugo would surely notice now that something had shifted between them.

And it had.

Charles didn’t know when. Couldn’t mark the spot on a map where it had happened. All he knew was that like the cliffs they’d driven alongside that morning, his certainty had eroded.

“Or have you changed your mind, Charles?” Hugo murmured, crowding close again, his free hand on the hinge of his jaw, holding it so Charles couldn’t do anything but meet what he’d avoided, only instead of drowning in Hugo’s dark gaze, he felt seen in a way that left him naked. More naked than he’d ever been in this situation, despite how often he’d gone through these same motions with no clothes on. “Or is falling in love just a matter of timing?” Hugo’s mouth homed in on that spot below his ear that turned his insides liquid.

“No.” Charles could’ve wept, the rasp of his teeth felt so perfect.

Hugo pressed a kiss where he’d grazed. Soft. So soft. Like his voice. “Would you feel differently if we had longer together?”

For a third time, Charles denied emotion that, up until Hugo named it, he hadn’t known had crept up like a low tide, lapping at him so gently that he’d barely felt its rise until it soaked him. He shook his head again, but a flood of moments replayed as Hugo leaned in to kiss him.

Each kiss they’d shared that had felt like a first.

Each half-smile that had only turned whole for him.

Each sleep-rumpled morning and Netflix-and-chill evening that had somehow accumulated to a hoard of preciousness he’d treasure.

But most of all, Charles replayed Hugo with the children—moments rich with caring that reached his soul and touched it, held it. Right now, Hugo owned it.

Charles stood next to his bed, Hugo’s mouth on him devastating, and rewound one of Hugo’s confessions.

I want to be a real husband to someone. To love someone, and be loved in return by them. To be a real father to our children, however we get to have them.

None of that sounded like nonsense to him.

None of it.

But Charles kissed him back rather than answer, opening his mouth to the touch of Hugo’s tongue, which no longer hesitated, but took what he wanted, like Charles had taught him by example. He took Charles down to the mattress as well, taking charge in a way that confused Charles, made him mix up which of them was the virgin and which was practised. Like those paints that had spilled across his fingers in the classroom, colours that had been distinct once now merged.

Changed.

Like him.

Hugo lay above him, heavy and grounding, pinning him down, but something inside Charles ascended. His legs rose too, anchoring Hugo where they connected, Charles arching to grind against him, hampered by the fabric of his jeans.

Hugo somehow stripped him, jeans pushed down, which Charles kicked off. Hugo covered him with more kisses, Charles unable to do more than squirm and take it, only able to gasp as those kisses turned rough and perfect, his belly taut and shuddering at Hugo being exactly what he liked best.

What he needed.

Every single thing he wanted.

Hugo leaned up on one arm, the neat curve of his bicep deceptive. Charles knew the strength in it. Had felt it take his whole weight and hold him. Wanted nothing more in that moment than to feel more of it, but he lay still, barely breathing as Hugo surveyed him.

Hugo touched his chest, skimming small nipples that pebbled; finding the line of fair hair that darkened at his pelvis. If his cock had ever been harder, Charles had no idea when, or who with, every time he’d done this before dissipating like mist as Hugo trailed his fingers, taking his time, circling his cock, which ached for much more contact.

Hugo bent over him, and put his mouth where Charles most wanted. Each kiss he laid on the crown of his cock felt new. Then he took Charles into his mouth, tongue a velvety slick touch that flickered. He sucked and it was so good that it was like Charles opening his eyes for the very first time and seeing heaven.

Hugo stopped for a moment. “Yes?” He looked up the length of his body. “Like that?”

“Yes—” His head hit the mattress as soon as Hugo took him into his mouth again, Charles reeling at a sensation he’d felt plenty of times before, but never with Hugo’s eyes on him. His hands too, holding Charles down as he arched, trying instinctively to get closer. And Charles was close, even though they’d just started. It caught him like a punch to the solar plexus, no way to inhale or exhale around the size of the feeling.

“St-stop.”

Hugo pulled off and waited, watching, a strand of saliva glittering between them. His lips had turned that glorious plush Charles had enjoyed causing back when all of this was new to him. But now Hugo didn’t act anything like a beginner, and Charles felt far from being his mentor.

We’re in this together.

Charles must have said that aloud, because Hugo nodded.

“Yes we are.” Hugo lifted himself to settle to his side, their heads close. He sounded confident, not questioning. Commanding. There was no sign of the jangling nerves that Charles had felt during his own first time, but hadn’t remembered until this moment, maybe amplified by Hugo taking the lead where Charles had expected him to follow.

He wandered his hands over Charles, touching his chest, caressing his belly, drawn back to his cock, which he stroked lightly, then he dipped lower to gather his balls to hold them, roll them, exploring like he had only once before. Charles couldn’t help parting his legs, and then an inkling of nerves did surface, Hugo saying, “Tell me if it’s not good, okay?”

Charles kissed him first; brought their lips together, feeling the slightest of tremors run through Hugo. “It’s going to be good,” he promised, and Hugo nodded, belief translating into more confident touches that moved lower, searching.

His touch was light—so light—as if Charles was fragile rather than strong; as if being touched there was new to Charles, not Hugo. But then Hugo’s fingertip found where nerve endings sang, and he smiled as Charles shuddered. “There?” Hugo asked, breath warm on the shell of his ear, his voice so hoarse, it was hardly a whisper. “I remember you liked this, yes?”

Charles nodded, body coming alive, thrumming, and he levered himself up to fuse their mouths together, straining to kiss him, needing to get closer in a way that he felt far more than usual. More than could be normal. Much more than he knew what to do with.

Part of him wanted to string out this exploration; lie there as if they had forever, and let Hugo make love to him—

Sex.

That was what this was.

Fucking.

But that word didn’t come close to matching the way Hugo spilled lube onto his fingers, slow and careful, as though Charles was worth taking care with. Or how his breath caught as he pressed one of them inside Charles for the first time, his mouth an O that might’ve described shock, or maybe wonder, and Charles shared it. Hadn’t known until he saw Hugo’s reaction that he wished to God his first time had been like this—that Hugo had been that person for him then, as he was now—this act done with a reverence that left Charles shaking.

Hugo checked in, stopping. “Am I hurting you?”

“N-no,” Charles said, his mouth dry, every cell inside his body stuttering, Hugo’s touch almost, but not quite, perfect, his face sweetly worried.

And so what if he’d had better lovers? Ones who knew what they were doing without telling? Or asking, for that matter. Sex with strangers had been nothing but an individual race to climax. Hugo’s slow pace and asking was the opposite—like that scar, which should’ve marred his face, but only ever made Charles work hard to see beneath it to the heart of the man who wore it.

Charles looked harder now too; couldn’t help but see that under its tenseness, Hugo worried. “Just do it,” Charles urged him. “Only go slow. It’s been a while. Remember?”

He hadn’t expected one of Hugo’s lovely, low chuffs of laughter; didn’t know when he’d started hearing them as his. Was surprised by knowing they were—every single one since Charles had barged into Hugo’s life, taking on the challenge of provoking it just to stay at Glynn Harber. Now, the sound rocked him, nudging that finger inside him deeper, and Charles clenched around a thick knuckle.

He’d had this done to him so often.

It shouldn’t have felt new.

It shouldn’t have, but he was the one who clung to Hugo’s shoulder, curling into a penetration that was a shadow of what would come next, not sure if he could take it. Not certain he should feel this much while listening to Hugo repeat what Charles had once told him. “I thought you said you could park the Defender up there?”

Charles laughed, clenched, squeezed his eyes closed against the crook of Hugo’s finger that sparked off bright white flickers, and then opened them to see that Hugo had stopped laughing. Had stopped breathing too. Could only seem to blink, fuchsia crawling up his throat to stain it. “That’s actually good?” he asked, his voice gruff and low and gorgeous. Then he did it again, pressing the same spot until Charles nodded, frantic.

He wasn’t sure when Hugo moved much lower down the bed, lube in hand and more fingers shining, but Charles scrambled up on his elbows, spreading his legs, making more space for Hugo to touch him. There wasn’t any hesitancy in Hugo’s next hold on one of his knees, bending it out of the way to get more fingers inside Charles, just the same direct focus he’d first swung his way in the chapel, and had done every day since, as if every moment with Charles was worth all his attention.

Hugo said, “I’m not planning on parking the Defender in here anytime soon, but more than one finger would be a good idea, wouldn’t it?”

Charles shouldn’t have smiled, but couldn’t help it; shouldn’t have compared this man, who somehow stripped him of more than his clothes, with the quiet man who’d pulled back a curtain to listen to him. Had kept listening, if the way he repeated guidance Charles had meant as a joke was a metric. Who still listened now, and watched, Hugo’s gaze skipping between his face and where he now pushed in two fingers, thick and slick and sliding, starting up a steady screw that had Charles relaxing, easing like the tight line of Hugo’s jaw, his expression shifting from nerves to something like triumph.

That was a mistake, Charles thought, his breaths shallowing as Hugo added another finger.

Watching his take-charge face is going to ruin me.

And it might, because there was no other way to describe Hugo’s expression other than committed—to this, to him, to making any other time Charles had done this redundant.

But Charles couldn’t look away. Couldn’t help but notice that there wasn’t a shred of doubt left in Hugo’s expression. Not a speck of conflict. Nothing that Charles had worried might rear its head if Hugo took this step—a final one that he couldn’t turn back from. The words slipped out, maybe eased by the slow twist of Hugo’s fingers.

“You really want this.”

That gorgeous, excruciating, slow screw faltered. “No,” Hugo said, and if Charles had thought that Hugo’s voice had pitched low before, he’d been mistaken. Now he felt it. Hugo moved away, leaving him empty, and for a long, extended moment, Charles was sure he would roll to his feet and leave like so many other lovers had with his blessing. The thought of Hugo doing so clutched at him, cold and clammy, which made no sense while sun streamed through his bedroom window, the bed puddled in sunshine. Then Hugo shifted, leaning down to retrieve one of the scattered condoms, and Charles felt the return of heat, flooding his chest with something molten.

“No,” Hugo repeated. “I don’t want this.” He lay next to Charles, their faces level. “I want you, Charles. You. Want to do this with you. For you. Share it with you.” He passed him the condom. “Put it on me.”

It was easy to follow that instruction. No problem to get to his knees to bend over a man who told him exactly what he needed. He opened the packet, about to roll the condom onto a cock he couldn’t help but kiss first, Hugo’s hand finding his nape, his grasp heavy. Welcome.

Charles stayed where Hugo held him, his kiss turning into much more—Hugo’s crown filled his mouth, flooding it with salt and sensation. Hugo rocked up. Groaned. Did it again, not stopping.

Hugo’s fingers tightening on his nape must’ve been a reflex, a physical response to Charles gagging, not a demand for more from him, but Charles rose to the challenge. He looked up, his gaze tear-hazed, wishing he could see clearly, and took Hugo as deep as he could get him.

Charles blinked, his vision clearing, and almost wished he hadn’t. None of this was novel to him, but he hadn’t done it before with Hugo watching him like this was something they’d invented, a first for mankind, not something Charles knew he would miss when this was ov—

“Come here,” Hugo ordered.

Charles got to his knees, his cock so hard he had to stroke it, drawing up pre-come that Hugo lurched upright to catch on his fingers, tasting. Then he hauled Charles onto his lap, and kissed him.

I’ll never want this to be over, Charles thought,both hands on a face he found too dear to deal with, kissing him back, the mix of their flavours potent. He broke off, breathless and found the condom he’d abandoned. He unrolled it as Hugo lay back, dripped lube down Hugo’s covered length, and then straddled him to press the head of his cock to his hole.

Hugo held his hips, his hold tightening in that first tense grip of ingress, his face transfixed, transformed, and if he had a scar slicing through half of it, Charles couldn’t see it. Could only see someone who made an often brutal moment different. Intense. Gentle. Overwhelming.

This felt uncharted, unchartered, Charles unable to do anything but rock, taking Hugo inside as if he was made to fit him.

Charles sank as Hugo surged up, his hips rising, and both of them groaned. Then Charles lifted himself and lowered again, and Hugo shouted—not a word or a curse, but saying his name as if it was the sole word his mouth was shaped for. He pushed himself up, braced on one arm and kissed Charles, desperate, breath huffing, one arm tight around him.

He thrust up each time Charles pushed down, and it was easy. So easy for Charles to bury his face into the crook of Hugo’s shoulder and neck. No work at all to wrap both arms around him and hang on when Hugo rolled them over.

Hugo did curse then, fumbling to get back inside him, and groaning again when he got there.

If his knee felt the strain, his face didn’t show it. All Charles saw was a fierce wonder, and more of that flush that mottled his chest as well as his throat, his skin sheened with sweat; with pleasure; with a joy that Charles recognised and was sure he reflected, because that word described Hugo fucking him as if he’d been made to do this.

To me.

Only to me.

Even thinking that was confusing, Charles not sure why more pre-come chose that moment to spurt from him, but Hugo saw it, touched it, dragged a finger through it, then slumped down over Charles and put his back into fucking him like it was work he was paid for, a task he’d labour over for as long as Charles would let him. Or until he came, which he tried to stave off.

Hugo leant back as if that might halt what they’d set in motion. “I’m going to—” he looked pained. “I don’t want—”

His movements slowed to almost nothing, reduced to a slow, deep grind that caught Charles just right. If he’d seen heaven before, he’d barely peered through its locked gates. Now they swung wide open.

He hooked his legs over Hugo’s hips, clamping them even closer together, Hugo’s cock so deep inside of him that he shuddered. “Don’t you dare stop.”

Hugo fell forwards again, onto Charles, whose cock was caught between them. His kiss turned uncoordinated, but Charles chased his mouth, on the cusp of climax. “Right there,” he grunted, and Hugo listened, giving him what he needed, a grind Charles clenched around, over and over, coming.

He couldn’t see. Not for several glorious, golden seconds, blinking Hugo back into focus right as he came too, his breath hitching, his eyes squeezed closed only to open, as clear as Charles had ever seen them.

Hugo gazed at him as if he saw him, truly saw him, before he fell forwards and Charles caught him.

Held him.

Wanted so much to keep him.