♡

roses.

hundreds of them. blood-red, dethorned, bunched into a bouquet the size of something ridiculous. obscene. (you let yourself think, for a singular moment, that the universe is playing some cruel trick on you. that it is just an illusion, water floating in desert air. but the universe loves to favor charles leclerc. everyone loves to favor charles leclerc.)

and why shouldn't they? he was, after all, monaco's golden boy. the quintessential picture of renaissance-beauty, a painting in a gilded frame. charles leclerc was easy to favor. easy to love. easy to... excuse.

at least he had the decency to deliver it straight to your office.

you drag the bouquet across the floor, petaled carnage grotesque against the grey linoleum, hurrying to wedge the whole spectacle into an unused corner. (even half-hidden from view, it’s impossible to ignore them. they fill the room. they fill your lungs. sweet, so sweet, so sweet of him, oh, god, he's got you caught.)

you sit. you stare. you curse. you work (abysmally). but your fingers still, useless on the keyboard when you spot the sharp white-gold corner of an accompanying card tucked neatly into the vase. it was erotic, the way it was making you slightly dizzy, hazy at the edges. the way you were tempted to make a million bad decisions, and all he'd done was send you flowers. flowers, for fuck's sake.

you brace yourself as you reach forward, plucking the cardstock out of the arrangement. the envelope is thick, expensive—midas' touch, golden and sure. you tear it open with your thumb, splitting the edge clean.

thinking of you, baby. always thinking of you. xxx. c.l.

there it was, right there, below the swooping script of your name. the fall. the blow. the sickening charm, an arrow to bone. charles leclerc, thinking of you. you wonder what he looked like, putting pen to paper. doe-lipped and soft, thinner than he is on the off-months of the season, hair long at the nape of his neck. effortless grace embodied in steady hands and steady eyes.

you exhale a short, ugly sound, catching sight of your reflection in the mirrored panel of your office door. (there is a heaviness to your gaze, a secret, special crevice of your heart coming alive—)

your hands won't stop shaking.

you had no choice but to return them. it was the moral thing to do, marching them straight back to their sender, where they belonged. that, of course, was your rationale buckling two pounds of roses into the passenger seat of your car and white-knuckling the fifteen minute drive to the paddock in seven-and-a-half.

it was weak, yes. but so were you.

it was a mistake, coming here. you realize this almost immediately. the bouquet is heavier now than it had been in the car, petals brushing against your chin, stems digging into the crook of your elbow. scanning your badge with your teeth had been embarrassment enough—carrying hundreds of red roses through the hospitality unit of scuderia ferrari was a corner of hell you were glad to be unacquainted with.

well, you had been. up until this point.

"you're here."

you flinch, nearly dropping the entire bouquet. a singular petal flutters out of the bunch, and you miserably follow the movement of it all the way to the floor, to the pair of shoes stepping into your line of sight, polished brown leather. familiar.

your throat closes up, sternum lifting with a shallow breath. (don't look up. don't. don't.)

a hand enters your field of vision, long fingers reaching for the fallen petal, cradling it between the thumb and forefinger as it disappears again. you swear you see it in your mind's eye, the expression on his face. the furrow of his brow, the soft downturn of his lips. you watch as he brushes a touch slowly—so slowly—across the soft red surface, and a parallel shot of electricity goes down your spine, as though he was touching you. ridiculous. it was just a hand. just his hands. (oh, god, you wanted them on you.)

you look up, and there he is.

calm. comfortable. leaning lazily against the doorframe like he hadn’t just orchestrated the most humiliating moment of your professional career. (there is a strip of light falling across one side of his face, catching the mahogany of the hair brushing his forehead, the shadow of stubble along his jaw, the way his adam's apple bobs with a swallow under the open collar of his shirt.)

he is trying desperately not to smile.

"beautiful, no?" charles' gaze flicks to the bouquet in your arms. "ecuadorian. the altitude makes the color deeper." you could convince yourself you were talking about wine, or the weather, or anything other than the catastrophic embarrassment that was your life, if he wasn't beginning to close the distance between you, a hand outstretched as if to brush the stem closest to your cheek—

no. no, no, no, no. "take them back." your voice is higher than you'd intended. "i don't want them."

his gaze fuses into something darker. "they are for you."

you scoff. "but i—"

"they are," charles interjects, so slow you can count seconds between each word, "for you." he moves an inch closer—not enough to touch you, not quite, not yet—but enough that the air between you goes suddenly thin. "a gift."

you make the mistake of inhaling a mouthful of his cologne. (lemon. bergamot. vetiver haunting the column of your throat.) "i thought i made it abundantly clear i don't want your gifts." the roses rustle faintly as you shift your grip. "i rejected the opera tickets."

"a shame."

"and the watch."

"i should have known you do not wear one."

"and the bottle of wine that cost more than my car."

charles' mouth twitches. "that, i do not know why you returned."

if you didn't know better, you could have sworn he enjoyed this, the idea of you standing in front of him, throwing stones, anger flared sharp enough to slice steel. you could have sworn he enjoyed it, the taste of your displeasure, the rampant heating of your cheeks, the way your breath goes slightly shallow with each exhale of air he drinks as his own. (but you know better, don't you?)

"mr. leclerc," you start.

"charles."

"mr. leclerc. i'm asking you—politely—to stop doing this."

the man himself says nothing. you, however, do not.

"stop," you continue, "with the sending things to my office. the opera tickets. the watches. the wine. all of it. please. please. you have no shortage of female attention. you could walk out onto the street right now with these and i'm sure someone—someone—will take them."

he is silent. still as a deer caught. which somehow makes it worse.

"i don't want it." your voice has gone desperate, buzzing. "so please." your arms ache as you extend them, thrusting the roses into his chest. "take them from me." there is but a bated breath of space between you, and for a single, beautiful second you think he's going to kiss you, teach you what exactly what it means to say no to him. (you would let him.)

but he doesn't. he reaches down and takes the bouquet from your arms, pointedly avoiding the exposed skin of your wrists, leaving your hands strangely empty in the wake of its absence. your skin singes under the weight of his almost-touch, burning brilliant and violent. for a moment neither of you speaks, much less dares to move. his voice is composed when he breaks the silence. "thank you. for bringing them back."

(oh, god. let me go. don't let me go. make this easy. don't make this easy, say something that makes me want to stay.) "you're... welcome."

yes, he lets you go. yes, he makes it easy. yes, you should be glad.

but you are decisively... not.

♡

distance, unfortunately, makes your heart grow fonder.

the paddock is humming with qualifying tension when you arrive, engine vibration ricocheting faintly beneath your feet. mechanics pass in tight clusters, smelling sharply of rubber and gasoline, arms streaked with the grease and carbon dust that accompanies a race weekend. somewhere a tire gun shrieks like an angry insect. you tell yourself you are fine. normal. safe. work is safe.

it becomes decidedly less safe very quickly.

because charles leclerc has just put his ferrari on the front row.

the swarm descends on him first.

someone calls his name from three different directions at once. another reporter elbows past you with an apologetic wince that is not particularly apologetic at all. there is a humming in the air, a ringing in your ears you're not entirely sure everyone else can hear. charles removes his helmet, unzips his race suit to his throat, and you'll never get used to it, the way the sweat beads on his eyelashes, runs down the column of his jaw. you want to lick it off of him. you want to kick yourself.

his gaze sweeps the crowd. (he was your job.) once. (he was nothing more to you.) twice. (you felt nothing.) then stops. on you.

your coworker swears softly under his breath, shifting the lens setting of his camera. then with no warning proceeds to shove you straight into the narrow opening the ferrari press officer has just carved out of the crowd.

you're close, now.

close enough to see the faint smudge of tire dust along the collar of charles' race suit, close enough to hear the sharpness of his breathing. close enough for every hair on your body to stand, for your entire spine to go bowstring-tight. there is a microphone thrust into your hand, the blinking of a camera sparking red in your peripheral vision.

you have suddenly forgotten how to speak.

and of course, of-fucking-course, charles leclerc has the audacity to smile at you. "hello."

your senses come back in waves. "i—yes. hello. you—" you stop. reset. "charles. incredible qualifying lap today. the car looked very strong through sector two."

he tilts his head, and a rivulet of sweat slides down a strand of wet hair and lands on his shoulder. (look at it. don't look at it. look at him. don't look at him. do nothing. do everything.) "charles?" his voice is rough on his own name. "mr. leclerc, no?"

heat climbs violently up your neck. you are acutely aware that there are at least six other journalists standing within arm’s reach of you. "would you... prefer i call you that?"

his expression goes slack. "no," he says, a moment of silence drifting between you. "call me by my name."

you swallow. professional. you are a professional. "right," you say faintly. "charles." it feels strange in your mouth. dangerous. "the lap looked incredibly strong through the middle sector," you continue, forcing your voice to steady. "was that where you felt the most comfortable with the balance of the car?"

"yes," he responds immediately. measured. calm. "i was confident with it." his gaze flicks briefly down to the microphone in your hand. "the car was… very responsive. easy to handle."

the words leave your mouth before you can bite them back: "but that depends on the handler, doesn't it?"

you have the terrible, sinking feeling you may have just said something deeply inappropriate on live paddock footage. but then charles laughs, the sound laying deep in his throat, a rushing exhale of breath, genuine and slightly shocked. it slides up your spine, makes home in the space between your shoulder blades. safe. comfortable. "i suppose so."

all you can do is stare at him, because charles leclerc is laughing, at you, with you, and you're utterly mystified by the shape of his mouth. you're tempted to drop the microphone, lift both hands to his face and trace the crescent moons of his smile lines.

(you should have kept the flowers.)

you're hunched over your coworker's desk hours later, fast-forwarding through hours of quali-footage as you watch (fine, rewatch) him answer your question with the saccharine grace he seems to carry in excess—collected and warm, drenched in sweat and water, staring double-edged daggers into the distance.

no. not into the distance.

you realize all at once, sickeningly, forcefully, that charles did not look at the camera a single time.

he had been looking at you.

♡

your car won't start.

you stare at the dashboard as the hollow click of your keys turning on nothing echoes across the empty parking lot.

"oh, for fuck's sake." you slam your palm against the steering wheel. once. twice. (it doesn't make you feel any better.) the fluorescent lights painting the media center in an eerie shade of yellow buzz faintly overhead, and you force yourself to focus on the sound, on the rapid rise and fall of your shoulders.

"great," you mutter to absolutely no one. "perfect. fantastic."

you glance across the parking lot, already slipping your phone out of your purse to call a tow truck, when your eyes catch on the car parked three spaces down, shining molten in the dim light.

sleek. low. unmistakable ferrari red. (oh, no.)

"car trouble?"

your stomach drops. because you know that voice. you know it awake, in your sleep, in every dream you've had since qualifying. since he began this ridiculous affair. you steady your hands and duck out of your car, the leather of your heels catching on the asphalt. you stare at your knees, at the ragged hem of your skirt and the chipped polish on your toenails until he clears his throat, demands your attention with the sound.

(because he knows exactly how to get what he needs from you. because you always give it to him.)

his hair is damp. air-dried, as if he had just been in the shower, rinsing soap off the broad expanse of his shoulders, trailing a hand downward to palm the junction between his—no. no. he adjusts the racing jacket slung loosely over his shoulder, sleeves of a light-colored button-up rolled to his elbows, entirely too calm for a man who has single-handedly ruined your entire week. beautiful. so beautiful you can hardly stand it, so beautiful it's making a home between your legs and in your heart, and oh, do you hate him for it.

your temper surges, all at once. "yes," you snap. "car trouble." you gesture wildly toward the hood. "not the only source of fucking trouble in my life lately, either."

his gaze softens.

just slightly.

you barrel forward anyway. "what do you have now?" (you realize, in the midst of your displeasure, that it would be wise to shut up before you got ahead of yourself.) "more flowers? wine? a plane ticket somewhere exotic? keys to a four-wheel drive that actually works? because honestly," you huff, not quite a laugh, "i wouldn't say no to that."

blissfully, charles is silent. rendered that way, you're sure. but then he loops his jacket around his frame, shuffling the fabric to hang on his forearm. "i left this here earlier," he says mildly. softly, as if trying not to startle you. "i came back to get it."

oh. oh, fuck.

your anger collapses so fast it nearly gives you whiplash. charles glances past you, staring at the side of your car with a burning intensity you assume he is sparing you. (you thank him. wordlessly, of course. you'd never give him the pleasure.) "it won't start?"

you shake your head, mortified. "i... don't know what's wrong. it was fine this morning."

charles shrugs. "it needs to be jump-started."

you stare at him. "you can't know that just by looking at it."

"and yet i do."

your pride flares, brief and useless. "are you offering?"

he shakes his head, lips twitching. "don't know how." (a lie, you think. but you’re too tired to fight it. maybe you want to lose. your vision spots white the longer you stare at him, a parallel effect to the roses, and the tickets, and the watch. and the scent of his skin, so close and yet so far. there is but an inch of space between you, an inch of your high-horsed restraint keeping you from doing something very, very stupid.)

"fine," you mutter, defeated. "i’ll call a cab."

"i will drive you."

"what?" your voice comes out sharp. "no. i'll manage."

"please."

your knuckles whiten around the fabric of your skirt. you could say no. you could say you'll be fine on your own, that it's late, that you're sure he has somewhere to be, another woman to bed. but all you can find yourself thinking about are his hands, cradling the sticky wetness between your legs, his mouth, circling the planes of your stomach, the dip of your lower back. (how wonderful it would be, to have him shut you up. to have him know exactly what makes you tick. not that he wasn't already well aware.)

you shuffle forward, breath shallow, heart hammering against the cage of your ribs. "if you're sure."

charles hums as he reaches out and pulls the passenger seat door open, the soft click of the automatic lock keening in the silent haze of the night air. you hesitate a beat before sliding inside, the leather cool beneath your skin, and the entire world narrows to this exact moment, to the smell of his cologne so strong you nearly choke on it. (lemon, bergamot, sandalwood, clean and masculine, oh, he needed to do something about it before you lost your mind—)

"is it cold?"

you startle, eyes snapping to his. he’s already reaching for the ignition, fingers brushing the keyless start with practiced ease, the soft thrum of the engine beneath your seat filling the silence. he glances over when you say nothing, brow raised. "in the car. is it cold?"

you blink, caught by the steady green of his gaze. your mouth opens, then closes. "it's hot."

wordlessly, he reaches forward, fingers brushing the dashboard as he turns the air conditioning dial towards himself. (provider, says the devil on your shoulder. let him take care of you. let him turn you dizzy and pliable, let him do whatever he wants to you, you know you want it, you know you do.) you shiver despite yourself, goosebumps rising across your skin.

"too much?" nothing is too much, you want to say, but you force yourself to swallow the knot in your throat, shaking your head. "it's fine."

he guides the car out of the parking lot, one-handed on the steering wheel, and you follow the movement of his other hand as it draws tight circles across his thigh. the city passes the windows in streaks of sodium light and shadow, buildings dissolving into quiet stretches of highway.

you do well, to start. you don't look at him. you tear your eyes from the curve of his wrist and fix it to the windshield, determination lining the taut furrow of your brow. but then he shifts his grip on the wheel as the road curves, the clean line of his forearm flexing faintly beside the center console, and your breath goes short.

"you are very quiet," he says at last, and you are almost glad for the distraction.

"i'm tired." you toy with a loose string at the crimped edge of your blouse, fighting to keep your voice from dipping into something softer. lower. "long day."

his answering hum curls low in his throat. "did something happen?"

why do you care? you want to ask. why do i matter to you? "my car broke down," is what you say instead, strained. "so, yes. something happened."

charles glances over, just briefly. the streetlights slide across his face in thin bands of gold, and the car drifts slightly before he corrects it, attention snapping back to the road. "you should have called."

you scoff. "for what? a ted talk on how to call a tow truck?"

"what would you have done had i not been there?" you realize faintly you've never truly seen charles angry. agitated, yes. frustrated, more so. but not angry. a tendon in his throat goes taut as he adjusts his grip on the wheel.

(you like this color on him. anger. jealousy simmering under a softly condescending tone. need me, it says. need me more than you need anyone else, i'll be so good to you, i promise.) a fleeting pulse in your navel sparks slow and steady and painful, rocketing through you. your skirt rides up just a fraction as you shift, the leather of the seat suddenly very warm against the back of your thighs. "i... would have called a friend."

"what friend."

"a friend."

"what. friend."

"charles," you snap, staring stubbornly at the empty road in front of you. the bright blue of your exit sign flares in the distance. the car lurches slightly as he presses down on the gas in response, and your spine coalesces with the seat. "are you—why the fuck do you care?"

"because," he grits out, a muscle jumping in his jaw, "you are you."

you feel something frantic and raw scale the length of your spine. "what is that supposed to mean?"

(his knuckles have gone bone-white on the steering wheel.) "you refuse my gifts. you barely let me look at you. when we are in the same room you—" he exhales a sharp breath. "you would rather look at the ceiling. what it is about me, hmm? what makes you so angry, baby?"

(baby, he said. his baby.) you want to say something. anything. but the knot in your throat expands. grows heavy. you can barely speak around it. "i—" your voice falters, because you are lying, and he knows it, and there is nothing you can do but brace yourself as the words leave your mouth. "i-i'm not angry."

"no?" charles swipes his tongue across his upper row of teeth, the sound ricocheting through the air, and your breathing goes instantly shallow. "that is what you are going with?"

you stare straight ahead, mold your back into the leather warming your skin. "yes."

"you are a terrible liar."

your fingers curl into your skirt. "you are so—"

"what?" his voice doesn’t rise. if anything, it drops half an octave, low and steady, almost soft. disappointed. wrong answer, bad girl, you're going to regret that. "i am so... what?"

you turn your head just in time to catch the speedometer ticking up, up, up, up in your periphery. "persistent. irritating. completely incapable of taking a fucking hint—"

"try again."

"—and completely unaware that i might not want your attention—"

"might."

"—because a woman that doesn't want to take your pants off—"

"you don't? really?"

"—is so fucking foreign to you—"

"tell me you feel nothing."

you blink. "what?"

"tell me," he repeats, voice low, controlled in a way that makes your spine click into place. "that you feel nothing. and i will stop."

you don’t look at him. you can’t. the air between you stretches thin, taut, and you twist the fabric of your skirt into your palms, painfully aware of your own body, of your exit sign coming closer and closer and closer and closer—"i feel nothing."

"tell me you've never thought about it," he says, a muscle ticking just beneath the skin of his neck. "saying yes. because i have. i think about it all the time."

you're opening your mouth to answer when the car surges forward, and oh, fuck, he was going a hundred miles per hour with one hand on the wheel and the other tight-fisting his pant leg. your stomach drops into your ankles. "charles—" your hand flies out, fingers wrapping around the center console, an inch from his wrist. "slow down—"

"tell me you don't want me to touch you." i do, i do, i do.

"i do—"

charles swerves. hard.

the wheel jerks sharply beneath his hands, car lurching across the empty lane beside him before he cuts it hard onto the shoulder. gravel spits beneath the tires as it shudders to a stop. your heart jumps violently into your throat. "charles—"

the engine is still running when he leans across the center console, one hand coming down to the latch of your seatbelt, the other undoing his own. the metal snaps loose with a sharp click. "charles," you say again, voice pitched worry-high, reaching for his forearm. there's no indication he can even hear your voice save for the way his jaw tightens. "what are you—"

you don't finish your sentence, because all of a sudden he's kissing you, and you try to push him away, a startled jolt ripping through you—but your hands don’t hit his chest. no, they clutch the seam of his shirt, yanking the fabric towards you. closer, closer, closer, come closer. you hate it, the glistening line of saliva that stretches between your lips, the way his upper row of teeth knocks against yours, the jagged breath he exhales directly into your mouth.

(yes. you hate it very much.)

his entire body goes catatonic when you trail a palm past the buttons of his shirt to press a whisper-light touch to the junction of his jeans, feeling for the cold metal of his belt buckle. take it off, take it off, take it off, oh god, you want him in your mouth and you want it right now.

"l-let me go down on you," you gasp out when his mouth moves downward to the column of your neck, hands slipping beneath the fabric of your shirt. "please, let me—"

charles hauls you off the seat, muscles coiling like a spring as he throws you back into the cramped backseat with a force that knocks the breath out of you. he swallows your answering yelp, confining you between the leather of the seat beneath and the heat of his palms sliding underneath your hair, gathering it at the nape of your neck with a sharp tug.

"i wanted to t-take you to dinner," he pants, finding find the waistband of your skirt and hiking it as high as it will go, your bare thighs flush against the cold leather of the backseat. slickness pools in the soft cotton under your skirt, a dark, wet patch growing in the grey center. "but all you want to do is fucking fight with me."

"you—dinner—?" your voice catches on the last word as he pulls your panties down in one swift motion, fabric stretched around the expanse of your thighs. a car flies by outside the window, and you follow the band of its headlights as they wash across charles' face, the way he's slipping his middle finger into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the pad. (put it on me, please, please, please.)

"yes," he breathes, the very sound of voice coiling your spine molten. "dinner." he's moving so suddenly, with such urgency, that you can barely distinguish yourself from him, where his touch ends and yours begins, what you're even reaching for. you only realize you've been dragging your nails down the side of his neck when he exhales a harsh sound, turning his head to the side for the red markings to catch the light.

"charles—" is all you can say before he's kissing you hand clutching at your jaw, forcing your mouth to open for him, make room for him, licking up at the roof of your mouth and the inside of your cheek. it's dirty, and undignified, and you keen at the roof of the car when you feel his finger, spit-slicked and soft, prodding at the sticky entrance of your cunt.

that's it. that's all the warning you get before a second finger is joining the first and he's going further, further, pressing against the natural resistance of your body.

"oh fuck—" you get out just as charles drops his forehead to your shoulder, gritting out the sound of your name. you breath like thunder as he pushes that single inch further, testing your limits, then hooks his fingers up, like a key fitting into a lock, like he was always meant to be here, right here. you barely get your eyes open in time to catch the way his flutter shut, as though it was too much to look at the cherry-colored flush beginning to spread across your skin, to look at the way your lips tip open to the beat of his startled exhale.

"i-i'm sorry, fuck, i'm so sorry, baby—" your field of vision goes blurry at the edges when he chokes on his words, as if your pleasure was just as much his own. "do you—does it—?"

(it was objectively sweet, his insistence on being careful, on being soft and kind and gentle. you would have liked it, had it not been for the dull, white-hot sensation climbing up your spine, just out of reach, clamping down on your muscles, and god, you wish he'd just pin you down and take what he wants from you—)

"just—" your voice is rough to your own ears, slicing through the air. "just take it."

you're glad he doesn't ask for clarification, because you're not quite sure you'd have the words to give it to him. you find you don't need to speak at all as he clamps his hand over your entire jaw, tilting your head against the headrest, angling your spine upwards to reach down and take one of your nipples into his mouth.

you're surprised you have the energy to smack your hand against the window as hard as you do, because he's swirling his tongue so close to your heart you swear he can hear it kick up. you jolt like you've been electrocuted when his tongue moves to your side, to the sweat beaded underneath the curves of your chest.

you're saying something unintelligible under his palm: his name, perhaps, how much you want him, how much you've always wanted him. and you suspect he knows, judging by the way his fingers in your cunt contract and relax against that perfect spot, the one that makes your eyes roll back in your head.

(you don't realize the way your hand slams down hard against the button on the side door, window rolling open in response, until highway noise floods the inside of the car, meshing with the high exhale of your moan. pleasure burns hot and shapeless in the curve of your spine, and fuck, you're going to come, and it's going to be over, and he's going to take you home, just like he promised—)

"it won't be over," charles breathes out, and it is only then that you understand you'd said it out loud. he's dragging you higher, faster, stronger to the edge of the cliff, and you only have time to whisper his name into the space between you before you're clamping down on his fingers, vision going white at the corners, low light dancing across the spasming surface of your skin.

he doesn't give you more than a second to breathe before he's hauling your body upwards, his weight replacing yours on the seat, breath hot on the back of your neck as he pulls you over him—straddling him backwards, the arch of your spine pressed to the heat of his chest.

"charles," you pant, voice sharp with urgency, "the window, close the window—"

you feel, rather than see, him shake his head as he presses his forehead to your spine and adjusts your hips right at the bulge of his jeans. "it is nice. cold."

"i don't like the cold," you say, belligerent, and his laugh accompanies the sound of his belt buckle hitting the mats beneath your feet.

"then it is a good thing i did not ask you what you like," he responds, and then he's lifting his hips and you with it, pulling his pants down to his ankles, and you only realize he's taken his boxers with it when you look down and realize you're staring at them.

"wait—" you're starting to turn your head when charles' palm meets the side of your face, molding to the curve of your jaw and directing your gaze forward. "charles, wait—i want—" to see you, he doesn't let you say. to have you look at me like you always do, to have you watch me come on your—

"shh," he says, lifting your hands from where they've made home in the muscle of his thighs, forcing your fingers to wrap around the headrests of the seats in front of you. "i want it this way."

i want it this way. you have half a mind to scoff, tell him you don't care what he wants and how he wants it, tell him that you're just as much as an active participant as he is, but then he rolls his hips into yours once, just once, the tip of his cock sliding against the red-hot slickness of your cunt, and you find yourself unable to think entirely.

(he was right to brace your hands.)

"no—" your spine folds over his knees, chest brushing his thigh. "no, charles, it won't fit like this, i swear—"

"i'll go slow," is the only thing he says in response before he's wrapping an arm around your front, positioning your body where he wants it and slipping an inch closer. he fits himself along your spine, makes room for himself inside of you, and you choke on your own saliva.

"oh—!" the stretch licks fire at your stomach, across your navel, rendering you near-mute. your hands curl into fists, halfway to denting the leather against them. (it comes again, that nagging urge at the back of your mind that's telling him to take it from you, force you the rest of the way down, make it hurt, bite down on your spine and draw blood.) "wait, charles—"

"too fast?" comes his answering breath, tongue running a line along the curve of your spine. he stops moving altogether when you don't respond, curling his torso forward to peer at the side of your face. (concerned, you realize. he's concerned about you.)

"no, just—" you struggle with the phrasing for a second before the words leave your mouth in an embarrassed puff of air. "can you—can you make it hurt?"

for a moment the only sound left in the car is your breathing—ragged, uneven—and the distant rush of the highway bleeding in through the open window. (oh, you've done it now, haven't you?)

charles' hand tightens where it braces your hip. "hurt," he repeats, slow. testing the word on his tongue, testing your limits, testing how far he can take you before you snap.

your throat works around nothing. "yes."

his forehead presses to the space between your shoulders, breath hot and wet against your spine, and for a second—just a second—you think he’s going to pull away. tell you no, tell you to slow down, tell you he won’t, that he never will, that you pushed it too far. but he doesn't. he shifts so slowly every point of contact feels like fire on skin as his head dips lower, mouth brushing the curve of your shoulder.

you feel it immediately, the difference. his breath evens out against your skin, slower now, deeper, like he’s forcing it into control, like he’s pulling himself back just long enough to decide what to do with you.

"i was trying—" he punctuates his words with a slow roll of his hips, and you lean forward, trying to take him all the way, trying to get him to do something other than sit back and watch you struggle for it. "—to be good to you. nice."

"i don't want nice." (your desperation is making you easy.) "will you just—"

"taking you to dinner. giving you beautiful things." you feel his hand slide up your back and bury itself into your hair, gathering it into his palm. anticipation slices through you fast enough to make you dizzy. "you did not want any of that, did you?"

"i—" you consider lying to him. "i don't know, charles, please, move—"

"you just wanted me to fuck you. yes?"

you could have convinced yourself the evenness of his tone meant he was unaffected, that the way you were dripping straight onto his bare skin meant nothing to him. but then he flicks your side, open-palmed, and you're barely conscious enough to catch the slight shiver of his hands.

"yes?" he asks again. (he wants you to admit it. admit that you wanted him to fuck you, that this entire time all you wanted were his hands on you—)

"yes," you breathe out, and that's all it takes. that's all it takes for him to tighten his grip in your hair and pull you toward him, arching your spine violently against his chest to slide his cock all the way inside with nothing but you to ease his way.

for a moment you're silent.

and then you're... not.

you don't even realize you're filling the car with noise until one of charles' hands comes up to your throat to search for where it vibrates beneath the thin skin there. he lodges his thumb up against it, trapping the sound at the source, and your shocked (silent) exhale is more of a sob than not, because oh, god, he's finally moving up into you, and all you can do it take it, take it, take it. it would give you a power trip, being on top, if he wasn't forcing you to yield to his will, if he wasn't molding you to his pleasure.

"fucking—dirty." his voice is quiet in your ear, a low, even baritone that tightens your stomach. "dirty girl. fights with me just to—" your high-pitched mewl interrupts him, and his cock twitches in responds. (he's so thick you can barely clench around it, barely make room for anything other than him.) "—beg for it."

you dig your nails fervently into his forearm, and the hand at your throat loosens immediately. "i'm not—" you choke out, but then charles thrusts upward, cutting you off, the apex of your pleasure so deep it hurts, hurts just like you wanted it to, debilitating and all-consuming. "oh my god." (you were proving him right.)

"i should have known." thrust. "should have fucked you when you came to—" thrust. "—return the roses." you register faintly that he's still speaking to you, and you strain to hear it over the sound of your breath breaking, over the sound of his hips snapping against yours. his hand skims downward, thumb rounding tight circles around your clit until you're clawing at the muscle of his forearm. (oh, that's going to leave a mark, and you're proud of it, because you want him to remember it, you want him to remember you.)

"charles—" you don't turn your head, you can't, you won't, because if you look at him now you're going to come and there is a stupid, selfish corner in your mind that wants this to last forever. "i should have—i wanted to keep them."

his hips stutter in time to your head dropping forward, hands clawing at nothing until they find the wrists of both his hands and yank them upward to cup your chest. he hisses behind you, pinching the hardened peaks of your nipples between his thumb and index finger. your entire body tightens, going hot and cold all at once, and it is cruel, the way he refuses to slow down, even as all of your muscles flex in his grip, even as you hook your ankles behind his calves and whine pitifully into the air.

you barely have the thought to drag his palm to your mouth before you're screaming into it, teeth closing around the fleshy center.

he chokes.

you feel it, the tightening, the coiling of his body like a spring about to snap. he's so close it hurts, so close he's drawing it out the same way you were at the sight of the end. "charles," you pant, breath hitching on the edge of something raw. your head tilts back, eyes flickering to his. "c-can i put my mouth—?"

you don’t finish, but he knows. he fucking knows.

he breaths a low curse before yanking you off him with a rough jerk that sends you stumbling sideways onto the seat beside him. the leather creaks beneath you, and you stare at the curves of his skin contract sharply under his shirt, the sweat beaded at the open collar. (he truly is beautiful. hauntingly. devastatingly.)

charles wraps a hand tight around himself, fucking up into it just once, and your body goes boneless at the idea that he is imitating you, how it feels to be inside of you. "come here," he murmurs, gasping your name into the space between you, and it is all the invitation you need. you lean down, lips wrapping around the head of his cock, and your eyes nearly roll back at the faint taste of yourself on him, the way he stretches the column of your throat, the way he does nothing to keep you from taking it deeper, harder, as far as you can possibly go.

"right—there," he rasps, voice breaking, "right there, right there, there you go, baby—"

when he does come, salty taste of him filling your mouth, you drink him down.

like holy water.

♡