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Max leaned against the doorframe of the walk-in closet, a grin playing on his lips as he watched his wife pack. Charles LeClerc, beautiful even in simple linen pants and a faded t-shirt, was folded gracefully onto the floor, surrounded by open suitcases. His long, careful fingers sorted through stacks of clothes, and his green eyes—currently narrowed in concentration—flickered between a checklist on his phone and the neat piles.
“You are taking four rash guards? For a beach holiday?” Max said, pushing off the frame and stepping inside.
Charles didn’t look up. “Yes. One for Tony, one for me as backup, one for—”
“For Leo? The dog needs sun protection now?”
That earned him a glance, sharp and amused. “Very funny. One for me, one spare, one for you because you will inevitably rip yours, and one extra. And Tony needs two. The sun is strong, Max.”
Max crouched down beside him, the proximity allowing him to smell Charles’s shampoo—something clean and faintly citrusy. He loved these moments, the domestic, ordinary ones that felt more like victories than any pole position ever could. Charles’s profile was all elegant lines: the straight nose, the sharp jaw, the unfairly lush sweep of his dark lashes against his cheek. And those thin, soft lips Max never tired of kissing.
“We’re going to a private island,” Max reminded him, his voice dropping into a low, playful rumble. “No paparazzi, no fans, just us. You could go naked the whole time and only the fish would see.”
Charles finally stopped folding and turned his head. A faint blush tinged his cheeks. “We have a child, Max. And I am not going naked. I am going to swim, and snorkel, and build sandcastles with our son.”
“And I am going to watch you do all of that,” Max said, reaching out to brush a stray curl from Charles’s forehead. “Best show in the world.”
Charles swatted his hand away gently, but the corner of his mouth lifted. “You are ridiculous. Help me instead of distracting. Are you sure you packed your things? Your bag looked… suspiciously light yesterday.”
Max’s grin widened. He had packed, indeed. And he had also executed a little plan. While Charles was at his final pre-holiday physio appointment the day before, Max had carefully, meticulously, replaced every single one of Charles’s modest, practical swim trunks and rash guards with items from a very different, very hidden section of their own wardrobe. Items purchased online over the last month and delivered in discreet packaging. Lace, sheer mesh, daring cuts, and in one glorious instance, a barely-there red number that was more string than fabric. All of it was now nestled at the bottom of Charles’s suitcase, beneath the innocent shorts and t-shirts.
“I packed light because I know you’ll make me carry all your bags anyway,” Max deflected smoothly. “Where is the menace?”
“Tony is ‘helping’ Anna in the kitchen,” Charles said, resuming his folding. “Which means he is probably covered in flour and she is regretting her life choices. And Leo is under your feet, as usual.”
Max looked down. The long, brown form of their dachshund, Leo, was indeed curled around his ankles, snoring softly. The dog was Charles’s shadow, a gift after a tough season years ago, and he adored Max only slightly less than he adored Charles.
“Jimmy, Sassy, and Donut are already giving me the betrayed look,” Max observed, thinking of their three cats currently lounging with supreme indifference in the living room. They were staying behind with a live-in sitter, thoroughly unimpressed by the suitcases.
“They will forgive you when you return with treats,” Charles said, his focus back on his meticulous packing. “Now, be useful. Check if Tony’s swim goggles are in the blue bag.”
Max didn’t move. He just watched him. Seven years of marriage, a whirlwind of a wedding in Monaco, the surreal joy of adopting Tony two years later, the quiet, fierce life they’d built away from the track—it still sometimes hit Max like a physical force. He loved this man with an intensity that could scare him. And he loved to ruffle his perfect composure.
The planning for this holiday had been Charles’s domain. He’d chosen the island, arranged the villa with the over-water bungalow and the kids’ club for Tony, even planned the menus. Max’s sole contribution, aside from providing his credit card and his private jet, had been this one, beautifully mischievous secret.
He couldn’t wait.
The journey was a comfortable chaos of the sort only their little family could create. Tony, a whirlwind of energy with Max’s stubborn jaw and Charles’s expressive eyes, bounced between them in the back of the Range Rover on the way to the airfield, chattering about sea turtles and whether Leo would try to swim with sharks.
Leo, snug in his travel carrier, whined pathetically until Charles freed him to sit on his lap.
“He’s worse than you with pre-race nerves,” Max teased, his hand resting on Charles’s thigh.
“He does not like the car,” Charles defended, stroking the dog’s silky head. “He is a sensitive soul.”
“Takes after his mama,” Max murmured, just for Charles’s ear. Charles pinched his leg but leaned into his side.
Their plane, a sleek black Gulfstream, was a testament to Max’s success, but inside, it was all home. Tony’s drawings were stuck to the bulkhead, a worn cashmere blanket Charles loved was draped over a seat, and the fridge was stocked with Charles’s preferred brand of mineral water and Tony’s apple juice.
Once airborne, Tony, finally succumbing to the early start, fell asleep across two seats, Leo curled at his feet. The hum of the engines was a private cocoon.
Charles settled into the seat opposite Max, a book open on his lap, but he wasn’t reading. He was looking out the window at the clouds, a soft, contented smile on his face. The sunlight caught the rich brown of his hair, turning it to molten chocolate.
“Happy?” Max asked, unbuckling to slide into the seat next to him.
Charles turned that smile on him. “Yes. So much. Two weeks. No schedule. Just us.” He reached for Max’s hand, interlacing their fingers. His hands were smaller, slimmer, but strong from years of gripping steering wheels. “Thank you for this.”
“You did all the work,” Max said, bringing their joined hands to his lips and kissing Charles’s knuckles. “I just provided the ride.”
“And paid for it,” Charles added dryly.
“Details.” Max’s blue eyes gleamed. “I have a surprise for you.”
Charles’s green eyes narrowed instantly, the smile turning wary. “Max… what kind of surprise?”
“A good one.”
“Your surprises are either very good or… very not.”
“This one is very good,” Max promised, his thumb stroking the back of Charles’s hand. “You’ll see when we get there.”
“Max Verstappen, if you have hired a mariachi band or arranged for a jet ski parade—”
Max laughed, low and genuine. “No bands. No parades. Just something for you. To make the holiday more… memorable.”
Charles studied him for a long moment, then sighed, a fond, exasperated sound. “I will find out, you know. I always do.”
“I’m counting on it,” Max said, and the promise in his voice made a faint flush rise on Charles’s neck.
The transfer from Malé to their private island was by a small, luxurious speedboat. Tony, revived, stood at the bow with Max, shouting with glee every time they hit a wave. Charles sat under the canopy, arm around a trembling Leo, but his face was lit with pure joy, the sea breeze whipping his hair into a glorious mess.
The island was a postcard. Lush green vegetation encircled a central, stunning villa with traditional thatched roofs. A pristine white-sand beach curved around a lagoon of such vivid turquoise it looked unreal. A long, wooden pier led to a solitary over-water bungalow—the “honeymoon suite,” according to the brochure, which Max had insisted on booking despite Charles’s muttered comments about it being unnecessary.
They were greeted by a small, discreet staff who whisked their luggage away to the main villa. Tony immediately claimed the room with the bunk beds and the view of the kids’ play area. Charles began his ritual of unpacking and “making the space home,” as he called it, placing photos of their cats on a side table, setting out Leo’s bed and bowls.
Max left him to it, taking Tony on an exploratory mission to find the best snorkeling spots right off the beach. By the time they returned, sandy and salt-crusted, Charles had transformed the airy living space. Soft music played, their clothes were put away, and he was in the kitchen, discussing dinner plans with the chef.
He looked up as they tramped in. “Successful expedition?”
“Daddy saw a ray!” Tony exclaimed, bouncing. “And I found a billion shells!”
“A billion?” Charles’s eyebrows shot up. He walked over, smoothing Tony’s wild hair. “That is a lot. You will have to show me your favorites after you shower. You are covered in sand.”
He looked at Max then, a mock-stern expression on his face. “You too. You are worse than him.”
Max caught him around the waist before he could retreat. “Join me?”
Charles’s stern facade melted into a shy, pleased smile. “Maybe. Let me get this one clean first.” He nodded towards Tony, who was already trying to pull his t-shirt over his head.
The shower, when it happened, was not shared. Tony needed help, then Leo needed letting out, and by the time Charles slipped into the massive, outdoor rainforest shower where Max was rinsing off, the mood had shifted from anticipatory to simply relaxed and domestic. Charles washed Max’s back, his touch firm and familiar, and Max returned the favor, savoring the smoothness of Charles’s skin under his palms.
They ate dinner on the deck as the sun set, Tony chattering, Leo begging for scraps, the sky a riot of orange and purple. It was perfect. Peaceful. Max felt the last of the season’s tension bleed out of his shoulders.
Later, after Tony was asleep in his room, story read and nightlight on, Charles poured them each a glass of wine. They took them to the beach, sitting on the cool sand under a blanket of stars.
“This was a perfect idea,” Max said, his arm around Charles, who leaned his head on Max’s shoulder.
“It was,” Charles agreed softly. Then he tilted his head up. “Now tell me about the surprise.”
Max chuckled into his hair. “Impatient.”
“I have been patient all day. The suspense is killing me.”
“It’s for tomorrow,” Max said, evading. “A gift. For the first proper day.”
Charles pulled back to look at him, his green eyes searching Max’s face in the dim light. “It is not something that will get us banned from the Maldives, is it?”
“No. It’s just for you. And for me, a little bit,” Max admitted, tracing the line of Charles’s jaw. “I think you’ll like it.”
“Hmm,” Charles hummed, not entirely convinced, but willing to let it go. He snuggled back in. “I love you, you chaotic man.”
“I love you, my beautiful wife,” Max whispered, the term of endearment slipping out as it often did in their most private moments. Charles didn’t correct him, just pressed a soft kiss to Max’s collarbone.
The next morning dawned bright and clear. Tony was up with the sun, and after a loud, joyful breakfast, he was desperate to go snorkeling. Charles, ever the planner, had the day mapped out: morning snorkel, lunch, kids’ club for Tony in the afternoon so the adults could have some time, then family dinner.
“I will go get changed into my suit,” Charles announced, heading towards their large, airy bedroom. “Max, can you get Tony’s flippers and the underwater camera?”
“On it, boss,” Max said, a thrill of anticipation shooting through him. He made a show of helping Tony with his sunscreen and assembling the gear, but his ears were pricked for any sound from the bedroom.
It came sooner than he expected.
A strangled, high-pitched noise. Then a thud, like a suitcase being kicked.
Then silence.
Max bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing.
Tony looked up from adjusting his mask. “What was that?”
“Mama probably saw a gecko,” Max said smoothly. “You know how he screams.”
Tony giggled. “He’s silly.”
Another minute passed. Then Charles emerged from the bedroom.
He was dressed—sort of. He had on a pair of loose, linen shorts over… something. His face was a masterpiece of conflicting emotions: shock, profound embarrassment, and simmering fury, all painted over with a blush that went from his cheeks down his neck and across his chest. In his hand, he was clutching a handful of fabric.
Max gave him an innocent, wide-eyed look. “Everything okay, schat?”
Charles walked towards him with deliberate, stiff steps. He held up the fabric. It was a swimsuit. Or what passed for one. It was a deep emerald green, Charles’s color, but made of a lace that was clearly not meant for water. It was cut high on the thighs and would, Max knew from his online research, cling to every curve when wet.
“What,” Charles said, his voice dangerously calm, “is this?”
Max pretended to peer at it. “Your swimsuit? It’s nice. Matches your eyes.”
“Max.” The calm cracked. “Where are my rash guards? Where are my normal trunks?”
“I thought you might want to try something new,” Max said, unable to keep the grin off his face now. “You always pack the same boring ones.”
Charles stared at him, mouth slightly agape. He dropped the lace scrap on the sofa as if it burned him. “There are more?”
“A few.”
“In my suitcase?”
“Where you packed your swimwear, yes,” Max said, folding his arms, leaning against the wall, thoroughly enjoying himself.
Charles turned on his heel and marched back into the bedroom. Max heard the sound of zippers being yanked, drawers being opened. He followed, leaning in the doorway again, a mirror image of the scene in their closet days before.
Their large, open suitcase was on the bed, its contents now partially strewn about. Charles stood before it, holding up item after item. A black mesh tankini-style top that would leave his entire midriff bare. The red string bikini bottom. A navy blue number with strategic cut-outs. A sheer, dark grey trunk with a lining that did little to hide anything.
With each reveal, Charles’s blush deepened. He was breathing quickly.
“Max… all of them? You replaced all of them?”
“You said you wanted to travel light,” Max offered helpfully.
Charles dropped the sheer grey trunks and put his hands on his hips. He was trying to look angry, but Max could see the laugh he was fighting back, the glint of startled amusement in his green eyes. “This is not funny! What am I supposed to wear to go snorkeling with our son?”
“I’m sure one of those will work,” Max said, pushing off the doorframe and walking towards him. He stopped close, crowding Charles gently against the bed. “You look incredible in green. That one would be perfect.”
Charles looked up at him, the anger dissolving into a flustered, breathless exasperation. “It is… it is see-through, Max!”
“Only when wet,” Max corrected, his voice dropping. He let his hands settle on Charles’s hips. “And I will be the only one close enough to see.”
“Tony—”
“Is seven. He will just think Mama has a new swimsuit. He won’t care. He’s waiting to see fish.” Max dipped his head, brushing his lips against Charles’s ear. “Wear it for me. Please? As my surprise.”
Charles shuddered, a full-body tremor that Max felt under his palms. He was silent for a long moment, his head bowed against Max’s shoulder. Max could smell the familiar scent of his shampoo again, mixed with the salt-air of the island.
“You are impossible,” Charles mumbled into his shirt.
“You love it.”
Charles sighed, a long, surrendering sound. He pulled back, and when he looked up, the flustered embarrassment was still there, but it was now mixed with a sly, knowing glint. A look Max knew very, very well. It was the look Charles got when he decided to play along, when he decided to turn Max’s game back on him.
“Fine,” Charles said, his voice suddenly smoother. He picked up the emerald lace suit from where he’d thrown it on the bed. “I will wear this… thing.”
Max’s heart did a triumphant flip.
“But,” Charles continued, the glint sharpening, “you have to wear something too.”
Max blinked. “What?”
Charles walked to Max’s still-unopened duffel bag, which sat in the corner. He unzipped it with a purposeful tug. He rummaged for a second, then pulled out the pair of sensible, knee-length black swim trunks Max had packed for himself.
He held them up. “These. You will wear these today. All day. For snorkeling, for the beach, for everything.”
Max frowned, confused. “Okay? I was going to.”
A slow, beautiful, wicked smile spread across Charles’s thin lips. It was a smile that promised trouble. A smile that made Max’s blood hum.
“No,” Charles said softly, walking back to him. He dropped Max’s trunks on the bed next to the pile of scandalous fabric. “You do not understand. Only these. No shirt. No rash guard. Nothing else.” He reached out and poked Max’s chest, right over his heart. “I want to see my husband, all of him, in the sun. All day. Consider it my surprise for you.”
Now it was Max’s turn to feel a hot flush creep up his neck. He was fit, proud of his physique, but the idea of being so… exposed, so deliberately on display, for Charles’s eyes all day, was a different kind of vulnerability. Charles knew it. He saw the understanding dawn in Max’s eyes and his smile turned victorious.
“Fair’s fair, mijn liefde,” Charles murmured, stepping close again, his earlier embarrassment gone, replaced by a potent, playful confidence. “You want a show? You will give one too.”
He picked up the lace set again, his fingers tracing the delicate pattern. “Now, I am going to put this on. And you are going to put on only your shorts. And we are going to go snorkeling with our son. And you,” he said, leaning in so his lips were a breath from Max’s, “will not look at me like you want to eat me alive in front of him. Understood?”
Max was speechless for a second, utterly and completely outmaneuvered. Then a slow, appreciative grin broke across his face. God, he loved this man. He loved his fire, his quick wit, his ability to turn the tables so perfectly.
“Understood,” Max breathed, capturing Charles’s mouth in a quick, hard kiss. It was all heat and promise.
Charles melted into it for a brief second, then pushed him back, laughing softly. “Go. Change. Tony is waiting.”
They changed separately, a charged silence hanging between them. When they emerged from the bathroom and a different corner of the bedroom, the sight of each other was a jolt.
Charles in the emerald lace was… breathtaking. The suit fit him like a second skin, highlighting the lean, race-toned muscles of his chest and shoulders, the narrow taper of his waist. The lace was dark enough to not be truly transparent yet, but it hinted at everything beneath. He looked sinful and shy all at once, his arms crossed self-consciously over his stomach.
Max, in just his black board shorts, felt almost naked in comparison. He saw Charles’s eyes darken as they raked over him, taking in his broad chest, his arms, the defined lines of his abdomen. The approval in that gaze was a palpable heat.
“Wow, Mama!” Tony’s voice broke the spell. He was in the doorway, his own little rash guard on, mask in hand. “Your swimsuit is shiny!”
Charles’s arms uncrossed, his posture softening into something more natural for his son. He laughed, a genuine, light sound. “It is, isn’t it? Papa’s idea.”
Tony looked at Max. “Daddy, you forgot your shirt!”
“It’s too hot for a shirt today, buddy,” Max said, his eyes still locked on Charles, who gave him a sweet, innocent smile that was entirely fake.
The snorkeling was a form of exquisite torture. The water was warm and clear, teeming with colorful fish that Tony pointed at with wild excitement. Max tried to focus on his son, on the underwater world, but his attention was irrevocably, magnetically pulled to Charles.
In the water, the lace of Charles’s suit became translucent. The green turned a darker, wet sheen that clung to every dip and plane of his body, leaving very, very little to the imagination. He swam with easy, graceful strokes, pointing things out to Tony, his laughter bubbling to the surface. He was breathtakingly beautiful, a siren in the turquoise sea, and he knew it. Every so often, he would glance back at Max, his green eyes glinting with knowing amusement behind his mask, a slow, underwater smile playing on his lips.
Max spent the entire hour in a state of acute, delicious arousal, grateful for the buoyancy and concealment of the water. His own exposed skin tingled under the sun and under Charles’s frequent, lingering glances.
Back on the beach, drying off on the loungers, the tension was a live wire. Tony, exhausted from swimming, curled up under an umbrella with a book from the kids’ club. Leo snoozed at his feet.
Charles stretched out on the lounger next to Max, his body glistening with salt water and sunlight. The lace was drying slowly, turning opaque in some places, still treacherously sheer in others. He picked up a bottle of water, took a long drink, his throat working. He then picked up a novel, pretending to read.
Max lay on his own lounger, facing him, unable to look away. The sun beat down on his bare back, but the heat inside him was fiercer.
“Happy with your surprise?” Charles asked without looking up from his book, his voice a low, melodic tease.
“Very,” Max said, his own voice rough. “Yours?”
Charles finally glanced over, his eyes trailing slowly, possessively, over Max’s torso. “Very.”
He went back to his book, but the smirk on his lips told Max the chapter was over. The game had shifted. The afternoon stretched ahead, hot and lazy. Tony would soon go to the kids’ club. They would be alone.
Max watched Charles’s hand, the one holding the book, tremble just slightly. He watched the rapid rise and fall of his chest under the delicate lace. He saw the pulse fluttering in his throat.
The stage was set. The desire was a thick, sweet haze between them, built on years of love, a morning of mischievous scheming, and the raw, unveiled beauty of the man lying beside him.
He let his gaze wander over his wife—his beautiful, brilliant, unpredictable wife—and knew the wait would be worth every single, agonizing second.
The kids’ club was a brightly painted pavilion nestled among the palm trees, a short, sandy path from the main villa. Tony, his energy miraculously restored after a snack, had been eagerly talking about it since lunch. A friendly attendant named Lili, armed with buckets, spades, and a schedule of activities, had come to collect him.
“You will be good, yes?” Charles said, smoothing Tony’s hair. He’d changed into a loose, white linen shirt over the green lace bikini bottom—a concession to modesty that did little to hide the fact he was essentially wearing lingerie. The sheer material of the shirt clung to his damp skin, hinting at the lace beneath.
“Yes, Mama! We’re building a fortress!” Tony declared, already pulling Lili’s hand.
“Dinner at six, champ,” Max said, ruffling his son’s hair. “Have fun.”
As Tony’s cheerful chatter faded down the path, a profound, heavy silence descended upon their slice of the beach. It was just the two of them, the whisper of the lagoon, the distant cry of a seabird. And the tension, crackling between them like static before a storm.
Leo, full and lazy, was asleep on the shaded deck of the villa.
Charles let out a soft sigh, a release of the performative parental calm. He walked back to the pair of sun loungers under their thatched palapa. He picked up his discarded novel and his half-finished glass of juice—a vibrant, orange-pink blend of mango, papaya, and passionfruit, beads of condensation sliding down the glass.
He didn’t look at Max as he lay down on the lounger, the cushions conforming to his body. He opened his book, but his eyes weren’t moving. His free hand went to the stem of his glass, his fingers tracing the cool, wet surface.
Max watched him. The afternoon sun painted Charles in gold, highlighting the dusting of freckles across his nose and shoulders, glinting off the faint sheen of sunscreen on his long, toned legs. The white shirt was nearly transparent where it touched his skin, and beneath it, the dark green lace of the bikini bottom was a stark, enticing contrast against his honey-gold skin. Max’s mouth went dry.
He didn’t speak. Words felt unnecessary, clumsy. The game had been set in motion that morning. The forfeit claimed. Now was the time for collection.
Max stood up from his own lounger. The movement was slow, deliberate. He saw Charles’s page-turn still, his breathing hitch slightly. Max walked the few steps to stand beside Charles’s lounger, looking down at him. Charles still didn’t look up, but his knuckles were white on his book.
Slowly, Max knelt on the warm, soft sand beside the lounger. The position put him at eye level with Charles’s hip. He could smell the coconut of the sunscreen, the salt of the sea on Charles’s skin, and the sweet, tangy scent of the tropical juice.
Charles finally lowered his book, his green eyes wide, dark with a mix of apprehension and raw desire. “Max…” he started, his voice a breathy whisper.
“Shhh,” Max murmured, his voice low and rough. He reached out, his fingers brushing the hem of Charles’s linen shirt. “You’re reading.”
“I’m not—” Charles began, but his protest died as Max’s hands found the loose tie of the bikini bottom at his hips.
It was a simple knot. Max pulled it free with one gentle tug. The lace, already loosened from their swim, offered no resistance. Max hooked his fingers into the sides, and in one smooth motion, he pulled the scrap of fabric down Charles’s legs, past his knees, off his ankles. He tossed it aside onto the sand, a little emerald flag of surrender.
Charles gasped, a sharp intake of air. His book slipped from his fingers, landing with a soft thud. He was now exposed from the navel down, the white shirt his only covering, and it was rucked up, revealing everything. The sun kissed the soft, dark hair at the apex of his thighs, the elegant lines of his hip bones, the secret, intimate folds of his pussy, glistening faintly with a mix of seawater and his own arousal.
“Max, someone could—” Charles whispered, his hands fluttering, unsure whether to cover himself or reach for Max.
“No one is here,” Max growled, his hands settling on Charles’s inner thighs. They were as described—soft, full, yielding. He’d always loved Charles’s thighs, their strength from racing contrasting with their beautiful softness. He pushed them apart gently but firmly, opening him to the warm air and Max’s hungry gaze. “Just me. Just us.”
Charles’s head fell back against the lounger cushion, a weak moan escaping his lips. His resistance was token, crumbling under the weight of the day’s anticipation and Max’s focused intent.
Max didn’t wait. He leaned in, his breath hot against Charles’s sensitive skin. He could see the little bud of his clit, already swollen and peeking from its hood. He didn’t tease. He went straight for it, sealing his mouth over the entire bundle of nerves and soft, wet flesh.
“Oh, God!” Charles cried out, his back arching off the lounger. His hands flew to Max’s head, fingers tangling in his damp, sun-bleached hair.
Max groaned against him, the sound vibrating through Charles’s core. The taste was intoxicating—salt, skin, and the uniquely musky-sweet flavor of Charles’s arousal. He licked flatly, then focused on the clit, sucking it gently into his mouth, flicking his tongue over the hard little nub with rapid, practiced strokes.
“No, no, wait… too much… Max!” Charles panted, his hips twitching. His fingers tightened in Max’s hair, not pushing him away so much as holding on for dear life. The sensation was overwhelmingly intense, a direct line from Max’s mouth to every nerve ending in his body.
Max ignored the half-hearted pleas. He knew this dance. The “no” that meant “don’t stop,” the “too much” that was a plea for more. He redoubled his efforts, using his tongue to probe and worship, his hands kneading the soft flesh of Charles’s inner thighs, spreading him wider. He dipped lower, tracing the slick, puffy folds of his labia, lapping up the wetness that was flowing more freely now.
“You taste so good,” Max mumbled against him, his voice thick and muffled. “Always so fucking good for me.”
Charles could only whimper in response, a high, desperate sound. Max’s tongue delved deeper, seeking the source. He found Charles’s entrance, that tight, fluttering hole already slick and open for him. He pushed his tongue inside as far as it would go, fucking him with it in shallow, relentless thrusts.
The sensation of being opened, penetrated, tasted so thoroughly was Charles’s undoing. His body went rigid, a taut bowstring. The incoherent sounds from his throat became a continuous, keening moan.
“Max… I’m gonna… I can’t…”
Max pulled back just enough to growl, “Come on. Let me taste it. Come in my mouth.”
The command, filthy and direct, shattered the last of Charles’s control. His orgasm ripped through him with sudden, violent force. A gush of clear fluid, more than the usual slickness, spilled from his pussy, coating Max’s chin, his lips, his tongue. It was a small, hot flood, a true soaking, and Max drank it greedily, lapping at him as Charles convulsed, his cries sharp and broken against the sound of the gentle waves.
Max didn’t let up. He gentled his mouth, suckling softly at Charles’s oversensitive clit, drawing out the aftershocks until Charles was sobbing, pushing weakly at his head.
“Stop… oh, please, stop… too sensitive…”
Max finally pulled back, licking his lips. He looked up at Charles’s ravished face. His eyes were squeezed shut, tears beading in the corners. His lips were swollen from biting them, his chest heaving under the translucent shirt. He was utterly, beautifully ruined.
“One,” Max said hoarsely, wiping his chin with the back of his hand. He leaned up on his knees, his own erection straining painfully against his black swim shorts. “That’s one.”
Charles’s eyes fluttered open, glazed and dazed. “One what?” he breathed.
“How many times I’m going to make you come this afternoon,” Max stated, his hands moving to his own shorts. He pushed them down and off, freeing his cock. It was thick, heavy, and fully erect, the head already flushed dark and wet. The sight of it, of Max fully naked and hard for him, made Charles moan again.
Before Max could move further, Charles shifted. With a strength born of desperate need, he pushed himself off the lounger, his body liquid and unsteady. He didn’t speak. His green eyes, dark and determined, locked with Max’s. He placed his hands on Max’s bare shoulders and pushed.
Max, surprised by the force, let himself be pushed back onto the soft sand beside the lounger. Charles followed him down, straddling his hips in one fluid, graceful motion. The white linen shirt, now hopelessly rumpled and sandy, was the only thing separating their torsos.
“My turn,” Charles whispered, his voice husky with use and desire. He reached between them, his hand wrapping around Max’s cock. He gave it one slow, firm stroke, making Max hiss. “You’ve had your fun.”
He didn’t need to guide himself. He was so wet, so thoroughly opened and relaxed from his orgasm, that when he lifted his hips and sank down, Max’s cock slid into him in one long, seamless, breathtaking glide.
They both cried out. Charles’s head fell back, a guttural moan ripped from his throat as he was filled, stretched to the limit. Max’s hands flew to Charles’s hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, holding him steady as the overwhelming heat and tightness threatened to undo him instantly.
“Fuck, Charles… so wet… so fucking tight,” Max groaned, his hips bucking involuntarily.
Charles began to move. It was a slow, undulating roll of his hips, a sensual grinding that was all about his own pleasure. He was taking Max deep, milking him with the rhythmic clench of his inner muscles, his pussy fluttering and gripping the thick intrusion perfectly. He braced his hands on Max’s chest, his head bowed, eyes closed in concentration. The white shirt gaped open, giving Max a perfect view of his chest, his flat stomach, the beautiful, swollen evidence of his pregnancy—a small, firm bump that Max found unbearably erotic.
“You feel so good inside me,” Charles murmured, riding him with that slow, maddening pace. “So deep.”
Max was being driven out of his mind. The visual was too much. Charles, beautiful and wanton above him, his body doing delicious, torturous things, the knowledge that his cock was buried to the hilt in the one person who completed him… He could feel his orgasm coiling, low and dangerous, far too soon.
“Charles… baby, you need to move faster,” Max gritted out, his hands tightening on Charles’s hips.
Charles shook his head, a slow, sensual smile playing on his thin lips. “No. This is for me. You… you made me wait all morning. You made me wear this…” He plucked at the sheer shirt. “Now you wait.”
He punctuated his words with a particularly deep, grinding sink of his hips, sheathing Max completely, the base of his cock pressing against Charles’s slick, swollen folds.
Max saw stars. “Fuck!” With a growl that was pure possession, he snapped. He couldn’t wait. He surged up, wrapping his arms around Charles’s torso and flipping them over in a tangle of limbs and sand.
Now Charles was beneath him on the soft sand, his back against the warm ground, his legs falling open in instant, willing surrender. Max was between them, braced on his arms, looking down at his husband’s flushed, desperate face.
“My turn again,” Max stated, and before Charles could reply, he drove back into him, hard and deep.
Charles screamed, his nails scraping down Max’s back. Max didn’t set a rhythm; he pistoned into him with single-minded, punishing thrusts, each one aimed to bury himself as deeply as possible. The angle was perfect. With each plunge, the head of his cock battered a soft, deep spot inside Charles that made him see white.
“Right there! Oh, God, Max, right there!” Charles babbled, his legs wrapping around Max’s waist, heels digging into the small of his back, trying to pull him in even deeper, to take more.
Max complied. He hooked Charles’s legs over his shoulders, folding him almost in half, and the change in angle was devastating. He was so deep now, it felt like he was touching Charles’s womb with every thrust. The sensation was profound, primal. He was claiming him, fucking into the very core of him, marking the place where their child was growing.
“Is that deep enough, liefje?” Max grunted, sweat dripping from his brow onto Charles’s chest. “Is that what you wanted? My cock in your perfect little pussy, hitting your fucking womb?”
“Yes! Yes!” Charles sobbed, his body convulsing around Max’s. “So deep… you’re so deep… I can feel you everywhere…”
The dirty talk, the visceral connection, the blinding pleasure—it was too much. Max felt Charles’s inner walls begin to flutter wildly, then clamp down in a series of rhythmic, pulsing spasms. Another orgasm, stronger than the first, tore through Charles. He screamed, a raw, unfiltered sound that echoed in their private cove. Another flood of release gushed from him, soaking their joined bodies and the sand beneath them.
Max rode him through it, his thrusts becoming shorter, more frantic as Charles’s tight, rippling channel milked him relentlessly. He was on the very edge.
“Gonna come,” he warned, his voice ragged. “Gonna fill you up. Fill that sweet cunt, fill your womb…”
“Do it,” Charles begged, his eyes wild, his hands clutching at Max’s biceps. “Max, please, fill me, I need it…”
That was all the permission Max needed. With one final, brutal thrust, he buried himself as deeply as he could and let go. His orgasm was a roaring, white-hot eruption that seemed to drain his soul from his body and into Charles’s. He pulsed inside him, jet after jet of hot come flooding Charles’s sensitive, well-fucked channel, mixing with his own release.
He collapsed forward, catching most of his weight on his forearms to avoid crushing Charles, but he couldn’t pull out. Not yet. He stayed buried, panting into the crook of Charles’s neck, feeling the aftershocks wrack both their bodies.
Slowly, the world came back. The sound of the waves. The cry of a distant gull. The ragged sound of their breathing mingling.
Max finally softened enough to slip out. He rolled onto his side in the sand, pulling Charles with him, spooning him from behind. They were a sticky, sandy, sweaty mess. Max’s hand splayed over Charles’s lower belly, over the small, firm swell.
They lay there for long minutes, simply breathing.
Charles stirred first. He shifted in Max’s arms, turning his head. His face was flushed, his lips kiss-swollen, his green eyes soft and sated. “You’re a beast,” he murmured, but there was no heat in it, only awe and exhaustion.
Max kissed his shoulder. “Your beast.”
He nuzzled into Charles’s neck, then his attention was caught by something else. On Charles’s chest, where he’d been lying partially on him, a patch of his skin was wet. And not just with sweat or seawater. It was streaked with a pale, orange-pink stickiness.
The juice. Charles’s spilled drink from earlier.
An idea, wicked and perfect, formed in Max’s still-hazy, post-coital mind. He remembered the other change in Charles’s body, the one that had made itself known in the most surprising, beautiful way in recent weeks.
Slowly, Max dipped his head. He licked a stripe through the sticky juice on Charles’s pectoral muscle.
Charles shuddered. “Max… what are you…?”
Max didn’t answer with words. He found Charles’s nipple, pebbled and sensitive in the warm air. He took it into his mouth and sucked, not with sexual fervor now, but with a deep, drawing pull.
A sweet, thin, warm stream hit the back of Max’s throat. It was milk. Charles’s milk, rich and faintly sweet, mingling with the tangy remnants of the tropical juice on his skin.
Charles gasped, his back arching. “Oh!”
Max sucked harder, drinking from him, cleaning the juice and the milk from his skin. The taste was incredible—citrus, passionfruit, and the pure, nurturing essence of his wife. It was the most intimate thing he’d ever experienced.
He switched to the other side, lapping up the spilled juice there before latching on and drawing another few sweet mouthfuls. Charles whimpered, his hand coming up to cradle Max’s head, fingers stroking through his hair. It wasn’t sexual now; it was something deeper, more profound. A giving and a taking that spoke of creation, of life, of a bond that went beyond anything on a racetrack or a marriage certificate.
When Max finally released him, Charles’s nipples were red and wet. Max rested his forehead against Charles’s shoulder blade, breathing heavily.
“You taste like paradise,” Max whispered against his skin. “And like home.”
Charles was silent for a long moment. Then his body shook with a quiet, emotional sob. He turned fully in Max’s arms, pressing his face into Max’s neck. Max held him tightly, feeling the slight tremors run through him.
“I love you,” Charles whispered, his voice thick. “Even when you are a scheming, impossible, perverted devil.”
Max chuckled, the sound vibrating through both of them. “I love you more, my beautiful, perfect, responsive wife.” He kissed his temple. “And our baby.”
Charles’s hand found Max’s on his stomach and squeezed. They lay like that as the sun began its slow descent towards the horizon, painting the sky in shades of fire. They were sticky, sandy, utterly spent, and completely, irrevocably one.
Later, they would have to get up. They would have to wash off in the outdoor shower, trying and failing to keep their hands off each other under the spray. They would have to greet their son, share a family dinner, and pretend to be normal, civilized people and not two animals who had just claimed each other on a deserted beach.
But for now, in the afterglow, with the taste of salt, citrus, and Charles on his lips, Max knew he had never been happier.