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After seeing off the last of his friends, François finally managed to catch his breath.
He had never been so discourteous while hosting guests in his own home: it wasn’t even ten o’clock yet, and he was already at the very edge of his patience. The salad was still unfinished, the record player had only reached its sixth track, and half a bottle of red wine lay spilled across the floor. Thanks to Connor Storrie, the entire dinner had been excruciating and chaotic — the twenty-five-year-old boyfriend had quite literally lost his fucking mind. In front of two male friends and one female friend, he kept leaning in to whisper into François’s ear, deliberately brushing his hand while reaching for food, sliding his calf over François’s under the table — all just to watch him falter while speaking at the table.
François was certain Connor had seen the warning in his eyes and simply did not care. He was burning with anger now, unwilling to speak and unsure what could even be said, feeling only a nameless desire accumulating inside him. Ill-timed flirting may become a provocation, but that does not alter its nature as flirting.
Connor had already picked up the empty wine bottle from the floor and was clearing the table. His movements were diligent, his expression calm, as if nothing had happened at all. He emptied the kitchen scraps, loaded the dishes into the dishwasher, then returned to the living room and knelt down to blot the wine stain along the edge of the carpet.
François’s gaze shifted from the stain to Connor’s knuckles — damp with liquid,
—to the forearms revealed by his rolled sleeves, marked with the traces of last night’s enjoyment in bed,
—to the creases in the fabric around his shoulders, outlining the beautiful musculature of that body,
—to the shirt gaping open at the collar: François remembered clearly that two hours earlier Connor had undone only the first button. Now the third was open.
François stared at him, furious and restless. Furious because Connor knew perfectly well what he was doing; restless because the whole damn display was setting him on fire.
The truth was, if it had been just the two of them tonight, he would not have needed to pretend to be a gentleman in front of his friends. The moment Connor undid the second button, he would have pushed him down onto the sofa, stripped off that obstructing shirt, kissed his ear, his shoulder, down to the small of his back — and then fucked him until his throat was raw and his vision sparked, until neither of them could hear the French music drifting from the record player.
Quite obviously, that was exactly what Connor Storrie wanted. But now he had decided he would not give it to him.
“You know what you’re doing,” François said, trying to make his voice sound cold.
“Yes, sir.”
Damn it — there it was again. Connor had a habit of slipping into performance without warning, addressing him in that teasing, provocative tone that blurred the line between flirting and mockery — and François very clearly enjoyed it.
“Care to elaborate? What exactly have you done?” François switched off the porch light and leaned back against the wall, maintaining the physical distance between them for the moment.
“I cleared the table.” Connor looked up solemnly, his gaze innocent, his expression unguarded, the body beneath the open shirt plainly visible.
“And before that?”
“Before that… we had dinner?”
“What did you do during dinner?”
“I…” Connor deliberately slowed his speech, adopting a faintly anxious expression. “I’m sorry, sir. I behaved improperly at the table.”
The young man was absolutely acting. How could François possibly refuse to play along? He fucking loved this game.
“Be specific.”
“I spoke too much at the table.”
“Mm. And?”
“I deliberately touched your hand. And your leg.”
“And?”
“That’s all I can think of for now.”
“Think harder. Your attitude will determine the punishment.”
Connor said nothing. He lowered his head and toyed with the paper towel in his hands. After roughly half a minute, he unfastened the last button of his shirt and slipped it off — the body was no longer displayed as bait, but presented as reward.
That infuriated François. Every time he believed he had reclaimed even a fragment of control, Connor would shatter the illusion with some impeccably minor gesture. Claiming to be tired and falling asleep on his lap. Accidentally slipping from the sofa and catching hold of his tie on the way down. And then François would give him everything he wanted.
Connor was the one who had always been in control. François had lost before the game even began. But fortunately, he was still clear-headed now — clear-headed in every sense — and strong enough to carry out that so-called punishment.
“Give me the bottle,” he said to Connor.
François did not remain where he stood. He walked to the sofa and sat down in the corner by the window, one arm propping up his head, the other resting across his parted legs, like a patron in a private club booth waiting for the waiter to bring his drink. He watched Connor’s every movement without blinking.
“Sir, your wine.” Connor’s posture was impeccably deferential, though his expression carried unmistakable satisfaction. Only a few mouthfuls remained in the bottle.
“I’m exhausted. Please serve it to me,” François whispered.
As expected, Connor lifted the bottle to his own lips and took a sip. He held the wine in his mouth, raised his right knee onto the sofa—pressing firmly against the older man’s thigh—and leaned down toward his lips.
Not a single drop was wasted. They were well practiced in this gesture.
“You want more?” Connor whispered back.
“Yes.”
They repeated the wine-soaked kiss. As Connor pulled away, he licked the corner of François’s mouth.
“I’ve had enough,” the patron said. “What about the rest?”
“We shouldn’t waste it.”
“I agree.”
The scent of red wine thickened the air in the living room, making it feel heavier and denser. Connor looked down at François, who was sunk deep into the sofa, feeling the warmth building where their bodies pressed together.
“Do you mind if I drink it all?” he asked.
“Depends on how you choose to finish it.”
Connor understood. He bent down and set the bottle on the floor; as he straightened, he caught the hem of François’s shirt between his teeth. The fabric lifted with the motion, eventually bunching up over the well-shaped curve of his chest. The younger man picked up the bottle again.
The cold crimson wine traced its way down along the lines of muscle. Connor licked at it with the devotion of someone worshipping a statue, feeling the tremor in the other body and the uneven rhythm of his own breath. At first, he poured slowly and licked quickly, always catching the liquid before it could reach the lower abdomen. Then, at some point, the balance shifted: François’s hand came to rest at the back of his head, and Connor tilted the bottle further, emptying it in one smooth motion—
Too much wine. The waistband was soaked in an instant.
In Connor’s original plan, there should have been a soft “Sorry, sir” here. But the hand cradling his head pressed down like a fast-forward button. It took only seconds for Connor to work François’s pants off with his mouth.
As someone who had embraced his sexuality from a young age, Connor had always been confident in his skills in bed. Over the past few months with François, that talent had been pushed to its limits—from their careful beginnings to later improvisations, they had grown so familiar with each other’s bodies that a safeword was no longer needed. Admittedly, François had his own eye-opening techniques and preferences, but Connor, too, always managed to surprise the older man.
François’s cock was almost fully hard already—Connor allowed himself another secretly proud smirk. He loved being in control, because he always found a way to make things unfold exactly as he intended. It wasn’t just about a sense of achievement; he deeply relished the satisfaction of giving and receiving pleasure with François. He loves that man like he loves being alive.
Connor took him fully into his mouth. Encouraged by the older man, he stimulated the sensitive nerves while lifting his eyes, watching François unravel beneath his movements—breathing that turned frantic and chaotic, almost broken. Connor worked harder, licking and sucking until precum and saliva left them both slick—he stopped before things slipped entirely out of control.
Connor lifted his head to kiss François. As their tongues tangled deeply, he shed his own trousers, his right hand braced behind François’s ear as he swung a leg over and settled into his exclusive seat.
“You’ve prepared yourself, haven’t you?”
“Yes, sir. I prepared for you.”
“Since when?”
“You don’t get to know.”
Connor used the firm curve of his hips to caress François’s slick cock, while leaving scattered love bites along his collarbone. They avoided leaving visible marks — professional obligations, after all. It would invite unnecessary discussion and speculation. Though, deep down, neither of them truly cared. In fact, Connor would sometimes linger deliberately over dangerous spots, licking but never biting, simply to watch François driven nearly beyond himself by desire.
More often than not, Connor preferred to be the bottom; but whether he was on top or underneath, it never altered his enjoyment of watching others lose control under his influence. At first, he had only wanted to feel acknowledged, desired. Later, however, his interest grew purer—he simply relished the thrill of being fucked breathless, vision sparking, yet still holding the reins of the entire situation. He was not the type who excelled at barking orders, but he certainly knew how to manipulate the human heart in silence. With a glance, with a breath, with a whisper into the ear, with the ghost of a motion—by using everything, by using nothing at all—François would fall for him every single time. Just like now.
When François gripped his waist with both hands, Connor braced himself against François’s length and sank down onto him. Just like the countless times before: thrusting, grinding, sinking deep. The younger man controlled the rhythm of his ride—he was a genius at edging himself, and at the same time, he was mercilessly tormenting François.
“Connie, babe,” he panted, barely able to focus, “I almost forgot about your punishment.”
“What is it, François?”
“You’re not allowed to touch yourself.”
“Oops,” Connor snickered, “I wasn’t even planning to.”
François finally lost what little restraint he had left. Uncontrollably, he began thrusting upward to meet Connor’s movements, each drive harder and deeper than the last, determined to disrupt his rhythm. The frenzy spread quickly to Connor as François bent to take one of his nipples into his mouth—sucking, biting lightly, letting the tip of his tongue wander and leave behind an irresistible, maddening itch. With all that piercings he once had, Connor had always possessed a higher tolerance for pain than others. By now, François could hit that exact threshold—feeding the hunger without crossing into unbearable pain. It hardly needs to be said that someone was, in the broadest sense, a dog person, and it was a match made in heaven: François loves biting, and Connor loves pain. If Simon were there, he would certainly be proud of his father.
Amid endless gasps and grinding, the clock hands had already turned to midnight. François had to admit that his stamina truly could not compare to that of a twenty-five-year-old; several times he had nearly felt completely drained. Yet Connor was such a sweetheart—at those moments, he would slow down, kissing, stroking, and holding François gently, with a dick still inside him. They might have said something to each other, though neither of them could quite remember what. Between the flood of meaningless syllables and moans, what the other was actually saying did not really matter. Connor was usually the one to speak first, and every time he did, François would respond—more horny, more provocative, more irresistibly enticing. Connor knew this deeply: it was one of the advantages of dating an older man. And he was definitely lucky that François was one of the best lovers anyone could hope for. He knew how to play along with Connor’s tricks, remembered every one of Connor’s likes and dislikes, and could reach his soul—whether in career, in daily life, or in bed. They shared a love of performance and a curiosity about language. In this era where fate drifted like duckweed upon water, they were fortunate to be entangled with each other both mentally and physically.
When François was nearly spent, and Connor too was about to lose his strength in the slick wetness between them, they finally reached the height of ecstasy—and remained there for a long while. Connor’s forehead pressed against the side of François’s neck, his hands gripping the sofa tightly as he felt that warmth surge into his body again and again. He came violently at the same time. His release spilled everywhere: on the belly, on the chest, and even a few drops on François’s face. They laughed and licked them away.
“Are you satisfied with the punishment I gave you?” François asked with a smile.
“I’d give it an A+,” Connor replied.
And they kissed gently again.