Chapter 6 Charlie #3
“Don’t go,” Charlie blurts, moving without thinking. His foot squelches in the paint, and he doesn’t even care, dropping his paint brush in favor of stalking towards his companion. “I was painting.”
“I see that.”
Up close it’s clear they are glitter freckles. Charlie wants to lick them. He wants to pick him up and devour him, paint him, memorize him. He’s rock hard already, paint splattered fingers twitching at his sides. “I forgot you were coming. I get focused and lose track of things.”
He hums, stepping into Charlie’s personal space. “Do you want me to leave so you can finish painting?”
Charlie shakes his head. He’s not usually lost for words but all of his are gone now.
Replaced by a mind full of colors—thick streaks of black and gray, washed out by messy splatters of blue.
A garish swash of white. Messy and beautiful.
There are times like now where Charlie doesn’t think in words, he thinks in colors and feelings that grow too big until he has to get them out or it feels like they might suffocate him.
“You’re staring, Charlie.”
He is staring. Far beyond the vein of what might be considered polite, but looking away for even a second is inconceivable when there is something in front of him this beautiful.
As a child, Charlie had collected random shit.
Pretty rocks from sidewalks, tabs from soda cans, the tags off gifts he coveted more than the gifts themselves.
Some people called it trash, but Charlie knew better.
Beauty lies in the things people look over.
In their few short meetings, Charlie understands all the ways this guy is used to being ignored, but if Charlie had his way he’d never look away.
“You’re gorgeous.” He scoffs, but Charlie isn’t deterred, stalking towards him with single-minded focus. “I’m going to touch you. If you don’t want me to, tell me right now.”
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want you to touch me,” he asserts, widening his stance before tipping his face up at Charlie. “But there are rules.”
Charlie’s hands hover just an inch or so away from their desired destination, but he keeps them there waiting, exerting the kind of self-control he usually lacks.
The shift in his facial expression—the tightness in his jaw and pinched eyebrows loosening—is so subtle it’d be easy to miss, but Charlie’s always been a details man.
Noticing it feels like a reward just for him.
“Are you a good boy, Charlie?”
“Fuck no,” Charlie laughs. “But I am a respectful one.”
“Being good is overrated anyway,” he replies, rising onto the tiptoes of his scuffed up hot pink Converse.
Even then it’s a reach, so Charlie angles his body down, expecting a kiss.
Instead, blunt fingernails scrape tantalizingly along his scalp as his head is pulled down, chapped lips finding his ear not his mouth.
“Rules?” Charlie groans, proud of himself for not lifting him up and walking him backwards to press him against the wall to devour him the way he wants to. Charlie might identify as a slut, but he’s not sure he’s ever been so hard just from looking at someone.
“No kissing.” He answers, lips grazing the shell of Charlie’s ear. “And no touching my hair.”
Charlie shudders with anticipation and arousal. He really wanted to touch his soft-looking, white blonde hair, and kiss those pretty lips, but he’s a man of his word. Charlie can resist if he’s not comfortable.
“Anywhere else?” Charlie asks.
“You can touch me anywhere else with your hands or mouth. What about you?” He withdraws slightly, blinking those pretty baby blues at Charlie. “Anything off limits?”
“Nope,” Charlie answers, popping the p. “You could literally step on me and I’d let you.”
“What if I wanted to bend you over that workspace of yours and fuck you?”
“Yes,” Charlie answers so quickly it earns him a quirk of the other man’s beautiful lips which turns Charlie on further.
There’s no point playing coy when he’s got a guy right out of one of his fantasies standing here willing to defile him.
He kind of hopes he keeps the skirt on when he does it.
No one’s ever fucked Charlie while wearing a skirt.
Hard to believe, but now that he’s thought it, he knows it’s true.
He might have had enough partners over his lifetime that a lot of the sexual escapades bleed together, but he would definitely remember if someone ever fucked him with a skirt on.
Reaching down, Charlie adjusts himself, damn near palming his erection. The only thing better than sex is sex with someone who knows what they want, and this guy wants Charlie—bent over his own art desk and moaning like a whore. Something Charlie is absolutely fucking on board with.
“You’re so eager. Do you want me that bad, Charlie?”
What a fucking question. Want doesn’t seem like the right word for it.
Charlie wants a lot of things—the new lemon printed Crocs he saw last week, for Andrew to come with him to his next gallery showing, and for Jason to pull his head out of his ass and realize he’s not straight.
This isn’t a want. That implies Charlie will be fine if he doesn’t get it, and that’s just not true.
Charlie needs him—needs to be fucked good and hard in this room where he lives and breathes his art by someone who is more beautiful than anything Charlie’s ever created.
While Charlie doesn’t believe this is some love at first sight bullshit, he is positive this guy standing in front of him is the reason Charlie’s got paint stained fingers and a wet canvas behind him after agonizing weeks of being art blocked.
Something about this guy makes every part of Charlie—his arousal, his creativity—spark to life. Charlie doesn't want more, he needs it.
One night to revel in this gorgeous man, and then they can both move on.
“I do,” Charlie confirms, rewarded when one delicate finger trails down over his jaw and close to his mouth.
So close he could taste it if he wanted, so he does just that, turning his head and opening his mouth.
Kissing and hair touching are off limits, but he didn’t say anything about finger sucking.
“Shit.”
That one half-whispered curse word is the only warning Charlie gets before he’s shoved back until his ass hits the work table and he’s devoured—those pretty lips attaching themselves to the hollow of Charlie’s throat and sucking hard before he shoves two fingers past Charlie’s lips to finger fuck his mouth.
Only a solid decade of slutting it up stops Charlie from coming in his pants, but he does buck his hips and moan.
Has Charlie ever been so turned on so quickly? He doesn’t fucking think so.
This guy might be small, and seems kind of delicate, but he’s stronger than he looks and just as demanding, thrusting his fingers in and out of Charlie’s willing mouth in a tease of how he might fuck him.
Charlie moans around them, bucking his hips and throwing his head back to afford him better access when a terrible thought occurs to him.
“Wait,” he blurts, putting a stop to things before they get too heated and Charlie loses all common sense. “We can’t do this.”