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Checo knew that, somewhere deep down, he’d hoped to high heavens he wouldn’t see the day Max Verstappen wore a ring on his finger, but he was forced to come to terms with that very real fact sooner rather than later. It was the result of idling for years, having all chances but taking none, and taking even worse ones instead.
He spun his own golden band on his ring finger idly. The party roared loudly, jarring, for how private Max had advertised it to be. His DJ friend was there – Martin? – and the rented venue thrummed floor to ceiling with the remixes he’d kept coming all evening.
Checo had received the damning invitation to the wedding of Max and Kelly Verstappen-Piquet months ago, and he’d struggled to grasp the reality of it for a hot second. He’d known for months prior to being there, at the too-loud party, but every time he remembered, the memory of the invitation under his fingertips was glazed over in some sort of haze that he couldn’t shake. It couldn’t have been real. He remembered it during busy media days, when their workflow was steady but boring. He turned his head to look at Max beside him, and Max would look back at him, offering him one of his goofy grins, and Checo grinned in turn and it made the day more bearable. But nothing seemed to have truly changed in their relationship.
The ring had appeared on Max’s left hand. mirroring, but not matching, that of Checo’s, about two weeks prior.
And now he was here. A loud bachelor party, a pit opening up in his stomach and strippers. Too many strippers.
Checo smiled tensely at the pretty girl walking past him that eyed him up and down, throwing him a wink. He dove his hand in his pocket and blindly fished a bill – a number that honored him, he hoped – and slid it shortly in the string of her sparkling blue thong, smiling businesslike, paying her to leave him alone. The girl threw him a weirded glare, but she wasn’t one to complain because she moved on past.
He didn’t like strippers, he didn’t like thinking about what Carola was going to say when he came back home, so he started to move, drink in hand, to a less stripper-heavy corner of the room.
Max was throwing himself around on the dance floor to a remix of Bad Romance. He was already visibly drunk off his ass, while Checo couldn’t have brought himself to touch one drop of alcohol to his lips. Checo breached the dance circle to watch Max’s footwork.
Max was light on his feet despite the drunkenness. Two of his mates Checo couldn’t recognize flanked him, but he wasn’t going to start making an effort to remember them when Max was at the center of it all, so bright and pretty and pissed out of his mind. His hair was gelled in place so tightly it could bounce water off, and Checo could almost see Kelly in his mind’s eye, gelling down the soft, unruly beautiful blonde hair that was part of what made Max Max.
Max’s lips looked so good wrapping around the words of the song that Checo wanted to devour his mouth then and there. Did he even need alcohol, when all that was really necessary to get him drunk was one glimpse of Max?
Max was getting married, but not to him. Which was stupid to think about in terms of Checo’s chances with Max. Checo had gotten married long before Max.
For now, they were at the bachelor’s party, one last cry of freedom before Max took the final step towards establishing himself as a family man. These past few months Checo had felt like he was watching the chapters of a book slowly running out.
He slipped out of the dance circle. Max wasn’t paying attention to him at the moment.
Max found him later, coming to look for him with his shirt half undone and sparse chest hair sticky with champagne and something sweet. He was glistening all over and it took Checo superhuman will to not lose himself in the need to touch.
“Checoo! Let’s dance, Checo!”
They went back to the dance floor, Checo still dangerously sober, deciding that he should start drinking as soon as possible. The proximity was delirious and nothing quite compared to the hand Max settled on his chest as he started swaying against Checo. If anyone was taking a video of their compromising closeness, Checo didn’t care. Fuck that, Checo would ask them to send the video to him directly.
Max’s cheeks were a deep rosy shade and his lips even more so, and Checo’s heartbeat came up to his ears when Max leaned in to whisper something in a blur of red lips and blonde hair and blue eyes. His thumping heart drowned everything out so he laughed and hoped it was a joke. Max pulled away and looked oh so pleased with himself. Feeling his courage stir, Checo put his hand up where Max’s neck met his shoulder and dragged him back in.
When he got spun around, Checo lost his balance and it took him a hot second to regain his footing. He had been right. Nothing had him drunker on pleasure, and on pain, than Max.
Somehow, at some point between then and now a wig had found its way on Max. Blonde, long and– goodness, dios, Checo’s heart thrummed again and he felt it all the way down to his dick, surely some party trick from one of the close guests or Max himself.
Checo’s mind flashed with the memory of Australia and the promos they’d been shooting, where Max had worn that god awful, ridiculous wig. It had been the stupidest challenge ever, but in his imagination Checo had already taken Max behind one of the tyre stacks in the garage and fucked him stupid, imagining the many ways that Max could whine and beg.
Max was dancing again, but the wild hair and the sway of his hips transfixed Checo to the point he couldn’t move. The world around them faded out in an instant and it was just him and Max, Max throwing himself against him and grinding against whatever part of Checo he could find.
Checo tried to leg it out of there. It had gotten to a point. He was already feeling the rush of blood and the want, the need overtaking him. He groaned as Max pressed up on him, mouth half open in a cheeky smile, reeking of whiskey and champagne.
“My name’s Maxine,” he slurred. “Like whatcha see?” Max’s smile went wider.
Checo didn’t answer for fear of saying yes too eagerly. His eyes widened and he let out a choked gasp at the sensation of Max’s clumsy, searching fingers on his crotch. He forgot all about the bachelor party and his hand came around to grasp at Max’s ass, half trying to play it off as pretend, half itching to touch.
The gasp Max let out in turn was too promising, made Checo too optimistic. He let go of Max with great difficulty, not enjoying the way his hurt face sent a pang through his own chest.
The breaking point came when Max dragged Checo aside, loudly proclaiming in his ear that he was going to puke from the noise and wanted to be driven home.
From his own bachelor party? Checo would’ve asked, but he had no time as Max was already pulling him along through the crowd, parting it hastily, and outside, throwing Checo at the wheel of his Ferrari while he scrambled in the passenger’s seat.
Checo was going to protest, to try to find a way to tell Max to find someone else, because they two couldn’t be left alone for too long, or else Checo’s dick would find a way to convince him to do things they shouldn’t, but Max’s hand was on his crotch again. He was still in the stupid wig.
“Drive?” Max said, pleading, making the biggest puppy eyes Checo had ever seen from him, and he was taking the Ferrari out on the narrow winding streets of Monaco without having to be begged twice.
The ride was painfully slow, the late hour traffic doing nothing to help speed things up, because Checo had to push Max back in his seat every five seconds. He couldn’t believe this was happening to him.
He had to give a particularly rough shove when Max’s lips made their way to his neck. When they pulled up to Max’s apartment complex, they had to take the elevator up to the penthouse. It was obvious Max was too drunk to carry it, while Checo was shouldering him, Max whining and heaving little sighs every second. In the elevator, Max finally found Sergio’s mouth with his.
Checo wondered whether they really were going to do the things he was thinking they were going to do. He had no excuse, painfully sober, Max the only one with alcohol breath, but his cock strained against his tight pants and there was a dull thrum of adrenaline through his veins. The want and the need went unmentioned.
In the penthouse suite, Max resumed the groping, unceremoniously pushing Checo on a couch, toppling them over, straddling his lap like he was squeezing a wild horse between his thighs, trying to tame it. Checo’s hips bucked up, and Max let out another choked off moan. He was in too deep now, grabbing Max, overcome with the need, wishing to take Max just like he’d imagined so many times before. His hands slipped under Max’s undone shirt, trying to hike it up and expose that delicious belly Checo had only touched in his dreams.
Max leaned in at first but staggered and stopped. His flushed face scrunched up, as his drunken mind tried to think. Checo stopped to take that moment in, Max’s face framed by the golden hair of the wig, his wet, puffy lips swollen from the kissing half parted. The most beautiful thing in the world. Checo’d had the most beautiful thing in the world and even though he was holding it right now, it was slipping through his fingers.
Jesus, that wig was ridiculous, but it got Checo’s mind(and blood) racing a million miles a minute.
“Stay here,” Max breathed on Checo’s lips, and Checo could nearly taste the champagne he’d had.
Checo remained, obediently. Max got off, stumbling jerkily away and towards an open bedroom door. It wasn’t hard to imagine what Max was getting up to, Checo’s mind started wandering through scenarios. Maybe he was getting the lube and condoms out, shuffling out of his pants hurriedly to toss them aside. Maybe he was fingering himself prepared right now. Checo would’ve killed to be the one to spread Max open, to push one finger inside him, then two, testing out how he liked it and how he took it, would’ve killed to pluck out and listen to all of the ethereal noises Max would make, opened up by his fingers. Checo’s hand snaked down to his cock, palming himself through his pants, when he felt the metal dig in his finger.
He took one look at the ring. He tried to conjure up the image of Carola, but she simply didn’t come up. His brain returned an error in a column somewhere. Checo reached shakily and slid the golden band off his ring finger, reaching over to the coffee table. it dropped with a resounding clink on the glass surface. Checo didn’t want to have to look at its shimmer on his hand when he spread Max’s legs.
There was an indistinct sound from the other room, like something soft falling. Max emerged from the bedroom–
Y madre de dios, the Max leaving the bedroom – Max, Maxine? – was one of the most outlandish apparitions he’d ever had in front of him.
Maxine-Max wore a bright red, tight dress that did nothing to cover his thighs and most of his chest, still visibly sticky in the little stream of moonlight and streetlights coming from outside. Nothing had prepared Checo for this, for seeing Max in the tight dress, with long blonde locks and even stumbling out on heels – and Checo knew it was a pair of Kelly’s, a black pair, too constraining on his feet, and his cock was the most interested it had ever been.
Max came closer, drunk and on heels and Checo was hurting for it. Max’s knee came down dangerously, planting between Checo’s thighs on the couch, making him yelp and spread and in a moment Max was on top of him again.
The kisses were hungry, ravenous, both of them clashing like it was the first time they had the opportunity to sate this raging hunger for the other. In the glow of the evening, Checo noticed Max’s ring finger was also bare now, just like his own. His hands grasped at Max’s hips, moving everywhere, palming his lower belly where a flame was building up, sliding down to the spot in the dress tented by Max’s cock.
Max bucked into the touch and made a choked sobbing noise. They didn’t talk. Their mode of communication became touches and sounds – and Checo got really good at interpreting Max’s repertoire of noises, where the higher pitched moan meant more, the frustrated huff meant not enough and the shaking meant–
Max peeled away suddenly, letting himself drop to the floor, between Checo’s legs. He bit his red bottom lip, redder than usual, and Checo leaned in to notice that his mole had been covered in crimson lipstick. Max’s eye contact was daring, demanding, his icy blue eyes boring holes in Checo’s. Checo’s gaze darted, up and down, between the red lip and the blue eyes. He felt Max’s mouth under his fingers as his hand came up to hold Max’s face. Not once breaking eye contact, Max let his tongue dart out from between his lips, brushing teasingly against the pads of Checo’s fingers. Checo groaned, driven a little closer to insanity.
Then, all of a sudden, Max was pushing Checo’s thighs aside and nagging at his pants zipper. Overstimulated and incapacitated, Checo sat while Max tried to get it open, even resorting to planting his whole face in Checo’s groin to bite at the zipper, leaving a wet patch of saliva when pulling away. It had gotten the job done, though, and Max was now leaving a pool of drool in Checo’s boxer briefs, struggling to pull the pants and underwear down.
The moment his cock was in Max’s hand, hot and heavy, Checo felt his head spin. The cool air of the room felt terrible against his skin, and his thick brows drew together. Max jerked him, experimentally, looking up in drunken fascination, following Checo’s reactions to gauge what else he needed to do. When he heard the series of short staccato gasps, his face lit with the ditzy smile from before, on the dancefloor.
His tongue darted out again, taking one, two licks at the head, tentatively this time. Checo’s head threw back and he hissed loudly, fingers clutching at the faux leather couch, and he missed seeing the moment when Max’s lips first wrapped around his cock, the warmth of his mouth sending him into wheelspin. It was all too much. Max was drunk, Max was taking him in his mouth right now, his tongue sliding against Checo all slick and hot and it took all his energy to keep himself from coming in two strokes like when he was a teenager.
“Mierda, Max,” he moaned, and his hands blindly grasped around until they found Max’s hair, anchoring themselves there. When he finally turned to look, he was grateful he’d taken his ring off and had not left it on, to peek at him through the strands of hair.
Max’s head bobbed up and down, left hand at the base of Checo’s dick, steadying himself on his thigh with the right. He was moving, half with the hesitation of someone less experienced, half enthusiastic about doing more of it. Lord almighty, Checo knew in an instant he would soon be wanting more, he would be craving to come back for seconds.
Maybe this was all still part of the bachelor party for Max. Maybe Checo was the culmination of it for him, a soon to be married man and one married for years, clashing, sparks flying. Checo’s eyes soon rolled back in his head as Max eagerly dove down, sinking onto his cock, those beautiful lips wrapped around and reaching all the way to the base. His hands convulsed in Max’s wig hair and he thrust up into the heat, perhaps carelessly, because he heard Max choke.
Max resiliently weathered it, head still bobbing, his tongue twirling patterns on the underside of Checo’s cock that sent electric impulses up his spine and to his brain. It had been a fairly long time since he’d gotten a blowjob. He was coming hard and seeing stars in moments.
Max halted, lips still around Checo, hand lazily stroking him up and down as he swallowed hard, then pulled himself off with an obscene sound that would have gotten Checo erect all over again had he not just come. He was slowly starting to come down from the haze, and the post orgasm bliss, when Max moaned, uncomfortable.
Checo’s eyes snapped down at Max’s needy figure, back arching, ass jutting out, on all fours after he’d come away from Checo. That tight dress highlighted the entire contour of his body. He looked up through his eyelashes, breathing heavily. Checo figured he should do something about him. His hand came to grab at Max’s chin, wiping a stray drop of come that had made its way to the corner of Max’s mouth, smearing away some red as well. Max knew how Checo tasted, now.
Checo bent down to yank Max up towards him, and Max gave him a gratified sound in return. He landed in Checo’s lap, the dress riding up his curvy, spread thighs. Checo did the rest of the work and revealed Max’s own cock, neglected and smeared with precum, a bead of it still forming at the tip. Max breathed shallowly, quickly, his arms snaked around Checo’s shoulders, their foreheads close together, almost bumping. He said nothing again, leaving Checo to his own devices to figure out what Max would like, but it wasn’t that hard. One small, fleeting touch on his dick and Max shuddered again, moaning so close to Checo’s ear, activating something in him again, making him push with a burst of strength and Max ended up flat on his back on the couch, gasping.
Checo wasn’t nearly ready to go again. It would take him too long until he would be able to properly fuck Max, and he didn’t want the heat of the moment fizzling out. But he did want to touch Max, to feel him, to map out his body. To make him come.
Max’s eyes never left him. Checo spat on his hand and Max moaned seeing it, and then again, even needier at the feeling of the hand on his dick, the slick spit mixing with his own precum. Checo pushed away his dress completely, leaning down to kiss, to worship Max.
Max’s little high pitched sounds of pleasure became background noise while Checo licked and kissed. He moved down towards Max’s pulse point, and pulled the skin there between his teeth to mark. The muscles underneath the skin tensed and flexed, and Max’s stream of noises was punctuated by a particularly loud moan. It was Checo’s turn to feel a pair of hands in his hair, desperate for an anchor, not quite sure whether to pull his head away or in.
Checo slowly moved across each inch of skin, drawing a detailed map of Max’s body. It would be the only part of Max he would be allowed to keep after tonight. He wanted to make it count. His free hand caressed, touched everything, Max’s thigh, the curve where it met his buttock, his hip. He pulled away for one second to admire his work, while still stroking Max.
Max was a right mess, his hair tousled, long over his shoulders, and face red hot. The spots on him Checo had bitten were also starting to pink up, Max’s entire upper body rising and falling with his disordered breathing. Checo’s stare lingered pointedly on Max’s lower belly, where the happy trail got lost, towards his belly button. He slowly stroked his fingers across. The thought that he would really have liked to put a baby in there, if he could, flew through his mind.
Checo looked up to meet Max’s eye, as if scared he too had felt the idea that passed through Checo’s head. Max looked back, but shortly away, cheeks too hot with embarrassment and pleasure, and from that Checo couldn’t tell.
Checo wanted to take one last thing. He went again, following the happy trail down, to the smell of sex, Max’s heavy breathing a constant in the air. He puckered his lips and pressed a kiss to the head of Max’s cock, pulling another moan from his mouth. Checo wanted his taste, he wanted it and needed it like nothing else. Max was salty from everything, the sex, the sweat, but on recount Checo would only remember how sweet he had been. So he was going to latch onto that.
He sucked Max’s cock eagerly. A few rabbity thrusts later, Max came, spurting hot in Checo’s mouth, another salty taste. Checo swallowed it all.
He rested his head on Max’s belly and felt the grip in his hair ease off, but the hands stayed there. They sat, spent, exhausted in the way only a couple miles long run would have made them. Checo’s heart, at least, had worked overtime.
Max pulled lightly at his hair. With a “hmm?” Checo leaned up to catch Max’s blissed face. It beckoned him, so he got up.
Max welcomed him on his chest, resting his arms around his neck again. They kissed, but not with the same fervor from before. This time it was lazier, even if Checo tried to put a little bit of I don’t want to let you go, I don’t in the way his lips moved and tongue pushed against Max’s. Max’s head lolled back on the armrest of the couch and Checo settled in the crook of his neck, nose brushing in the long hair. He continued pressing kisses on the flushed skin there. Those elicited nothing more from Max than content sighs, like he was at the end of a road and he was satisfied, having gotten what he wanted most.
And it was the end of the road, for both of them. Eventually, Checo would have to get up and put his wedding band back on his finger. He wished to stay in this limbo forever. He and Max, Max and him. But it wasn’t permitted to them. They’d had to steal this night, Max had to have drunkenly pulled Checo with, both shedding what was theirs for a moment with each other.
And Checo would think of it later, he was sure of it. Now, with a taste of Max, he was always going to yearn for more, more. The echo of this mistake was going to reverberate through years from now. Max might’ve been able to forget, to cast all it aside and carry on with life, but Checo wasn’t sure of the same luck for himself. He was going to think of Max each time he stroked himself, drunk on the memory of tonight, he was going to think of his hands in Max’s hair and Max with that red lip each time he saw him in the paddock, in the hospitality, in parc fermé. It was the final thing that had him ruined for Max.
They would go back to their lives, back to their (would-be) wives, but Checo was cursed to remember it all, and he bitterly thought that getting blackout drunk would have been a much better MO for tonight.
Max sighed underneath him, holding him in a slack embrace. Checo buried his nose in his skin and took a long, drawn out breath.