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George’s hotel room smelled faintly of bergamot, sandalwood and warm steam, the mirror still fogged from his shower. He was patting moisturizer into his cheekbones when his phone chimed in. Max’s reply came in, fast as ever, to his short message of,
Room 1208. Don’t run.
He added it dryly. Max always reads it as an invitation anyway.
A few minutes later, a knock. George pulled the door open with one hand, the other still holding a cotton pad. His bathrobe hung loose at the collar, damp curls resting at the nape of his neck.
And there Max stood, hair still wet, brushed back in that uneven way that said he towel-dried it in a hurry. His cheeks were flushed from the shower. His smile was too bright for the dim hallway.
“Evening, gorgeous,” Max said, leaning in the doorway like he had every right to melt George where he stood with his lousy worn out t-shirt and shorts, of course never missing the chance to top it off with hotel slippers, “You ordered room service?”
George rolled his eyes, slow and theatrical, pretending his stomach didn’t do a stupid flip. He stepped aside and let the stray wander in.
Max practically bounced in, his presence filling the quiet room instantly, warm, a little chaotic, smelling of hotel shampoo and a bit of his victory, from securing pole on the last race. He made his way to George’s bed and flopped onto the edge like he already lived there.
George shut the door behind them with a soft click and crossed his arms, robe tightening around his waist.
“You’re so unfunny,” he muttered.
Max grinned up at him, eyes dragging openly, shamelessly down George’s damp neck, lingering at the tie of his robe.
“And you,” Max said, “are stunning.”
George felt the heat rise in his chest—annoyance, affection and something far too dangerous all tangled up. He tossed the cotton pad into the bin and sighed dramatically.
“Five minutes,” he said. “I still need to finish my skincare.”
Max laid back on the pillows, arms tucked beneath his head, looking up at George like he was the only star in Abu Dhabi.
“I’ll behave,” Max promised.
But he kept watching, every step like it was art, the way George smoothed lotion down his throat, the way he shook out his curls, the way his robe slipped just a little off one shoulder when he reached for his hair oil.
A boyish smile curved over Max’s lips as the soft hotel glow pooled around George’s figure. Max sat up on the bed,
“You are so pretty,” he murmured, voice warm and drowsy. “You could break my heart and I’d thank you for it.”
It was so honest. So stupid. So Max.
George froze for only a breath, just long enough for the compliment to tighten a quiet string behind his ribs. Then he lifted his eyes to the mirror, meeting Max’s reflection.
Max, love-drunk and George let out a soft, helpless chuckle, the corner of his mouth curling despite himself.
“You’re ridiculous,” he said, but his voice was softer than usual. Max grinned wider, grabbing a pillow and squishing his cheek against it,
“Yeah,” he breathed, “ridiculous about you.”
George shook his head, turning back to his bottles, but the mirror betrayed him, showing the ghost of a smile he thought he’d hidden.
A few minutes have passed, definitely more than the five George promised. He flicked off the bathroom light, plunging the room into a warm, sleepy glow. Max shot upright immediately, shoulders perking, eyes bright, practically vibrating like some oversized golden retriever that had been told walkies time finally arrived.
George walked toward the bed with that slow, composed grace of his, robe tied neatly again, curls drying into soft waves. Max’s invisible tail was wagging so hard it was almost audible.
But before he could reach out, before Max could even hope, George lifted one stern, elegant finger.
“No sex tonight,” he declared, sliding into bed with the air of someone issuing a royal decree. “Big day tomorrow.”
Max’s face collapsed into the most dramatic pout known to mankind.
“What? Whaaat!” he whined, sitting up straighter like pleading might change the rules. “I thought if I get pole, I get a little reward.”
George turned onto his side, propping his head on his palm, looking at Max with a quiet amusement.
“You got pole position, Max,” he said. “Not permission to misbehave.”
Max threw himself backwards onto the pillows with an exaggerated groan, limbs starfished, eyes squeezed shut in agony.
“This is cruelty,” he declared into the ceiling, head shaking in utter disappointment.
George snorted softly, tugging the duvet over himself. Max peeked at him, already smiling again, sliding in closer like he couldn't help himself.
“So no sex,” he confirmed, lips brushing the air near George’s shoulder.
“Correct.”
“But cuddles?”
George sighed… but his annoyance didn’t reach his eyes, only that sparkle of adoration he will never admit out loud to the world champion.
“Cuddles,” he allowed.
Then in a blink, Max climbed over George like a man starved for warmth, throwing a leg over him, an arm around his waist, his whole weight settling on George’s chest in a familiar, overwhelming sprawl.
He buried his face against George’s cheek, then his jaw, then down the bend of his neck. His stubble, messy, uneven, absolutely deliberate–scraped across George’s skin with every nuzzle.
George jerked beneath him, half-laughing, half-squirming.
But Max only hums, mouth dragging lazily along George’s throat, leaving warm, scattered kisses. His stubble rasps with every movement, a pleasant scrape that sends a shiver racing down George’s spine.
“Max! For fuck’s sake!” George hissed, trying not to laugh as Max’s stubble scratched over the sensitive spot under his ear. “Shave!” he barked, pushing at Max’s shoulder with absolutely zero commitment behind it.
Max didn’t even pause. If anything, he doubled down, rubbing his face along George’s throat like an affectionate cat with sandpaper fur.
“Nooo,” Max mumbled into his skin, voice muffled, warm. “I like it like this.”
“You’re scratching me!”
Max grinned against the curve of George’s neck, giving another playful nuzzle just to be unbearable. George made a frustrated sound, sharp, offended, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him, pulling up in silent laughter.
And Max felt it. Felt the way George wasn’t really fighting him, the way his fingers didn’t push him away so much as slide helplessly along Max’s shoulder.
Max lifted his head just enough to look at him, eyes bright, boyish, hopelessly adoring.
“You’re not actually mad,” he said softly. George scoffed, cheeks warm, eyes narrowed.
“I am,” he insisted.
Max just grins against his cheek, beard dragging along George’s skin again, “But you like it, I’m naturally rugged.” he murmurs, smug.
“It hurts, you big oaf.”
“Nuh-uh,” Max mumbles, voice muffled against his neck. “Makes you laugh. I like it when you laugh.”
Max kissed the line of his jaw, quick and gentle, too soft to be legal.
“Fine,” George muttered, “I’m not mad.”
Max lit up, chest swelling, whole body relaxing on top of him.
“Good,” Max whispered, tucking his face into George’s neck again, stubble and all.
And George, trapped under his weight, sighed in defeat…while his hand quietly found the back of Max’s head and kept him there. Long elegant fingers buried in those messy blond locks.