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It wasn’t a surprise to James that the air in Monaco was cool like Brighton’s, but tasted more of salt and money than his current hometown ever could. Far below the hotel room he found himself in, the Mediterranean glittered under the sun, most likely still beating down on the crowds that had adhered miles away as the low whines of supercars punctuated the air, leaving the entire island town in quiet hum that matched the air conditioning.
At least, that’s what he assumed, given his world had narrowed to a single point of focus in the last couple of mintutes: the heavy weight of Will’s cock on his tongue, the familiar salt-and-skin taste of him, the coarse hair against his own on his cheeks.
‘If only people really knew what it was like being your best friend’s sugar baby.’ The thought was a ghost, insubstantial and easily banished as his attention was dragged back by a thumb running its way down the pulse point of his neck and jaw, dark eyes meeting light.
His UK tour was a blur of stage lights and screams, a cacophony that had finally stilled the moment he’d gotten home, but not completely. Will knew this. He always knew just what James needed and had booked the flight here the moment he got the alert that James was free from the tour bus, paid for everything with a dismissive flick of his card.
“You need a vacation, Jimbo.” He’d said, his Geordie accent softening the edges of the command. “Monaco. I’ve got business with Lando.” He said it as if a weekend in a place known for its obscene wealth was a quick trip to the seaside.
Right now, as he knelt on the plush, ivory carpet, cheek resting on the firm muscle of Will’s thigh, he wasn’t exactly inclined to care. His knees ached pleasantly on the carpet, a grounding counterpoint to the floaty, dissociative peace in his head. The part of him that was always composing, always scripting a video, always worrying about the business, the part that used to scream for a drink - for once, it was quiet. Blissfully, profoundly quiet.
He wasn’t moving, wasn’t making, wasn’t talking. Just holding. Cockwarming. Will’s hand in his hair, not guiding, not forcing, just a steady, possessive weight. His thumb soon moved upwards from where it had been, stroking slow circles against James’s temple.
“That’s it.” Will murmured, voice now a low, rough thing that vibrated through James’s skull and made a shiver, warm and liquid, travel down James’s spine as Will stared down at him like he was something precious. “Perfect. You’re so perfect for me, Jim. Just like this.”
Obviously, he preened into the touch, the words hitting their marks, a contented hum catching in his throat, the sound swallowed by the body it praised. He didn’t talk, didn’t need to. His role was to listen, to accept, to exist in this suspended moment without much else.
“My good boy.” Will continued, his tone dripping with a fond, arrogant pride that should have been insulting (sometimes it did feel that way with James’s crippling self-doubt), but felt, instead, like he was more loved by Will than the latter let on. “All mine. Look at you. You’re a musician, businessman… and you’re all mine right here. Knew you needed this.”
He did. He absolutely had. Will was right. Of course he was right.
James nuzzled closer, inhaling the clean scent of Will’s laundry detergent and his unique, underlying smell. It was more intoxicating than any alcohol he’d ever craved, and it left him truly, utterly drunk. Love drunk. Brain quiet.
He knew that it wouldn’t last forever, this pause. Will was due down on the track soon, to shake hands with Lando Norris, to talk sponsorships and branding with an easy, professional charm that was a world away from the intimate ownership here and now.
That was later, however. This was now. This was not a payment of cash for company (despite Will having paid for other things in his life to his chagrin), but an exchange of desperately needed peace.
Will simply provided the anchor and James provided the trust.
The world, with all its noise and expectations, could wait for them this time.