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George was in a mood again. That wine had no business tasting that good.
He was smug, glossy, radiant in his little sheer shirt and slacks that stuck to his arse like sin. He’d caught Max looking—of course he did—and had the nerve to blow him a kiss from across the table. While chewing.
Max didn’t say a word.
Didn’t have to.
Because the moment they were in the penthouse, Max tossed the keys aside, slammed the door shut and walked slowly—like a fucking storm forming.
Max hadn’t said a single word since the door slammed.
Not one.
George had started with jokes—“Are you sulking? Awww, Maxie boy, don’t pout just ‘cause I looked hot tonight—”
Max walked past him.
Right into the main living room.
And sat.
Sat.
On that massive black velvet, high-backed single-seater. That oversized throne Max always sank into like he ruled something. Like George owed him something.
Max didn’t look at him.
He only leaned back, arms stretched across the armrests, shirt half-unbuttoned, hair still tousled from the wind, jaw tight, expression unreadable.
And said—
“Strip.”
George blinked. “Wha—”
“Strip and crawl to me.”
George scoffed. “Max—” he chuckled nervously, “Are you serious right now? What is this? Am I supposed to act like your pet or—”
Max’s eyes snapped to his.
Stone-cold.
“I said. Strip. And. Crawl.”
The air in the room dropped.
George swallowed.
Max didn’t blink. Didn’t even flinch.
George’s fingers trembled slightly as he unbuttoned his shirt. Then dropped his jeans. Everything else followed. He stood there, naked, skin hot, pride burning.
He didn’t move.
Max leaned forward—voice still too calm.
“On your knees.”
George did.
Slow.
“Crawl to me, slut.”
George flushed. “Max—”
“Crawl.”
He did.
Hand after hand, knee after knee on the cold marble floor. Humiliation growing with each shuffle forward. He got halfway across the room before Max spoke again.
“Say it.”
George looked up. “Say what—?”
“What you are.”
He bit his lip.
He thought about listening, but then again, wouldn't it be more fun to just push a little further? To rile Max up even more, just to see? Because, honestly, fuck him, he was just so damn sexy when he was jealous. George had been a brat all evening anyway, and seeing Max's blank stare just egged him on more and more. Now, he was paying for it.
But he knew better than to push it now – not if he wanted to walk straight for the next couple of days. He had media duty tomorrow; he couldn't exactly explain to Toto why he couldn't sit right, let alone walk.
“I’m your—” he started, quietly, “your—”
“Louder.”
George swallowed. “I’m—your slu—”
“Louder.”
George hesitated.
Max's hand twitched slightly. His jaw clenched.
“Say. It.”
George cried out—half anger, half arousal—
“I’M YOUR SLUT!”
“Again.”
“I’M YOUR SLUT!”
He was almost panting now.
He reached Max’s knees.
Max just stared at him. George couldn't meet his eyes, because he knew if he did, he'd come. On the floor. Untouched. And Max, the bastard, would absolutely let him stay on his knees if he came without permission.
Max leaned down—grabbed George’s chin roughly, forcing his lips open. And then—
Spat.
Right into his open mouth.
George moaned. Loud. Shameless. His eyes fluttered shut, swallowing without hesitation.
Max growled.
“Look at you. Fucking perfect. My dumb, hungry whore. Can’t even go one night without needing me to spit in your fucking mouth?”
George whimpered, already hard, already dripping onto the floor.
“You think I didn’t see you tonight?” Max whispered, cruelly sweet. “Think I didn’t see those little laughs, those smiles, those glances? You wanted someone else to give you attention?”
“N-No! Max—never—!”
“Too late for that now.”
Max grabbed the back of George’s hair—pulled.
“Get on my cock. Earn it.”
George obeyed instantly, climbing onto his lap, grinding down onto the hard length beneath the fabric. The rough denim of Max's jeans brushing against his bare arse made him whine.
But Max didn’t pull him in yet.
He whispered filth into George’s ear.
“Gonna make you cry while you ride me. Gonna fuck you full and spit in your mouth again ‘cause you look prettier like that. Maybe I’ll make you thank me for every single thrust—make you moan out my name while you bounce like a fucking pornstar. Wanna see your eyes roll, slut. Wanna ruin you again.”
George whimpered, legs shaking.
“You want that?”
“Y-Yes—!”
“What are you?”
“I’m your slut. Yours. Only yours!”
“Damn fucking right you are.”
He opened his zipper and pulled out his hard cock, just enough to wave it in front of George, dangling that false hope. He wasn't giving in, not yet. He just wanted to watch his little whore boyfriend grind and fuck himself uselessly.
George whined and begged, "Please, please, Max, please! I'll be good, I swear. I'll be so good. I'll make you feel good, please!"
Max yanked him down.
The first thrust absolutely knocked the wind out of George's lungs. His eyes rolled back, and he just went limp, useless. Max didn't care. He just kept moving him, driving him up and down his cock.
He could only manage moans and choked sobs.
Max didn't give him a single break. He just kept ramming in and out, a brutal, relentless rhythm that offered no pause, no reprieve. It was like he was trying to drill into George, absolutely no mercy in his movements.
And the rest of the night?
Bite. Suck. Kiss. Thrust.
George forgot his name. Because all he could say was Max’s.
Over.
And over.
And over again.