Christophe unplugs the charger and plugs it back in. The light on the cable flashes red, another USB failure, and he swears.
There's a knock on the door and he drops the vibrator onto the night stand. He knows it's Victor, back from Yuuri's room, before he even checks the peep hole.
He opens the door, not bothering with a robe. Victor's suit is rumpled, his shirt untucked. His hair is just barely ruffled, like he smoothed it in the dark and missed a piece.
Christophe doesn't speak, just moves aside so Victor can come in. When the door clicks shut, Christophe stands close to Victor, not quite touching him, and smells him, face so close to Victor's neck, Christophe can feel the heat coming off Victor's skin.
"So you didn't," Christophe says. He puts his hand on Victor's throat, thumb pushing up under Victor's jaw. He breathes into Victor's ear, the barest stream of air. "And you thought you could just come back here?"
Even while he says it, Christophe isn't quite sure why. His door is always open to Victor, always has been, and he thinks about those late-night knocks quite fondly during the off-season. Quite fondly and quite often. But right now he's not fond at all.
Victor shifts, just enough for his shirt collar to touch Christophe's cheek. He's silent, hands at his sides.
Christophe takes Victor's earlobe between his teeth and bites down hard enough that Victor's breath hisses in. Christophe closes his hand around Victor's throat a little, not enough to constrict, just to suggest.
Any other night, they would be laughing by now. Drinking — champagne, whisky, vodka — first, then teasing, starting to kiss. Rolling together on the bed. Maybe rolling right off onto the floor.
Tonight Victor doesn't move. But his chest heaves once and touches Christophe's chest, soft merino against Christophe's bare skin. A flash of desire travels through Christophe, crown to sole, burning him like lightning, jolting his cock full ready.
Christophe's not the one who creased Victor's eight thousand dollar Italian suit but he's going to be the one who ruins it.
He presses into Victor, his whole long naked body up against him, pushing Victor so that his back is arching.
Victor's hands come up on Christophe's back, hard and clutching. He leans his head back further, bares his throat, closes his eyes. He pushes closer, his cock already hard on Christophe's belly.
Christophe is more concerned about his own cock and he grinds it into Victor's hip, then reaches down between them to drag it along Victor's trousers and leave a streak of wet behind. He thumbs the tip, then smears Victor's cheek with fluid, down his cheek and across his lower lip.
Victor turns his head away. But his hands tighten. His hips push up to Christophe again. He sighs on Christophe's cheek. And before Christophe can take his shoulders and push him down, he's already sliding to his knees.
Christophe moves back against the wall and plants his feet. He lets Victor lick once up his dick, base to tip, before he puts his thumb in Victor's mouth, opens him up, makes him take Christophe's whole cock inside, a little faster than Victor is ready for.
"I know you can do it," Christophe says, because Victor has taken it before, and he puts one hand on the back of Victor's head, just holds for a while. Victor's mouth hot around his cock, Victor's tongue pushing up against it, Christophe counting to twenty.
Then he lets go and Victor sucks him. Victor braces both hands on the wall, around Christophe but not touching him, and it's just his lips sliding over Christophe's dick, his tongue catching on the head.
Christophe wants to grab Victor's head and fuck his mouth, wants it so much. But he digs his nails into his thigh instead and watches the hair falling over Victor's downcast eyes.
A line of saliva hangs from the corner of Victor's lip and Christophe pictures Victor in a blindfold and a ring gag, wrists crossed behind him, waiting for Christophe to take him.
It's enough to send Christophe up and up, climbing to the top, can't stop it now. He wants to come on Victor's face, and he has before, once or twice while Victor swore, half laughing, at him. But tonight he pulls out and spatters Victor's shirt and vest and jacket instead.
Victor wipes his mouth.
Christophe catches his breath. Then he grabs Victor under his arms, pulls him to his feet, clasps him tight so the semen smears onto Christophe's skin. He kisses Victor's neck, jaw, the corner of his mouth.
But Victor turns his face away again, presses their cheeks together, puts his hands around Christophe's waist and his erection against Christophe's hip.
Christophe looks over at the night stand, the red light flashing on the cable. Even if there's no power, he could push the vibrator up inside Victor now, leave it there, leave him in the bed, biting his lip, while Christophe takes a shower. He just needs twenty minutes.
Victor sighs into Christophe's ear and his shoulders fall.
"Okay," Christophe says. "Okay." He rubs a fold of Victor's sleeve between his fingers. He reaches for Victor's waistband, then stops. "Turn around." He faces Victor to the wall and stands behind him, bare chest to Victor's back, with one hand braced and the other on Victor's dick inside his trousers.
He brushes his mouth against Victor's ear, "I'll take care of you," he says, a strand of Victor's hair catching on his lip. He stares at the wall, dingy cream, at Victor's cheek and closed eyes. He jacks Victor through his pants, fabric bunching in his hand, and if it's too rough on Victor's cock, Victor doesn't say so.
Victor doesn't say anything, but he leans into Christophe's hand. He breathes hard and groans deep in his throat. His body tenses under Christophe's, he pushes himself up on his toes. And he comes, shuddering against Christophe, not breathing for what seems like far too long. Just like every other time.
When Victor sucks breath back into his lungs, Christophe lets him go. He steps away and watches Victor shake out his stained jacket, straighten his trousers. Christophe wishes he'd marked Victor's skin, a scratch on Victor's cheek, a love bite on his neck.
Christophe reaches out and runs his hand through Victor's hair, smoothing it down. He takes Victor's shoulder and stands close for a moment, face by Victor's neck. Now Victor smells like sex. He looks like sex, like he's been had by anyone who wanted him.
"I'm sorry," Christophe says. And he is.
Victor kisses Christophe's cheek. "It's nothing," he says. And he leaves, shutting the door softly behind him.
Christophe finds a bottle in the mini-bar, straight vodka, drinks it down, coughing. He takes a shower, leaning his hands against the tiles and letting the hot water sluice down his back.
When he gets out, the red light is still blinking.