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Sinatra on the speaker: check. Rain coming down outside: check. Hot tea sweetened to the point of being more like mint syrup: an emphatic and delighted check.
Alexandre sets his phone down on top of the speaker and picks up his thermos instead, turning away as the song starts in earnest and the familiar sultry tones fill the room. The overhead lights have been mostly shut down in respect of the late hour, but the display lights that illuminate every piece and pedestal provide more than enough light for Alexandre to navigate by — especially in his own collection. He takes a sip from his thermos and starts a leisurely stroll along the wall, quietly reassuring himself that everything is still exactly where it belongs. The Klimt, the Cross…
Alexandre pauses to consider The Veteran in a New Field and Undertow, his Homers, before ambling on to the next room to regard his personal favorite of his collection, Stag at Sharkey’s. There’s something about how Bellows touched the muscles of the men with the light, the red of their flush, the crowd disappearing into the background. He can practically smell the boxing ring when he looks at this painting, the memories of a hobby from another life coming back in the tang of sweat and dopamine. But that, Alexandre reminds himself sheepishly, was a long, long time ago, and he grew out of that wildness when his back started aching just because he slept at a slightly inopportune angle. He turns away from the Bellows and continues on.
These strolls are a nightly ritual, a habit he picked up when he first started collecting and was filled with constant, buzzing fear over the idea of burglars and house fires and flash floods as punishment for man’s hubris…or something. His ex-husband told him, and only half-jokingly, that he was more attached to his art than his own life.
Maybe so, Quinn, Alexandre rebukes lightly in his head, the retort well-worn and without any heat after the amicable years they’ve settled into. But if you were in charge of this much history, you’d be overly attached too.
Well, history and money. Alexandre won’t pretend to be some perfect altruist. He glances over at the alarm control panel as he trails past the few sculptures he’s managed to snag. The steady green glow of the Occupied - Armed button is reassuring enough for him to focus on the sculptures again. There are a few more in storage, but he’s yet to authenticate them — his authenticator is actually supposed to come by tomorrow to take a look at one of them. He should treat her and her husband to lunch or something…
Alexandre turns at the Cragg, thoughts still half-dedicated to making sense of it, and starts to amble back to his speaker and phone so he can make a note in his calendar reminding himself to offer Roseanne a reservation for two at Olive & Rose. Sinatra is singing “Please Be Kind” and Alexandre hums along, sipping from his thermos again and reaching for his phone…
…which isn’t there.
Alexandre blinks at the blank space on top of the speaker. He…definitely set his phone down right here, where he always sets it, and sure, he might be getting old, but he’s not senile. There’s his speaker, and his coat, right where he left them, but his phone… He sets his thermos down and reaches for his coat to check the pockets, because he’s not senile but he can sometimes be forgetful—
“Y’know, I like Sinatra as much as the next guy, but he’s a little overplayed, don’t you think?”
Alexandre jerks his head up and around so fast he swears he feels the wrenching ache of whiplash. His coat slips from his hands to land with a muffled swish of fabric on the marble tiles underneath his feet. There’s a man standing where there wasn’t one before, dressed in black with messy curls falling over his forehead. He’s holding Alexandre’s phone in one hand and a cattle prod in the other. He’s also grinning, wide and boyish, and that’s the last thing Alexandre really sees before there’s a buzz, a crackle, and everything goes black.
***
Alexandre comes back to himself with the taste of blood in the back of his mouth. For a vain, panicked moment, he’s worried his teeth got knocked out — but a quick probe of his tongue reveals all his teeth are still there. That small panic settled, Alexandre, who is nothing if not a pragmatist, turns towards the bigger panic. Which, right now, is currently centered around the fact that he can’t move.
He still has his limbs, as evidenced by the dull throb in basically all of them, and he also doesn’t think he’s been moved very far, because the air is still the cool, dry air of the gallery, brushing over his face as he blinks against muffling darkness. But he is undoubtedly tied up, because now that the disorientation has started to fade, he’s realizing that he’s half-sitting, half-laying, his wrists tied to the banister of the stairs that lead up to the second level of the gallery and his legs spread out in front of him on the floor.
Tied up and blindfolded, but…at least he’s not dead? Alexandre swallows back the taste of blood, realizing now he must have bit his tongue when the intruder got him with the cattle prod, and takes a single, slow breath.
“Mr. Félix?”
It’s the same voice as the intruder. Alexandre tries to dislodge the blindfold with a shake of his head, to little effect, and quiets his breathing so he can hear the footsteps approaching.
“Oh, good. You are awake.” The footsteps stop right in front of him and there’s a scarce heartbeat before the blindfold is tugged off to reveal the smiling face of the intruder. “I got worried for a minute there, y’know.”
Alexandre has to blink tears from his eyes, the dim light of the gallery seeming like a sunlit afternoon to his still-recovering brain. Slowly, his vision sharpens and everything comes back into focus. Yes, he’s still in the gallery, and it doesn’t seem like much time has passed judging by the rain and darkness still pressing against the window on the opposite wall. That leaves the intruder, still crouching between Alexandre’s legs. When he sees Alexandre’s eyes flick to him, he grins.
“Hey. You come here often?”
Young. Curly hair. Dimples. A nick in his eyebrow.
Shit.
Alexandre’s heart falls, and the landing isn’t pretty. The man crouching in front of him isn’t just any intruder. (A petty little part of Alexandre mentally corrects that to boy, seeing as how he looks like he’s barely out of college.)
“I know who you are,” Alexandre says, his tongue feeling thick.
“I’m flattered,” Jason Rivera — thief, forger, and suspected murderer — replies with a wink. “And, because I wouldn't want to be unfair, I’ve got a pretty good idea as to who you are. I mean, I did some reading, gave a few people a ring, and literally everyone I spoke to sings your praises, Alexandre. Can I call you Alexandre? Even your ex-husband had nice things to say about you, which, well…damn. If you asked my ex what he had to say about me…” Jason chuckles. “Whew. It’d be, like, one long bleep. Totally solid.”
Alexandre’s breath catches and he twitches against his restraints despite himself. “Please, don’t hurt Quinn.”
“Huh?” Jason blinks at him, tilting his head to the side like a mystified dog. “What? Oh, your ex-husband. Aw, that’s sweet. Don’t worry! He’s totally fine. Nice guy.”
Jason reaches out and gives Alexandre’s shoulder a pat that’s probably supposed to be comforting. Alexandre isn’t sure whether he should be panicked or pissed, which in reality has settled him somewhere between the two. The countless reports on Jason all seem to agree that he only kills when there’s no other option, and the fact that Alexandre isn’t dead already gives him some hope, but he’s still at the mercy of a thief who’s made it perfectly clear he is willing to kill if he deems it necessary. And yet, even the threat of death can’t quell the anger: who does this kid think he is?
“Okay!” Jason claps his hands and stands up. “So, here’s the thing. You wandering around was kind of harshing my vibe, and I have just a tiny little bit more work to do before I’m out of here, so you can just chill right there for now and I’ll figure out what to do with you later.”
“Anything you steal is gonna be reported immediately,” Alexandre blurts out without thinking about it, and then he wonders why the fuck he’s antagonizing a murderer who currently has him restrained and helpless.
Jason doesn’t seem bothered, going to a duffel bag on the floor nearby and rummaging around in it. “I’m sure. I read that report you wrote back when you were at the Prado. It was quite scathing! I almost felt hurt. Where was I going with this? Right, you were super on top of art theft. A real bloodhound about it. Why did you leave the Prado, anyway? For that matter, why did you stop boxing? You were kinda cute in those little gloves.”
Alexandre is sure this is some kind of intimidation technique. Jason is probably trying to throw him off-balance, make him nervous and therefore more pliable, send his brain spinning out into useless spirals instead of focusing on what’s going on. It’s classic, and Alexandre will admit that Jason does it well, but he’s not going to let it work. He clears his throat and starts trying to twist one of the zip ties around his wrist free.
“I left the Prado because I couldn’t stand the director.”
Jason turns to give him a shocked, gleeful grin. “You’re kidding.”
Alexandre shakes his head. It’s not even a lie and it’s not really a secret — his turbulent relationship with the director of the Prado Museum is fairly well-known among his friends and colleagues. The zip tie cuts into his wrist and he bites back a wince.
“Okay, wow.” Jason pulls out a cloth bundle from the bag and chuckles to himself. “Sorry, that just seems so funny to me. Like, you’re so put-together and everyone loves you, but you left a sweet deal at a top museum because the director annoyed you. I can respect it, don’t get me wrong, but wow.” He pushes himself to his feet in one lithe motion. “Alright. I will be right back. Please don’t make me kill you by doing anything stupid, okay?”
Alexandre can only watch as Jason strolls off into another room, whistling a tune as he does. The panic is fading fast now, the anger taking its place, and he tugs at the restraints with all the force of his righteous fury. He didn’t work as hard as he has to get condescended to by some kid who steals priceless pieces of art history because his mommy and daddy didn’t love him enough or whatever Jason’s half-baked justification for this is. If he can make it to the alarm console, he can hit the panic button and have the police here in minutes. As for Jason himself, well…the kid’s slippery, sure, but Alexandre’s pretty sure he’s got quite a bit of weight on him. Jason’s built for wriggling through small spaces and Alexandre, soft as middle age has made him, built himself up for knocking people out of a boxing ring. If he can just get these restraints off, he’s pretty sure it’d be a quick fight.
It’s not clear how long Jason is gone for. Alexandre can’t see any of the clocks and can’t twist his wrist far enough over to read his own watch, so all he has to go by is the sound of the rain and the cheerful whistling coming from the other room. It has to be at least several minutes, though, because by the time Jason comes back, humming happily, Alexandre’s muscles are starting to ache from sitting on the cold marble floor.
“Which one?” Alexandre asks, shifting his weight in hopes of dissipating the stiffness. “What did you take?” When Jason doesn’t reply, he presses, “I’m going to see it as soon as I’m free, anyway, so what’s the harm in telling me?”
“If you get free,” Jason says, far too nonchalantly, and then he jerks his head back to one of the other gallery rooms. “It was a Bellows.”
Alexandre’s stomach swoops, and despite his self-preservation telling him to roll over and take it, he can’t help but glower at Alexander. “Stag at Sharkey’s?”
“Yup.” Jason unclips something from his belt, looks at it, and hums consideringly. “Wow, your alarm system really is vulnerable to lag. Hey, did you know there was suspicious activity on the perimeter at 3:48 PM today? Thanks, little buddy. I’m sure he’ll take that into consideration.”
“You…” Jason’s words have alighted an unpleasant sensation in Alexandre’s chest, and he’s glad for the anger that allows him to keep his voice strong as he realizes something. “You’re dry. It’s been pouring all day but you…all your clothes and gear are dry. How long have you been in here?!”
Jason gasps theatrically, clipping the device back to his belt. “A pretty face and a clever head? Oh, man, today’s my lucky day.”
Alexandre recoils when Jason approaches again, pressing himself back into the banister. “Are you going to kill me?”
“I probably should,” Jason sighs. “But to be honest, I don’t really want to. Like, they already know what I look like, and what I took isn’t exactly a secret. I dunno what they’ve told you, but I don’t like killing people if I don’t have to. And maybe I should kill you, but the fact that I should do something doesn’t mean I have to. Woah, hello, train of thought. Let’s get to the point. Nah, I won’t kill you.”
That should be a good thing. It is a good thing, because Alexandre has no desire to die and especially not at the hands of some snarky, thieving kid. But he can’t help the feeling that Jason’s desire to keep him alive has absolutely nothing to do with any morals and is instead because he just wants to watch him squirm.
It’s a lot harder to be defiant when Jason drops into a crouch between his legs again. His body is built so narrow that Alexandre doesn’t have to adjust much to make room for him, but he still pulls his knees up as if to protect his vitals from Jason’s piercing gaze. His eyes are light gray-green, wide and intelligent, and though his face hasn’t yet entirely lost the stubbornly lingering baby fat of adolescence, there’s the hints of sharp, handsome definition beginning to set into his jaw and cheekbones. Alexandre took it as a given that of course the art thief would be attractive — it’s much easier to get into places you shouldn’t when you’re a hot young man — but he’s never really…thought about it. Not until now. He doesn’t know what that says about him.
“I keep thinking I should grow out my beard,” Jason muses, steadying himself with one elbow on his knee to reach out with his other hand and lightly drag his fingernails across Alexandre’s scruffy jaw, strangely intimate and nowhere near hard enough to hurt. “Maybe for my next disguise, huh?”
Alexandre’s mouth is very dry when he finally manages to swallow. “I’ll let the authorities know.”
“Of course you will.” Jason rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t seem too concerned. “Well, that’s alright. I like myself better clean-shaven to begin with. But you? You look good with the salt-and-pepper thing you’ve got going on. It ages you. Not in a bad way! Makes you look distinguished. Why’d you stop wearing glasses?”
“I…got contacts.” Alexandre doesn’t like the implication that Jason did enough research to find the old pictures of him from staff directories and magazine interviews where he’s wearing glasses. “I thought about surgery, but the idea of it freaks me out.”
“God, I know, right?!” Jason throws his hands up with a scoff. “It’s weird! Okay, for real, I feel so vindicated right now. Who knew we had so much in common?”
Alexandre wishes he still wore his glasses so he could look at Jason over the top of them disapprovingly. By now, the shock has fully worn off and even the spike of momentary panic that came when Jason plopped himself between his thighs has settled back into the glowering anger at this situation. Despite everything that Alexandre knows about him, Jason is…disarming, like some kind of jokester nephew that gets into trouble but always comes out the other end unscathed because everyone loves him so much. With how many thefts he’s pulled off, Alexandre expected him to be cold and calculating and no-nonsense, not a black-clad version of an arts university’s resident class clown.
“There it is,” Jason breathes, and Alexandre is wrenched from his thoughts when he feels a hand on his knee and Jason’s face gets that much closer. “There it is. I love that look.”
“What look?” Alexandre can’t push himself away any further, and the ghost of Jason’s breath over his face has sent his heart rate right back up.
Jason’s eyes bore into him. “The look that says you just realized I’m not what you think I am.”
Alexandre’s insides do another one of those swoopy things. It’s true, he didn’t expect this, whatever this is — their bodies too close, Jason’s eyes too bright. Alexandre swallows and he can hear his throat click drily when he does. The cold marble floor makes Jason’s body heat feel that much more intense where his fingers splay over Alexandre’s knee, warm through his slacks, and Alexandre can’t help but shudder.
“There’s a joke here, y’know.” Jason’s eyes twinkle in the low light. “Something about nailing the art to the wall.”
Did he just call me—? Alexandre thinks, right before Jason closes the distance and kisses him.
It’s too rough and Alexandre is so shocked he slams his head right back against the banister. He tastes blood again as the wound from where he bit himself reopens, but there’s still something buzzing at the base of his spine when Jason pulls away a moment later, lips wet and mouth hanging open as he pants.
“Or zip tying the art to the wall, I guess,” he says, with another low laugh. “Sorry, by the way. That’s gonna ache for a bit and let’s not even mention how much it’s gonna suck if you try to yank yourself free. Ouch. Could be worse, though. Anyway…” He sits back on his knees and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m gonna do this no matter what, and I figure you’re probably gonna prefer the easy way. So if you’re going to start screaming and crying as soon as I touch your dick, can you just tell me now so I can get the whole gag and broken fingers thing out of the way?”
Alexandre is still reeling from the kiss, but he manages to collect his thoughts enough to shake his head. He’s sure as hell not going to beg Jason to spare his life or dignity, but he’s also not stupid enough to try and kick or fight while his wrists are still tied. Until he gets the zip ties off, Jason holds the power, and Alexandre may hate him on principle but he still recognizes that if he cooperates, there’s a decent chance of Jason keeping his word.
The whole idea of it makes Alexandre wince. A decent chance of him not just killing me right here in my own damn gallery. Jesus, is that what it’s come to?
“Oh, thank you, sincerely,” Jason says, and he leans forward to press another searing, too-rough kiss to Alexandre’s mouth. “That’s gonna make this so much better, trust me. Like, you’re not gonna believe me, but I’m really not a sadist. Blood actually kind of makes me a little queasy. That’s why I’m an art thief and not, I dunno, a hit man, or something. Point is, when I have sex with someone I really do want them to enjoy it! So…sit back and relax. This won’t hurt unless you make it hurt.”
Through the blur of everything that’s happening, Alexandre manages to find Jason’s hands and the bottle in them that he pulled out of one of his inner vest pockets while he was speaking. It’s innocuous, full of what looks like some kind of oil, and despite himself, Alexandre peers at it a little closer.
Jason must see Alexandre looking at it, because he shakes it and says quickly, “It’s not lube. I mean, you probably want it to be lube, and it is a kind of lube, but it’s not, like, AstroGlide. Mineral oil! It’s mineral oil. I don’t carry lube on me. Maybe I should? Mineral oil is handy, though, like…you never know when you need to fit something through a tight space. Just slather some mineral oil on it and…shoop.”
Jason demonstrates with a very imaginative hand motion. Alexandre rolls his eyes and tries not to think about fitting things into tight spaces. He thinks he’s being, all things considered, remarkably calm about this whole situation. He’s gone through training for situations like this…but not situations like this. Yeah, they don’t tell you this part when you become a curator. Distantly, he realizes his breathing is too fast and tries to slow it down, staring over Jason’s shoulder at the windows showing nothing but nighttime rain.
There’s a tug to his zipper and the rain gets a lot less interesting. Alexandre jerks his eyes down in time to see Jason’s slender, long-fingered hand undo his slacks and dip into his fly, palm cupping at the front of his underwear.
Alexandre swallows again and is very proud of himself for keeping his voice even as he manages, “You know, I’m— I’m not exactly— a youthful—”
“Oh, are you worried about getting it up?” Jason asks, meeting his eyes again with a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “It’s fine, sweetheart. I’ve got some tricks and y’know what, even if you’re not feeling it, there’s still ways.”
The pet name makes Alexandre feel slimy and too-warm all at the same time, sweat dampening the collar of his shirt when he chokes back an offended, questioning noise and blinks at Jason. Why did that make him feel…? Why does this…
Jason’s fingers slip underneath Alexandre’s shorts and press, hot and confident, at his cock. It makes Alexandre jump, violation mixing with buzzing warmth that gets stronger whenever he catches a glimpse of Jason’s bright eyes. In another life— If he were any younger— If this were different—
His cock twitches and the buzz settles directly into his bones, heavy and tingling over his skin.
“No reason to worry,” Jason says cheerfully, palming Alexandre’s dick as the molten throb grows stronger and stronger. “You older guys always sell yourself short. Worried about your performance and all that stuff… Just relax. I’m not here to judge you.”
Alexandre feels the strangest urge to say thanks. He blames it on the shock. He also blames the arousal on the shock…and maybe, just a little bit, on being lonely. He doesn’t have a lot of time these days for the whole relationship business and he’s far past the age where it’s worth it to go hang out at a bar for a night and see who makes eyes at him, which was his main method back when he still had the boxer physique and much tighter clothes. He closes his eyes and swallows back a gasp when Jason’s clever fingers tug his cock free and he makes a delighted noise, taking his hand away just for a second. When he brings it back, it’s slick with something thin and slippery. Mineral oil.
Jason’s touch wraps around his cock with expert familiarity, stroking his fingertips along the underside, following a vein or— whatever he’s doing. Alexandre bites back another noise and lets his head fall back against the banister. His shoulders are beginning to ache from the awkward position and his thighs hurt from sitting on the hard floor and still, Jason is jerking him off with quick, rhythmic little motions of his hand and it…feels…good. Alexandre can feel himself stiffening to full hardness, throbbing against Jason’s palm, and the slow, rolling wash of heat that goes through him when Jason thumbs across his tip is enough to make his thighs twitch. It’s too much with his eyes closed: the lack of anchor makes him feel like he’s going to float away. He blinks his eyes open again and tries not to look too hard at Jason’s face.
“You’re just so cute.” Jason’s watching him like a hawk, greedy eyes mapping every movement. “Like…the way you swallow. And the way you twitch. You’re beautiful. Better than any of the art in here, and that’s high praise, coming from me.”
“Even the Klimt?” Alexandre asks, voice hoarse. It feels wrong to talk about this right now, but what else is he supposed to talk about?
Jason makes a face and twists his hand around Alexandre’s cock to send a zing throughout every aching inch of him. “I’ve never really been a Klimt kind of guy. Though, I will say, those sketches of his that you have in storage right now? The nude ones? I’ll admit, I am fond of those. Sometimes I think about who I’d draw. Right now, you’re top of the list.”
“Jesus Christ,” Alexandre moans, and his head falls back again as something inside him crumbles.
“Can’t help it. I’m a charmer.” Jason’s face comes back into Alexandre’s vision as he sits up on his knees and leans over him, steadying himself with one hand next to Alexandre’s head. “Oh, yeah. Yeah, that’s a view.”
Alexandre’s eyes are hot and when he blinks, Jason’s face goes blurry. He doesn’t want to be calm about this and he definitely doesn’t want to be aroused about this, but his body doesn’t seem to be giving him much of a choice. He’s fully hard now, uncomfortably so, and his cock is throbbing in time with his racing heartbeat, little sparks being struck up somewhere in his core at every movement of Jason’s hand. He’s boxed in. Helpless. At Jason’s mercy. And he’s going to fucking cum.
Jason hums encouragingly, smiling another one of those winning smiles as the light silhouettes his curls. “Just like that. Keep looking at me with those eyes, sweetheart, that’s right. Good boy. See? This isn’t so bad.”
Alexandre might as well be an art piece for how immobile and helpless he is. His vision is swimming, his heart is pounding against his ribs, and the back of his shirt feels soaked with sweat. He can’t seem to find the strength to writhe against the restraints, even as the telltale tug of approaching orgasm makes his hips twitch again. The first tear streaks a burning line down his cheek. He can’t even be ashamed of it. He’s too ashamed of the fact that he’s going to—
Jason pulls his hand away.
It’s so surprising that Alexandre can’t help but cant his hips up for a moment, not quite managing to choke down the whine as he chases after the touch. He wrestles himself back under control quickly, but still too late, because Jason smirks at him as he reaches for Alexandre’s pants. Alexandre can do nothing but watch as Jason pulls his clothes down around his thighs before giving a little tap to the head of his cock.
“I’m not going to fuck you with my dick,” Jason tells him, matter-of-fact and as casual as informing him of weeknight dinner plans. “Because I know you’re not stupid, and as much as they have on me, they don’t have my DNA yet. So that’ll unfortunately have to wait, but that’s fine, because…” He holds up his oil-covered hand and waggles his fingers. “I do have five of these. Well, ten, counting both hands, but I’m not going to stick two hands in you. That’d be rude.”
Alexandre’s cock pulses needily from between his legs. The burn of humiliation it brings to his face makes him bite his tongue again, by now accustomed to the taste of blood. He was so close to finishing and he’s sure Jason knew it, and for some reason that’s what makes him feel the most sickened, the fact that Jason can control him like that, his life in a thief’s hands all the way down to his orgasm.
Jason drizzles some more of the oil over his fingers and sits back again to prod questioningly at Alexandre’s hole with one of them. The gentleness of it is still surprising. Things like this, Alexandre usually pictured being tackled to the bed or having someone slip something into his drink, not…
A careful stroke of Jason’s fingers over his hole and Alexandre gasps, biting his lip. It’s been so long and he’s not used to the feeling anymore, the crackling anticipation of it all, the cold air against his still-slick cock and Jason’s fingers warm against his entrance. When he slips the first one inside, careful and slow, Alexandre can’t stop his face from twisting into a grimace, not out of pain but at the lack of it. It’s intrusive and unwanted and tingling, settling inside him all the way to the knuckle as Jason exhales a shaky moan and reaches for his knee to pat it again.
“Just like that,” Jason says. “That’s good, big guy.” His free hand swipes little arcs of touch over Alexandre’s knee. “Yeah. Yeah. Beautiful.”
Alexandre’s lashes are wet when his eyes flutter, a whimper clawing itself free from behind his gritted teeth as Jason presses another finger inside and crooks them slightly.
“I love this look, too.” Jason’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, that hawkish stare fixed entirely on Alexandre. “When you’ve got your fingers inside someone…and they’re staring at you like this.”
“Please,” Alexandre whispers, fresh tears joining the first, his cheeks feeling hot against the cold gallery air. Please, let this be over, please, let it end…
“Shh…” Jason leans in again and kisses his cheek, surely tasting salt, and he doesn’t pull away when Alexandre moans despairingly.
He’s…he’s going to cum. It’s a tight throb in his gut, an ache down in the lowest parts of him where Jason’s fingers are prodding and massaging.
“You’re fine,” Jason murmurs against his cheek. “It’s alright. Just relax. Just relax… You’re fine, sweetheart…”
Jason’s fingers brush against his sweet spot, and his other hand wraps around Alexandre’s neglected cock, and just like that, Alexandre cums.
It’s blinding, wrenching, a sob erupting from behind his teeth and his muscles locking into a too-tight, reluctant ache as pleasure washes over him in crackling waves of sensation. He feels it dribble over his cock and the knowledge is disgusting, revulsion and bliss warring in his chest as he pants, eyes squeezed closed. He can still see Jason’s eyes, gray-green, and it’s his low, pleased groan that Alexandre hears as the aftershocks ripple through him before everything finally goes still.
He opens his eyes only when he feels Jason pull away. He feels…cold. Disgusted with himself. Vulnerable and pathetic. How many people has Jason done this to? Is it only him? Does that make it better or worse?
“You did great,” Jason says, and he smiles the whole time he wipes his hands clean and tucks Alexandre’s cock back into his clothes before zipping his pants up. “Don’t look so put-out. You’re not gonna be here all night. I’ll trip the alarm when I leave, so the authorities should be here in…oh, I dunno. Five minutes? Just hold tight.”
He grabs his bag and tools from the floor and smooths down his clothing as he straightens up. Alexandre remains right where he is, humiliated and tearstained. His hands are beginning to go numb. His hole still feels slick and he’s sure there’s going to be stains in his underwear next time he undresses for a shower. Jason glances outside, nods approvingly, and then looks back at Alexandre and winks.
“And I’ll, uh…I’ll send you a postcard from the Prado.”