Max walks down the street with purpose, his mind set solely on one thing—one person–since he left Micky's apartment with a muttered apology and quick goodbye. He can't believe that he's succumbing to that arrogant bastard's kiss, letting it invade every aspect of his life. From his dreams to his wandering thoughts, Max is haunted by the ghost of Iago's lips—soft, full, drug-like—against his own.
They're the reason why he's approaching Clara's kiosk, hoping that Iago hasn't already left. They were responsible for his straying mind when Micky kissed him. And if Max is entirely honest with himself, those lips are responsible for some of the growing frustration he has towards Enric and their open relationship.
If it wasn't for their open relationship, he wouldn't be seeking Iago out at all. But knowing that it's permissible if he gives into these strange, new desires makes it all that more difficult to resist. The only thing that has held him back before tonight is the thought of how Iago's lips unravel him and the fear that Iago's body just might make him an addict for sure.
As he reaches the front of the kiosk, Max stops briefly, his eyes falling on Iago's dimly lit form. Max spent his entire walk wondering if he should be doing this and repeatedly telling himself that it won't lead to anything good. But one look at Iago—the brown leather of his jacket, the waves of his long hair, the way the shadows fall on his face—has Max slipping through the door before he can even think about possible regrets.
Iago turns, surprise so easily read from his dark eyes, and Max is caught off guard.
"What do you want? I've already closed."
He can't very well tell Iago why he's there, especially when Max isn't even sure of it himself. And even if he did know how to respond properly to such a question, his eyes have already fallen on Iago's lips, leaving him both wordless and breathless.
Rather than try to push through the lust that clouds his mind and senses, Max instead decides the only course of action left for him now is to separate the distance between them. He brings his hands to Iago's cheeks, slips his own lips against Iago's, and prays that perhaps that first kiss was just a mistake, that it hadn't felt so good.
Iago isn't responding, isn't responding, and then Max feels him react. It's almost a confusion that manifests itself into the slow, awkward movement of Iago's lips. And then they're meeting each other in hesitant time before Iago pulls away in confusion.
Max feels the absence immediately, feels it and understands that his fate his sealed. The first kiss hadn't been accidently-incredible. Iago is simply that good—dangerously good. And Max isn't sure what will become of him now. He wants this, wants Iago more than he's ever wanted anyone. But there's a pregnant pause between them, and he isn't sure what Iago's thinking. He just prays that rejection isn't to come.
And it isn't. Before Max can even register the movement, Iago has one hand curling into his hair and the other grasping his shoulder. Iago's lips move quickly over Max's, their force crushing and brilliantly so. They're lost in a tangle of long drawn out kisses and small, quick ones.
Max's mind reels, his body involuntarily arching against Iago, his hand moving to that brown hair that he's so often longed to touch. This shouldn't feel so good, shouldn't be so passionate. Iago is a vain cynic, he tries to remind himself. Nothing but trouble. They barely know each other, besides. He can't possibly be feeling so alive from Iago's kiss, can't possibly be feeling so much desire. This is Iago for Christ's sake.
And yet none of that matters when Max feels Iago hard against his hip. As if some silent conversation occurs between them, they're both shedding their jackets while maintaining as much contact as possible. His hands find their way to Iago's back, lean muscles so easily felt beneath the black cotton of Iago's shirt. Those muscles are begging to be touched, and to be touched properly. Max can't contain himself and pulls the t-shirt off Iago, letting it hang limply in his hand.
Pausing, he takes a moment to drink in the sight of Iago's bare skin, tan and smooth. He reaches out, long fingers gracing the soft flesh, and Iago sighs with the touch. It's a gentle gesture, filled with a sort of awe and affection that Max didn't know he was capable of having for this man. He doesn't want to have it, doesn't want to feel so attracted to Iago. But for all that he tries to deny it, Max can't ignore the feelings that Iago has awoken within him.
"Max…"
His name, low and whispered, snaps him from his thoughts. It's music to his ears. An unexpected rush of pleasure surges through him to his core, and Max resists the urge to ask him to say it again.
Discarding his own shirt in a desperate attempt to move things along and to feel Iago's skin against his own, he pulls Iago against him roughly—lips against lips, flesh against flesh. His body hums pleasantly at the contact, his desire growing as Iago opens his mouth to give him entrance.
The taste on his tongue is sweet, intoxicating—an almost drug-induced haze clouding his mind from all sense and reason. Who cares if Iago is a cynic? Who cares if he's nothing but trouble? Max can't be bothered to. Not when Iago is pressing into him. Not when Iago's thumbs are teasing his nipples. Not when he's moaning into Iago's mouth like he's never been touched before. And for all that he has been, it's never been like this.
Max's hand slips between them to Iago's erection straining in his jeans. The warmth and weight of it against his palm makes him want it all the more, especially when Iago's hips thrusts against him for further contact. With a sigh from Iago, Max moves his hand upwards to Iago's belt and makes quick work of unfastening it. It's in the middle of doing so, however, that Max realizes they are only shielded from any passerby's eyes by the shadows.
Almost frantically, he searches for some privacy—why the hell didn't he think of this before he came to the kiosk?—and then he remembers the storage closet. With a tug on Iago's wrist, he leads him to the back, shutting the closet door behind them and pressing Iago against the bare wall.
He's working at the button and zip of the jeans again, Iago making it that much more difficult with kisses to the neck. Max fumbles as Iago begins to suck a mark there, his breath quickening.
"Iago."
He shouldn't allow Iago to continue. While Enric knows that he's gone out tonight, Max doesn't want him to witness the physical evidence of it. He knows how much he hates seeing similar marks on Enric. But Max can't find the words to ask him to stop, and his mind goes suddenly blank when he discovers that Iago has managed to open his jeans, diving beneath the waistband of his boxers.
Iago's fingers close around him, and Max swears he sees stars. Slowly, Iago begins his strokes, maddeningly wonderful. Within moments, heis falling into the rhythm Iago has set for them, eyes closed and head tilted back. He must make a sound because Iago pauses.
"Is this okay?"
Max nods vigorously. "Yeah."
It's more than okay. Max thinks he could come with just a few more well placed strokes of Iago's skilled hand. Only now, in the throes of need, does Max acknowledge what he's been denying from perhaps the first moment he saw Iago: he's wanted this from the very beginning. It's a frightening realization to say the least.
"You're so beautiful, Max," Iago whispers, his thumb tracing Max's jaw line.
Max doesn't know how to respond to the compliment, even if he could get his voice and mouth to work in time together. So instead of bothering to try, he kisses Iago, long and slowly. His tongue darts out, slipping across the part of Iago's lips, seeking entrance. Their tongues meet, tangle, and Max quickly overpowers him. It's a rush, his head spinning from so much contact, from his quickly approaching orgasm, and Max wonders how much more he can take.
Iago rolls his hips against him, and Max can hardly resist moaning at the feel of Iago's erection. He brings his hands to the waist of Iago's already opened jeans, pushing them off his hips into a pool at Iago's feet. His erection all but free, save for the confines of his boxers, and Max takes the opportunity, between his frantic thrusts into Iago's hand, to wrap his fingers around it.
He wants to blow him, wants to feel the weight of Iago's length on his tongue. To taste him. To suck him. To make him moan. Max hates himself for that for one fleeting moment, but then brushes the thought aside. Yes, this is Iago. Yes, this is so painfully wrong to want. But all of that seems so irrelevant when he considers how good Iago makes him feel.
So good, in fact, that Max finds himself wanting Iago inside of him—a thought which blindsides him for a moment. That was never his intention. He didn't come here to…he never expected to go all the way with Micky tonight, let alone Iago. A hand job, sure. A blow job, maybe. But never…that. That, he promised himself to keep between himself and Enric—a promise that he was quickly regretting ever making.
"Iago," he says hesitantly, breaking their kiss and staring into his dark eyes.
"Something wrong?"
Max shakes his head slowly. "I just…I want you."
Iago looks confused for a moment, not following his vague statement. Max hates him for it, hates him for making him voice the words that he's still struggling to accept. But the thought of not having Iago, of never knowing what it would be like with him, allows Max to push aside the hatred and embarrassment. He can only be with Iago this one time—that's the rule—and he needs to do this properly.
"Inside," Max clarifies.
"Hell, Max," Iago half-whispers half-moans, his eyes closing with the thought.
With an air of confidence that Max didn't even know he possessed, he slipped his thumbs into the waistband of Iago's boxers, pushing them off his hips. He stares for a brief moment at Iago's length, thinking how badly he wants to feel it pressing into him. The self-loathing isn't going away, and Max wants to hurry this up before he loses all sense—or rather, gains it.
He's quick to discard his own shirt, as Iago's discarding him of his pants and boxers frantically. They're a tangle of limbs in an instant. Hands roam, lips meet, cocks brush. It feels amazing, beyond amazing really, if there can be such a thing. Iago is good, and Max finds himself losing himself in the moment, too drugged on touch to stop this.
Iago breaks from him, and Max protests immediately. But the moment that he realizes Iago is pulling a condom from his wallet, he stops. There's a bit of a fumble to get it on in the midst of the touches that Max can't stop himself from doing. Finally it's on. Finally this is going to happen.
Dropping to his knees, Max pulls Iago down on the floor with him. He's hesitant for a minute, unsure of how he wants to do this—does he really want to look Iago in the eye the entire time?—but Iago decides for them both. He dips Max back onto the floor, apologizing for the cool, hard tile. Max himself wishes for something softer, something warmer, like a bed. But a bed is for lovers, he thinks. And he and Iago are not lovers—can never be lovers; the tile floor of the kiosk is more appropriate for this mindless sex.
Iago's fingers brush against his entrance suddenly, and he jumps a little, as if this is something he's never done before.
"Are you alright?"
"Fine," he replies. "Just go ahead."
Iago doesn't. Instead, he slips up Max's body to kiss him full on the lips. His lips are warm, and Max finds part of himself warming to Iago's touch again. As Iago's lips work him into a pleasant submission, easing his negative mind and igniting his cold heart, Iago's hand wraps around his length and begins to stroke. Soon Max is writhing beneath him, whimpering his name.
Strokes halt and fingers trail lower, between his cheeks. Far more relaxed, Max is eager for his touch. A finger presses against him, pushes into him, and he sighs contentedly. Another is quick to follow, easing him until he's ready.
"Max?"
A question seeking permission. Max nods, desperately.
Iago removes in fingers, Max immediately feeling and hating their absence. The head of Iago's cock is quick to replace them as it sinks slowly into him.
Max's jaw drops, but no sound comes out. He can't even find his own voice he's so consumed in the feeling, the brilliant sensations gathering within him. It's almost painful at first, what with their minimal lubrication, but Iago is easy on him, repeatedly asking him if he's okay.
It's strange finding himself in a different rhythm than he's accustomed too. Different, but certainly not bad. He meets Iago's thrusts, and for the first few times, the timing is off. Soon though, it's as if they'd been doing this forever, and Max almost imagines that they have.
Thrust-for-thrust, Max is swimming in a sort of divined pleasure. Iago inside him, Iago's hands finding their way back to his cock, Iago's lips meeting his own almost lovingly—everything is perfect. He doesn't remember that they're in Clara's kiosk, or that they're having sex on the cold floor of a storage closet. Those things couldn't be farther from his mind. All he knows in each moment is Iago—his scent, his touch, his everything.
His orgasm builds quickly—too quickly, Max discovers. He doesn't want this to end. This is their only chance, and he wants it to last forever, or for as long as he can hold out. But he can't hold out. Iago is hitting his prostate in at maddeningly wonderful pace, his pleasure rising, rising.
He's there. He's there and he's moaning, coming all over Iago's hand and his own belly. And all other sounds drown out except for one,
"Max."
It's as he's riding out the final waves of his orgasm, that he feels Iago gripped by his own orgasm. Iago kisses him as soon as it hits—a tender one, full of affection that can't possibly exist between the two of them. Yet Max returns it with the same enthusiasm, flooded with euphoria.
They remain connected just briefly, Iago gazing into Max's eyes, his hand carding through Max's hair. It's a tender moment, for all that it shouldn't be. But then Iago withdraws physically from him, and Max immediately withdraws emotionally.
He's back in the kiosk, back in the storage closet. He can't stand this cynic, this arrogant stranger. As Iago shifts to lay next to him, moving to somehow cradle Max in his arms, Max sits up, awash in self-loathing.
"What's wrong?" Iago asks, voice gentle.
"I have to go."
"Have to go? Fuck, Max."
In a scramble to gather and put on his clothes, Max briefly turns back to Iago.
"I'm sorry."
He is genuinely, or at least he would be if he could tolerate Iago for any length of time. He doesn't mean to fuck-and-run, but Iago will never be able to understand why it has to be this way.
Max can't stay. If he stays for only a little while, he'll want to stay longer. Because when it comes right down to it, Iago isn't as bad as he originally thought. At least it doesn't seem that way. But he can't let himself get close. If it turns out that Iago isn't what he thought he was, and if he's really this attracted to Iago, then things could be disastrous for him and Enric.
He loves Enric—a thought that he has to repeat over and over in order to force himself to walk out the door. He does love Enric. He does.