THERE IS A CLEAR DIFFERENCE BETWEEN SEX AND INTIMACY, is what he'd learned after three years of getting down on his knees for the NFL star ; now, what they have is purely intimate and sacred. at the beginning, it truly didn't mean anything — the first time, at an exclusive party where there were white lines being made with black amex cards and booze driving people completely unhinged, he'd been approached by a few men and women, but the prince had his sights on someone: the quiet one vaping in the corner, who didn't make his discomfort clear when a girl started kissing his neck, which made ben laugh quietly, realizing what he would have clocked from miles away ; clenched fists and a tight smile. dionte didn't kiss her, though it wasn't for the poor girl's lack of trying, and ben was sure then; interest picked and skin tingling with anticipation. he grabbed the woman by her hand, as if interested in dancing, and left a faint kiss on her lips before dismissing her entirely, taking his place beside the conquest of the night and resting an elbow on the back of the booth, head tilted to the side and supported by his palm, a charming smile gracing his features. using one index finger, he ran against a defined jaw, which made even more beautiful those strong features, happy that the people around them were too intoxicated to realize what was going on the booth located in a dark, far corner of where everyone was having fun.
he isn't sure what they talked about, for there were not many words exchanged; attraction was latent and powerful, bringing them together, and he slipped the hotel key into the other's pocket without even formally exchanging names, even if who they were was on the cover of every goddamn magazine. the rising treasure, the rebel monarch. when hours passed, back at the penthouse suite of the chelsea hotel, he wondered if this had all been a waste of time, taking a long shower to avoid remembering and perhaps thinking about the miserable possibility of spending that night alone, too wired and stricken by that fucking football player to even consider that a hand around himself would do the job. he changes into boxers and drinks just a bit, enjoying the view with a bitter sense of pettiness. but then, someone knocks at the door, and he sighs, maybe room service was here, so benjamin puts on a robe and, without checking the peephole, opens it. standing on the other side is the newest object of his desire, looking strangely sure of himself and casual. he understands then that this isn't the first time dionte's escaped for some fun that the public could never know about. ' i gave you the key, you could have come in,' are the last words exchanged before he is pulling the rising star by his belt loops into the room, pressing him against the wall, taking his lips in a hungry kiss. he put the man on all fours that night and when they were spent, left a caress on the top of his spine, a little bite that didn't hide the shape of his smile. looking back, the gates of hell opened when morning came and they were still entangled. it had been a night of pleasure, which he wouldn't easily forget, but they didn't exchange numbers — it was bad enough an NDA had not been signed. he kissed him goodbye slowly and never expected to see the player again; surprisingly, it made his heart ache.
but they met again & again, phone numbers being given and documents being signed, even if it felt a bit redundant — he couldn't be seen with a man anymore than stoudamire; even sickly and old, his father would beat him to death. his mother would not get in the way, his sisters would sob from behind a locked door, and ben wouldn't have the courage to strike back. as terrible as luis could be, he was still the man who'd taught him chess and how to ride a horse; those memories flashed when there was a blow against his cheek after another scandal. even if he could stop the elder, that was still the hand that fed him. perhaps when he dies, it shouldn't take long; he could have a boyfriend and break his mother's heart like she'd broken his so many times. but now the heir thinks that if dionte can't be with him publicly, he feels no urge to be himself so loud, as it would only be a performance for others to spite his family. the youngest grimaldi isn't sure when he fell in love or when he started to love, but between nights spent awake on the phone with him when they were apart and the rare occasions when he came to london, something shifted. the fear came following close behind: how to know if he was special for dionte as he was for him ? they didn't talk much about their honest feelings, and something held benjamin back from saying anything that would ruin the magic of these encounters.
❝ yeah ? ❞ he whispers against the player's mouth. they are sharing the same air, and it still seems not enough. he wants to bring him impossibly closer, leaving no space between them as if they were one. ❝ good boy, ❞ ben gloats, leaving a kiss on his neck, careful not to mark where anyone could see. he hated this proper behavior, as if they weren't literally two seconds from fucking, being allowed certain places of his skin and not others as to dodge suspicion. but ben figures it's better than if some sensationalist blog — which he couldn't stop himself from reading — saw the hickeys and assumed they were from the models he paraded around with. does he feel jealous ? sometimes. this liberty he is afforded even if it's just to keep up appearances, when the prince had been to swing parties and gotten utterly bored with the sex, texting dionte when he got home or getting off in the shower with his name spilling from plush lips. he is so in love with this man; no one else seems even remotely interesting. but he hasn't told him that and perhaps never will. ben bites his earlobe and starts to descend upon his body, a trace of small pecks being left in his wake. the toned muscles contract at the feather like caresses, he can feel it. and it shouldn't bring such a high, but it does all the same. when he finally gets to his hips, there is a bite with intention, and something spills from his mouth, the brain not catching up fast enough: ❝ mine. fucking mine. ❞ but he does not realize it and goes further down, where his teeth wrap around the elastic band of the article keeping him decent, the last one. and he likes dionte best with nothing between them. so he rises, adjusting his posture, knees still comfortably placed on the soft couch, and takes off the underwear, which stands in his way, throwing it somewhere in the apartment, again a negative number on the things he cares about in that moment. the prince salivates at the sight of the other completely bare and wants to imagine it's just for his eyes, that no one else gets to ever see him like this, and carefully, after licking the pre-cum, which stains the sofa ( not that he gives a shit ), he takes the player into his mouth. works his tongue around the length of him, making noises of satisfaction, moans so unholy it would send some of the nuns in his old boarding school into shock and an early death. he lifts his hand and intertwines it with the man's, head still bopping mercilessly. usually ben takes his time, teasing him and licking long strips along the veins of his cock to leave him begging for everything he could give. but it truly had been months, and all that mattered was reminding america's treasure that only he could bring this type of euphoria. it was a faulty system to pour feelings into sex instead of out in the open, but this way he could assure the other wouldn't run away.
