The morning Miami sun slowly seeped through the gap in the heavy silk curtains of the master bedroom. Its soft texture trembled gently under the breath of the AC, casting shifting patterns of golden light across the rumpled white sheets. Julian opened his eyes slowly. His body still felt incredibly heavy from an overly deep sleep following a completely draining night—both physically and emotionally.
He reached his hand out to the side.
Empty.
"Fab?" he called out, his voice thick with morning rasp.
Shortly after, the bedroom door swung open. Fabian walked in with a calm, measured stride, wearing nothing but a pair of loose black boxer briefs that hung dangerously low on his V-line. In the crook of his arm, two-and-a-half-year-old Gillian was busy chugging baby formula from his bottle. Gillian’s tiny curls were a chaotic mess from sleep.
Julian immediately sat up in bed.
"Fabian," he said, his tone hovering somewhere between bewildered and amused. "You're naked."
Fabian turned his head, an eyebrow ticking up slightly as if he’d just realized it himself. He looked down at his own body, then gave a casual shrug.
"I didn't have time to grab a shirt. Gillian was crying. Milk first, clothes later."
He walked over to the side of the bed and carefully handed Gillian over into Julian's lap. The baby's body was warm and heavy, instantly hitting Julian with the comforting smell of sweet formula mixed with soft baby soap.
"Ahhh, there's my handsome boy," Julian murmured, gently rubbing Gillian's back. The baby was still entirely focused on draining his bottle, but his huge eyes stared at Fabian, who was currently standing in front of the open wardrobe.
"Dada!" Gillian suddenly exclaimed, the bottle slipping from his mouth for a second as he pointed a chubby finger at Fabian.
Julian chuckled softly. "Yeah, that's Dada. Dada is getting ready to take a shower."
He turned his head to look at Fabian, who had already pulled a towel from the closet. Even half-naked like this, Fabian radiated an absurd amount of confidence. His posture was perfectly straight, his ripped muscles sharply defined under the morning light. There wasn't an ounce of shame. It was as if being naked was the most natural state of existence for him.
Julian studied his husband from the bed. Having lived for a decade as an elite gigolo, Fabian's absolute confidence in his own body was ingrained deep in his bones. He was used to being looked at, assessed, and intensely desired. Even now, after getting married and having kids, that exhibitionist habit hadn't just vanished.
It was a stark contrast to Julian.
Julian preferred staying behind the scenes. He had never liked being the center of attention. His family had bred him to constantly protect his image, to never be too "exposed." Meanwhile, Fabian... Fabian was entirely accustomed to living under the spotlight, and he frankly thrived in it.
Sometimes, it made Julian feel a spike of insecurity. Not because Fabian was too confident, but because he feared that one day, that fundamental difference would become a chasm between them. Fabian, who always wanted to be seen, and himself, who felt safest when he was invisible.
"Dada shower!" Gillian announced again, his voice much clearer than usual. He thrust his empty bottle out toward Fabian.
Julian stared at his son, slightly surprised. Gillian had been getting a lot more vocal lately, but this morning he seemed much more active than usual. From being a quiet baby who only babbled gibberish, he was now articulating "Dada" with perfect clarity and actively demanding more milk.
"Wow, someone is super chatty today," Julian said, ruffling Gillian's messy hair. "You want more milk? Is it all gone?"
Gillian gave a small nod, his eyes still tracking Fabian, who was shaking out a towel and getting ready to step into the bathroom.
Fabian stopped at the bathroom door and looked back. A small, fond smile touched his lips as he took in the scene on the bed—Julian, hair still a chaotic nest, hugging Gillian in his lap.
"If you keep letting him see me naked like this, Gillian is going to start walking around naked everywhere too," Fabian teased lightly.
Julian raised an eyebrow. "I'm not the one parading around half-naked in front of our kid at this hour."
Fabian gave a low laugh. "He's little. He doesn't get it yet."
Julian fell silent for a moment. His gaze drifted down Fabian's body as his husband stood in the bathroom doorway. Even after years together, Julian could still find himself completely captivated—and a little envious—by the way Fabian carried himself. No hesitation. No shame.
While he... he still often felt the need to hide parts of himself, even from his own husband.
"Fab," he called out softly before Fabian could step into the bathroom.
"Hm?"
Julian looked at his husband with a small, slightly crooked smile.
"You really are way too confident. Sometimes I'm jealous."
Fabian paused, then his smile softened. Instead of going into the bathroom, he walked back over to the bed. With the towel still gripped in one hand, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to Julian's forehead.
"You don't need to be like me," he said softly. "I love that you prefer staying behind the scenes. That's what makes you... you."
Julian stared at Fabian for a long moment. Then he let out a soft sigh and gave a small nod.
"Go shower," he finally said. "Gillian's going to start crying if he has to keep looking at you naked."
Fabian laughed and finally stepped into the bathroom. The sound of the shower turning on echoed out.
Julian looked down at Gillian, still sitting in his lap, the bottle completely empty once again.
"Dada," Gillian said again, pointing a tiny finger at the bathroom door.
Julian smiled faintly and kissed the top of his son's head.
"Yeah," he murmured. "That's Dada."
Julian was still cradling Gillian in his lap when Fabian finally stepped into the bathroom. The rushing sound of the shower started echoing from inside. Gillian, who had been quietly observing the bathroom door, suddenly turned his head to look up at Julian with massive, slightly sleepy eyes.
"Milk again," he demanded, holding up his empty bottle and lightly bumping it against Julian's chest. "Milk all gone."
Julian fought back a smile. "All gone, huh? You just drank a whole bottle."
Gillian shook his head slowly, his messy curls bouncing with the movement.
"More. Milk more, Papa."
Julian raised an eyebrow. "Papa? Not Dada?"
Gillian went quiet for a second, as if thinking incredibly hard. Then he pointed toward the bathroom with a chubby finger.
"Dada shower," he stated with absolute seriousness, as if explaining a highly critical piece of information. "Papa... milk."
Julian let out a soft laugh. "Oh, so now I'm the Papa who gives milk, and Dada is the one who showers?"
Gillian nodded firmly, clearly satisfied with that logic. Then he stared at Julian with pure, innocent eyes and said with a slight lisp,
"Papa... handsome."
Julian froze instantly. His cheeks flushed warm. He hadn't expected a kid this small to drop a line like that so suddenly.
"What?" he asked, pretending not to believe it. "Who's handsome?"
Gillian pointed his index finger right at Julian's face.
"Papa. Handsome. Dada also handsome." He paused for a beat, then added with absolute unwavering confidence, "Gillian also handsome."
Julian couldn't hold back his laughter anymore. He hugged Gillian tighter, kissing his chubby cheeks repeatedly until the little boy squirmed and giggled.
"Wow, Gillian is so good at talking today," Julian praised, rubbing his son's back. "Yesterday you were just being quiet. Now you can say Papa is handsome. Who taught you that?"
Gillian didn't answer. He was already busy trying to unscrew the cap off his bottle with his two tiny hands. After failing, he handed the bottle back to Julian with a pathetic, pleading look.
"Papa... open. Milk."
Julian took the bottle and unscrewed the cap. "This one? But it's empty, remember? You want a new one?"
Gillian nodded rapidly. "New. Lots and lots."
Julian stood up, hiking Gillian onto his hip, and walked over to the small table in the corner of the room where they kept the baby formula and supplies. Gillian rested his head on Julian's shoulder, occasionally lifting a hand to grab at Julian's messy bedhead.
"Papa hair... messy," Gillian observed, trying to pat Julian's hair down with his tiny hand. "Papa... ugly."
"Excuse me?" Julian feigned offense. "A minute ago I was handsome, now I'm ugly?"
Gillian gave a little giggle, looking immensely pleased with his own joke. "Papa ugly... funny."
Julian shook his head, laughing softly. "You really are something... already got a dangerous little mouth on you."
After pouring fresh milk into the bottle, Julian returned to the bed and sat back against the headboard. Gillian immediately snatched the bottle and started chugging greedily, his short legs kicking happily against the duvet.
Julian watched his son with a small, fond smile. Gillian had definitely started talking more recently, but this morning felt distinctly different. It was as if a dam had broken and he suddenly had a million things to say. And somehow, it filled Julian with an intense, radiating warmth. This little boy—the product of a catastrophic clinic error two and a half years ago—was now one of the most precious parts of his life.
Gillian abruptly stopped drinking and looked at Julian with intense seriousness.
"Papa," he called out.
"Hm?"
Gillian pointed a finger toward the bathroom again. "Dada... shower long time."
Julian nodded. "Yeah, Dada takes a long shower. So he gets clean."
Gillian paused, then said in a slightly complaining tone,
"Dada... clothes."
Julian burst out laughing. He hadn't expected his kid to hold onto that detail.
"Yeah," he said, rubbing Gillian's head. "Dada was getting clothes. But don't you copy him tomorrow, okay? Gillian has to wear clothes."
Gillian gave a tiny nod, as if he understood. But then he added, with absolute certainty,
"Gillian... want pee in shower."
Julian stared at him deadpan. "Don't."
Gillian just beamed, flashing his newly grown front teeth, before immediately returning his focus to his bottle of milk as if nothing had happened.
Julian let out a long sigh, but the smile never left his face. He watched his son chug the milk greedily and muttered softly,
"You... are getting more dangerous by the day."
Gillian didn't reply. He just held the bottle high in the air once he finished and announced proudly,
"Milk... all gone again."
Julian laughed and took the bottle.
"Alright. Papa will get you one more. But this is the last one, okay? Or you won't finish your breakfast."
Gillian nodded obediently. But his eyes were already gleaming with a scheming light. Julian could already predict that tomorrow morning, this kid was going to demand milk with an even more creative excuse.
He shook his head slowly, smiling to himself.
He had been thinking about this for quite some time.
Living in a penthouse was undeniably practical. No yard maintenance, no grass to mow, no anxiety about the kids falling into a pool. But the longer they stayed, the more Fabian felt like they were living suspended in mid-air. There was no ground to stand on. No space for the kids to run wild without having to trek to a city park. And the thing that gnawed at his mind the most was the harsh reality that Julian was always the one defending them, always the one making sacrifices when it came to his own family.
Fabian hated feeling like a burden. He wanted to contribute something substantial. Not just money, but a place they could truly call "home."
He owned two properties on Pine Drive. One was a medium-sized house with a decently large backyard, valued at six million dollars. The other was slightly smaller, sitting at five million. Compared to the main Casablanca estate, which commanded a fifteen-million-dollar price tag, it was an astronomical difference. Fabian knew that. And he hated having to fixate on the numbers.
But he still needed to ask.
That morning, after Julian finished putting away the toys and walked into the bedroom, Fabian followed him. Julian was sitting on the edge of the bed, rubbing his face tiredly with both hands. Fabian hovered in the doorway for a second before finally speaking up.
"Julian," he called out softly.
Julian turned his head. "Hm?"
Fabian scratched the back of his neck, a nervous tic he always defaulted to when he was uncomfortable. "I... want to talk to you about something."
Julian raised an eyebrow, already sensing this wasn't going to be a light conversation. "About what?"
Fabian stepped into the room and took a seat on the small chair near the window. He stared at the floor for a beat before looking up.
"I want us to move out of here," he said bluntly. "Out of this penthouse. I want us to live in a real house. One that actually sits on the ground. Where the kids can run around in a backyard without us having to take them to the park."
Julian stayed silent. He didn't answer immediately, just watching Fabian with an unreadable expression.
Fabian pressed on, the words tumbling out slightly faster out of nerves.
"I own two houses on Pine Drive. One is pretty big, the other is a bit smaller. We could move into one of them. Or... if you're up for it, we could renovate one to make it perfect for Gillian and Froy."
Julian remained quiet. Fabian felt his chest tighten suffocatingly.
"I know," he continued, his voice dropping lower, "those houses are leagues below your family's standard. Your estate in Coral Gables is fifteen million. Mine are only six and five. I... I understand if you feel like it's a downgrade. But I want to provide something too, Julian. It shouldn't just be you making all the sacrifices."
Julian looked at his husband for a long moment. Then he let out a slow sigh and said in a completely flat tone,
"Are you afraid I'm going to say no just because your houses are 'too small' compared to my family's estate?"
Fabian didn't answer directly. He just gave a small, defensive shrug.
Julian stood up and walked over. He stopped right in front of Fabian, looking down slightly to meet his husband's eyes.
"Fabian," he said softly. "Do you honestly think I would reject it just because there's a five-million-dollar price difference?"
Fabian looked at him, hesitant. "It's not just the price tag. You're used to a very specific standard of living. I don't want you to feel like you've... fallen."
Julian let out a short laugh, completely devoid of malice. It was just laced with exhaustion and a deep, overwhelming fondness.
"I fell the second I chose to marry you," he said brutally honestly. "And I don't regret a single second of it. Do you really think I give a flying fuck about property values? What I care about is the fact that you want to provide a real home for our kids. Not just a 'practical' living space."
Fabian stared at him, looking as if he couldn't quite believe what he was hearing.
Julian reached out and cupped Fabian's cheek.
"Show me," he ordered softly. "Show me the houses. Photos, floor plans, whatever you have. If you think it's the right fit for the four of us... I'm in."
Fabian sat frozen for a long time. Then he pulled out his phone with slightly clumsy, eager movements. He opened his gallery and swiped to several photos of the properties on Pine Drive. One was a sprawling white house with a massive backyard and a small pool. The other was ultra-modern, boasting floor-to-ceiling windows and an immaculate front lawn.
Julian studied the photos with intense focus. There wasn't a trace of disappointment on his face. In fact, a small smile started to form.
"These... are great," he said quietly. "The first one is perfect for Gillian. The yard is massive. The second one is more modern, better for Froy since he loves running around."
Fabian looked up at him, eyes wide. "Are you... serious?"
Julian nodded. "I'm dead serious. I'm honestly exhausted living in a place that feels like a five-star hotel every single day. I want our kids to have a real home. Not just a luxury residence."
He paused, then added in a much softer, more vulnerable tone,
"And I want you to feel... like you are building something for this family too. Not just me."
Fabian looked down. A massive lump formed in his throat. He hadn't expected Julian to agree so easily, without a single fight or hesitation.
Julian hooked a finger under Fabian's chin and tilted his head up.
"Hey," he said softly. "Don't overthink this. We can renovate. We can turn that house into something that belongs entirely to the two of us. It has absolutely nothing to do with who has a bigger bank account."
Fabian stared at Julian for a long time. Then he gave a slow, definitive nod.
"If you're absolutely sure..." he muttered.
"I'm sure," Julian answered without a shadow of a doubt. "We're moving. But on one condition."
Fabian raised an eyebrow. "What?"
Julian flashed a faint, dangerous smirk.
"You're managing the entire renovation. The only thing I'm doing is picking the paint colors for the kids' rooms."
Fabian let out a low laugh. The sound was thick with absolute relief.
"Deal."
Julian leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss to Fabian's lips.
"And one more thing," he said, staring right into his husband's eyes. "You never have to feel like you need to 'match' my family. I chose you. Not your real estate portfolio. You."
Fabian went completely still. Then he gave a slow nod and wrapped his arms tight around Julian's waist, burying his face against his husband's stomach.
The fierce Miami sunlight pierced through the penthouse's UV-blocking glass, creating sharp, angled lines of gold that fell directly onto a row of titanium Rimowa suitcases sitting in the middle of the living room. The air in the room felt freezing and smelled of clean linen, but the tension hanging among the piles of clothes was thick enough to cut with a knife.
Julian stood in front of an open suitcase, glaring at his white Loro Piana linen shirt as if the garment had just insulted him personally. His jaw was clenched tight. He folded it, unfolded it, and folded it again with overly aggressive movements.
"This is a family vacation, Fab," Julian muttered without turning his head, his voice sharp but heavy with exhaustion. "Not fashion week in Milan. Why the fuck are you coordinating Gillian's outfits like he's doing a cover shoot for Vogue Enfants?"
Fabian strolled in from the hallway, wearing gray sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips, his bare chest gleaming with a thin layer of sweat. In his hand was a black leather folder. He tossed the folder onto the bed, right next to Julian's pile of shorts.
"Open it," Fabian ordered casually, the corner of his lips curling into a lethal, symmetrical smirk.
Julian frowned and opened the folder. His eyes widened. Inside were pages of a lookbook—photo collages of perfectly coordinated outfits, complete with accessories, shoes, and timestamps.
Day 1: Arrival & Casual Dinner (Julian: Navy Linen, Fabian: White Polo. Froy: Striped shirt. Gillian: Pastel romper).
Day 2: Yacht Trip...
"You made a fucking lookbook? For our toddler?" Julian stared at his husband, hovering somewhere between awe and horror.
"Your family, Juls, damn! You could wear clothes from Walmart and they wouldn't give a shit, because you're one of them. But me? Ugh... I wear Prada shoes and they look at me like they're judging my soul, and they're only 3 seasons old and not even slightly ruined," Fabian retorted, leaning his hip against the edge of the dresser. "If we show up to Fisher Island looking like lost, second-class tourists, Charlie and Aunt Florence will think I'm not taking proper care of you. Appearance is a weapon."
Julian let out a long sigh, tossing the folder back onto the mattress. "You're taking this way too far."
"It's a survival skill, baby," Fabian chuckled softly, his raspy voice filling the room. "Back when I was still flying out to Vietnam and Thailand to service crazy European widows, clients could dock my pay in half if my hair wasn't matte enough or if I wore the wrong colored shoes. In the world of elite prostitution, before you even unzip your pants, you have to sell the fantasy first. And fantasy requires perfect aesthetics. I was a fake rich guy over there, Juls, and now I'm a fake rich guy in your family too."
Hearing the reference to his past, Julian didn't recoil in disgust. Instead, he offered a cynical smirk—an automatic defense mechanism. "So, you're equating a vacation with my family to a sex tourism trip to Bangkok?"
"Both require a shit ton of lube and extra patience," Fabian winked, then turned toward the door. "I'm going down to Benjamin's apartment for a bit. I left some of my grooming essentials down there. If I let you pack the soap, you'll definitely just bring the house soap, and house soap has a completely different pH level than vacation soap, Juls."
The elevator took Fabian down to the lower floor. His old apartment, now occupied by Benjamin, was quiet. He went straight to the bathroom cabinet, where he kept his grooming "treasure trove". With the Casablanca family they were about to face, grooming couldn't look like you spent three hours standing in front of a mirror. It had to look effortless, elegant, as if being impossibly handsome and immaculate was just genetically ingrained since birth.
Fabian opened the drawer. His eyes scanned the contents with the precision of a museum curator.
He grabbed a bottle of Brickell Men's Daily Strengthening Shampoo. Sulfate-free, nourishing, and with roots right here in Miami. He bypassed the harsh hair gels, opting for the water-based Brickell Styling Clay Pomade, then slipped a jar of Brylcreem into his leather pouch just in case he needed a vintage texture without the cheap shine. A Kent boar bristle brush went in next—essential for maintaining natural shine and styling a neat side part without looking stiff.
The blistering Fisher Island sun demanded perfectly clean, unburdened skin. He grabbed the Brickell Clarifying Gel Face Wash; harsh bar soap was an absolute mortal sin for facial skin. For his classic wet shave routine, he packed a badger hair brush from Geo. F. Trumper, a bottle of pre-shave oil, Taylor of Old Bond Street sandalwood shaving cream, and of course, a heavy, masculine Edwin Jagger safety razor.
Everything was packed neatly. Simple, consistent, prioritizing quality over quantity.
When Fabian returned to the penthouse, the air in the master bedroom felt significantly heavier. Julian was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the oak hardwood floor. The suitcases were already zipped shut, but Julian's shoulders were slumped, carrying the suffocating weight of the Casablanca family's social expectations choking his neck.
Fabian placed his dopp kit on the nightstand. The sharp sound of the leather zipper broke the silence.
"Aunt Florence just called," Julian mumbled, his voice laced with pure exhaustion. "She wanted to 'make sure' if we needed 'extra help' looking after the kids, acting as if we're completely incompetent."
Fabian walked closer. He didn't offer any cheap, motivational platitudes. Instead, he stood right between Julian's spread legs at the edge of the bed.
"You're letting those old foxes get into your head, Juls," Fabian said. His voice dropped an octave, shifting from supportive-husband mode into the mode of a predator who knew his prey intimately.
Fabian's hand gripped the back of Julian's neck, his thumb stroking his husband's tense jawline. Julian looked up, his stormy gray eyes colliding with Fabian's grayish-green stare.
"I'm just tired, Fab," Julian whispered.
"Then shut your brain off," Fabian shot back.
Without warning, Fabian yanked the drawstring of his own gray sweatpants. The fabric pooled to the floor, freeing his massive, half-erect cock. The freezing air from the AC instantly hit their skin, but the heavy, masculine scent radiating from Fabian's body—a potent cocktail of sweat, lingering cologne, and sharp, raw male pheromones—immediately scorched Julian's lungs.
The thick, heavily veined shaft twitched right in front of Julian's face, weeping a drop of slick, clear pre-cum from the swollen, angry pink head.
Julian swallowed hard. The corner of his mouth twitched, his exhaustion instantly vaporized by a ravenous, animalistic instinct. "Is this your way of calming me down? Deploying your weapon of mass destruction?"
"You said you were tired of thinking," Fabian smirked wickedly. His large hand pushed roughly against the back of Julian's head, forcing his husband's face flush against his crotch. "So, open your filthy mouth, Julian. Don't think about Charlie. Don't think about Aunt Florence. Just think about how to swallow my cock down to the base without choking."
Julian's breath hitched. That filthy challenge always managed to obliterate his sanity. He stuck his tongue out, licking up the salty, viscous drop of pre-cum at the tip of Fabian's glans. The musky, primal taste exploded across his senses, acting like a detonation switch.
Julian opened his mouth wide and ravenously swallowed the massive head.
"FUCK..." Fabian groaned loudly, throwing his head back, the thick veins in his neck bulging. "Yeah... suck it hard, Juls. Show me how fucking dirty the mouth of the young Casablanca master really is."
Julian didn't answer with words. He answered by ruthlessly sucking the thick shaft, swirling his tongue around the ridge of the head, before shoving it deep down his esophagus. The sloppy, wet sounds of sucking (slurp, slop) echoed loudly in the cavernous bedroom. His hands gripped Fabian's ass cheeks, pulling his husband closer, letting Fabian aggressively pump his face with short, brutal thrusts.
It only took a few minutes for Fabian's patience to snap. He yanked Julian's hair roughly, pulling his cock out of his husband's mouth with a loud, wet POP. A thick string of saliva bridged the gap between Julian's lips and the tip of Fabian's shaft.
"Lay down," Fabian growled, his eyes completely dark, swimming with feral, animalistic lust.
Julian obeyed. He dropped his back onto the linen sheets, kicking his own pants off until he was completely buck naked and entirely exposed. His own cock was standing at absolute attention, leaking pre-cum.
Fabian crawled onto the mattress like a predator on the prowl. He didn't even bother reaching for the lube in the nightstand. He just spat a thick wad of saliva into his palm, smeared it roughly over the head of his cock, and shoved it directly against Julian's tight, puckered asshole.
"AHHNG! Dammit, Fab—it's too fucking big!" Julian let out a strangled scream as the blunt tip violently stretched his hole open.
"You love it big, don't you? Swallow it, my little dirty slut. Take every fucking inch," Fabian hissed.
With one merciless thrust of his hips, Fabian buried his entire ten inches hilt-deep. The sound of flesh violently colliding (PLAP!) cracked like a whip. Julian threw his head back, his spine arching to the extreme, his mouth hanging open in a silent scream as the agonizing, overwhelming fullness pierced right through his prostate wall.
"Nnggh! Fuck! Oh my God, Fab!"
Fabian showed absolutely no mercy. He pulled his hips almost completely out, then slammed his body back in with a savage, feral rhythm. Plap! Plap! Plap! Every brutal collision made the king-size bed groan in protest. Sweat dripped from the tip of Fabian's nose, landing directly on Julian's heaving chest.
"You feel that, huh?" Fabian growled, leaning his upper body forward to pin Julian flat against the mattress. He bit down hard on Julian's neck, leaving a stark, purple bruise. "Who's fucking you right now, Juls? Who owns this tight little hole?"
"You! Ahh! Fuck, Fabian! Don't stop! Destroy me!" Julian babbled shamelessly, his eyes squeezed shut, tears of pure ecstasy pooling at the corners. The muscles of his ass convulsed wildly, clamping down and milking Fabian's cock with a vice-like grip that pushed his husband's sanity to the absolute breaking point.
Fabian slipped one hand underneath the small of Julian's back, hauling his husband's hips higher to alter the angle of penetration, ensuring every single thrust obliterated his deepest spot with lethal precision. His right hand gripped Julian's rock-hard cock, jacking it in perfect sync with the brutal pounding of his hips down below.
The dual torture was entirely too much. Julian whimpered hysterically, his head thrashing side to side.
"Fab—Fabian! I'm gonna cum! AHH!"
Julian exploded. He let out a ragged roar, blasting thick white ropes of cum that splattered across his own stomach and the back of Fabian's hand. Julian's climax made his hole contract violently, suffocating Fabian's cock in a death grip.
"FUCK, JULIAN!" Fabian roared hoarsely.
He tripled the speed of his thrusts, hammering away with brutal force until he finally couldn't hold on any longer. With a long, primal roar that sounded entirely inhuman, Fabian nailed his hips hilt-deep, unleashing wave after wave of scorching, thick semen deep inside Julian's gut. The heavy fluid flooded him inside out, filling Julian up until the excess cream spilled over, oozing out of his red, overstretched hole and staining their ridiculously expensive bedsheets.
Both men were panting heavily, their chests heaving to the extreme. Fabian collapsed his dead weight on top of Julian, burying his face in the crook of his husband's neck, still refusing to pull out his twitching, needy cock.
Julian stroked Fabian's hair with whatever strength he had left, flashing a weak smile through half-closed eyes. The mental exhaustion from dreading the family vacation had vaporized completely, replaced by an intoxicating flood of dopamine and endorphins.
"Well," Fabian mumbled between ragged breaths, pressing a kiss to Julian's sweaty forehead. "Has your brain finally stopped overthinking?"
Julian let out a raspy laugh. The sticky, overstuffed sensation in his lower stomach provided a strangely grounding, incredibly comforting feeling.
"Yeah," Julian whispered, giving his husband a brief peck on the lips. "Now, get the hell off me, you hyper-sexual pimp. We have to shower and put styling clay in your hair before we leave."
Thick steam billowed inside the Calacatta marble shower enclosure that dominated the master bathroom of their penthouse. The rushing water from the rainhead shower crashed down loudly, drowning out the muffled roar of the city of Miami beyond the frosted glass window. The air felt thick, scorching hot, and heavily perfumed with intoxicating scents of sandalwood, mint, and steam.
Behind the curtain of vapor, Fabian was on his knees on the slick marble tiles.
Julian stood leaning against the glass wall, looking down. Fabian's large, heavily veined hands, wielding the precision of a professional barber, were carefully applying the last bits of shaving cream to Julian's groin. In his right hand, a heavy Edwin Jagger safety razor gleamed under the downlights.
"If that razor slips and slices off my future, I think you're going to have to explain to my lawyer why you turned me into a eunuch right before the family gathering," Julian snarked, his voice echoing softly within the glass enclosure. His eyes tracked the razor as it glided seamlessly over his most sensitive skin.
Fabian snorted, his focus never wavering from his husband's crotch. "Relax, Juls. These hands are highly trained to know exactly what needs to be stroked and what needs to be chopped off." He rinsed the blade under the stream of water, then went back to executing the last remaining pubic hairs with absolute, surgical precision. "Besides, you're planning on wearing those tight white swim trunks in Fisher Island. I really fucking love the idea of that."
Julian chuckled bitterly. "You really are treating this family vacation like a war zone, aren't you?"
Julian stared at his husband. Behind the sarcastic banter, he could hear the distinct ring of Fabian's vulnerability. The former gigolo who now had to sit at the same table as the Casablanca dynasty.
"My turn," Julian suddenly declared, snatching the razor right out of Fabian's hand.
Fabian stood up, towering massively in front of Julian. His heavily muscled body glistened under the rushing water. The chest hair he had let grow out at Julian's request last week was plastered wetly against his firm pecs, giving him an aura of brutal, primal masculinity. However, Julian's gaze immediately dropped to the thick forest of hair on Fabian's lower stomach.
Fabian leaned back against the marble wall, spreading his legs slightly to grant full access. Julian ducked his head, applied the shaving cream, and started dragging the blade. He completely stripped away the hair around the base of Fabian's thick cock, and carefully around his heavy balls, leaving the skin looking immaculately clean and visibly veiny.
However, Julian stopped before he annihilated everything. He intentionally left a thick, vertical rectangular patch of hair—a perfectly shaped landing strip—right above the base of Fabian's cock, which was already starting to twitch and wake up under Julian's touch.
"All done," Julian announced, rinsing away the remaining foam with the handheld sprayer, his lips curling into a deeply filthy smirk.
Fabian looked down, wiping the water from his eyes, and stared at his own crotch. Right in the middle of his now impossibly smooth skin, sat a neatly trimmed landing strip. It was highly contrasting. Incredibly blatant.
A loud, raspy bark of laughter erupted from Fabian, bouncing off the glass walls and overpowering the roar of the water.
"You naughty little bastard," Fabian swore through his laughter, looking at Julian with green eyes that suddenly went pitch black. The laughter vanished in a fraction of a second, replaced entirely by a feral, ravenous hunger. "You turned me into a 90s vintage gay porn star."
"I just marked the runway," Julian shot back, his voice dropping an octave, no longer bothering to hide his quickening breath as he watched Fabian's cock spring to full attention, swelling thick and angry red with blood. "For my emergency landing."
"In that case..." Fabian took a heavy step forward, obliterating the space between them. The scalding water battered their bodies as they pressed flush against each other. "Let me remind you exactly who is flying this plane, Juls."
Without warning, Fabian grabbed the back of Julian's neck and smashed their lips together in a violent, ravenous kiss. Fabian's tongue invaded, tasting the lingering mint from Julian's toothpaste, conquering his mouth with absolute domination. Julian gasped, his bare back slamming hard against the freezing glass wall, but his core body temperature spiked dangerously.
The complete lack of hair between their crotches made the sensation of skin grinding against skin thousands of times more sensitive. Julian's flat stomach slid directly against Fabian's sculpted abs. Fabian's cock—wet, slick, and hard as forged steel—rubbed aggressively right into the cleft of Julian's naked, equally smooth ass cheeks.
"Fuck, Fab..." Julian whimpered as the kiss finally broke. He was panting heavily, his chest heaving rapidly under the cascading water.
Fabian wasted no time. He reached for a thick bottle of body wash, pumped a generous, obscene amount of the liquid soap into his massive palm, and then roughly slathered it straight into Julian's ass crack. Fabian's middle finger violently breached Julian's puckered hole, completely skipping any drawn-out foreplay.
"Ahhh! Dammit, Fab!" Julian let out a strangled scream, squeezing his eyes shut. The shower water lashed his face, perfectly disguising the tears of raw ecstasy welling up.
One finger. Then two fingers. Fabian stretched Julian's hole open with a brutal yet incredibly precise twisting motion, milking his prostate gland until Julian's legs shook so hard he nearly slipped on the slick marble floor.
"They think I'm just some cheap gigolo you picked up off the street," Fabian hissed directly into Julian's ear. His voice was hoarse, laced with old wounds, but completely consumed by a scorching, vindictive lust. He ripped his fingers out with a loud, filthy wet pop. "Let them. Let them sip their champagne on Fisher Island tomorrow. But tonight, I'm going to make sure they know that I am absolutely destroying the Casablanca heir until all he can do is scream my fucking name."
Fabian hoisted one of Julian's legs up, wrapping it high around his own waist. With one merciless, devastating thrust of his hips, Fabian nailed his entire ten-inch monster cock straight into Julian's tight hole.
"NGHHH!! OH MY GOD, FABIAN!!" Julian screamed at the top of his lungs, his head throwing back and cracking against the glass.
An agonizing yet utterly euphoric sense of absolute fullness exploded in Julian's lower abdomen. Their completely shaved, soap-slicked skin collided with zero friction, creating an intensely pure flesh-on-flesh contact. Every single vein on Fabian's shaft felt like it was scraping mercilessly against his intestinal walls.
Fabian yanked his hips almost entirely out, then slammed his body back in with terrifying force. PLAP! SLOP! PLAP! The sound of wet meat slapping together echoed obscenely inside the glass enclosure, fighting against the relentless rhythm of the falling water.
"Who does this old-money prince belong to, hm? Who does this smooth little slut belong to?!" Fabian roared, his eyes entirely black, his hand violently twisting Julian's nipple until it flushed angry red. He was railing Julian with impossible, jackhammer speed, literally pinning his husband against the glass wall with sheer force.
"You! Ahh! Fuck, Fabian! I'm yours! Destroy me!" Julian babbled deliriously, pure surrender and twisted devotion melting into the filthy words he was spitting out. Every single one of his defensive walls had crumbled, washed away down the drain. He met every brutal thrust Fabian delivered by violently rolling his own hips, actively seeking a deeper, more punishing strike to his prostate.
The landing strip above Fabian's cock repeatedly ground into Julian's lower stomach, providing a highly sensitive, rough texture amidst the friction of their slick, soapy skin. The sensation drove Julian completely insane. His right hand dove down, gripping his own pre-cum leaking cock, and he started jerking himself off with feral desperation.
"Fab—Fabian! I'm gonna cum! Don't stop, you bastard!"
"Cum for me, Juls! Cum right in my fucking hand!" Fabian shifted his grip, hijacking Julian's cock, pumping it in perfect sync with the increasingly savage, animalistic pounding of his hips.
Julian's body went into violent convulsions. His eyes rolled back into his head from sheer, blinding ecstasy. He let out a long, howling scream as his orgasm detonated, blasting thick ropes of cum that splattered right between their crushed-together stomachs, immediately washing away down the shower drain.
The death-grip clamping down from Julian's orgasm spelled the absolute end of Fabian's sanity.
"FUCK, JULIAN!" Fabian roared loudly, the thick veins in his neck straining to the point of bursting. He delivered one final, impossibly deep, devastating thrust, completely pinning Julian to the glass, and unleashed wave after wave of scorching hot semen deep into his husband's gut. The climax was so heavy, so torrential, that it burned like liquid fire even amidst the freezing marble tiles. The excess cum that couldn't be contained instantly overflowed, dripping out of Julian's gaping hole and mixing wildly with the soap suds pooling on the floor.
Both of them were panting erratically, the sound echoing pitifully in the suddenly claustrophobic space. Fabian rested his forehead heavily against Julian's shoulder, still supporting his own body weight, letting the warm water wash over their violently trembling backs. His cock was still throbbing lazily, buried hilt-deep inside Julian's stomach.
Julian cracked a weak, exhausted smile, gently stroking Fabian's soaking wet blonde hair that was plastered to his forehead. He was completely drained, sticky inside and out, but he had genuinely never felt more alive.
They collapsed together onto the wet shower floor, clinging to each other tightly under the cascade of warm water. Their breathing was still ragged.
Fabian pressed a soft kiss to Julian's soaking wet forehead.
"Tomorrow at Fisher Island," he mumbled softly, "we're going to have to pretend to be very polite in front of your family."
Julian let out a weak laugh, his body still shivering.
"And tonight," he replied, "we don't have to pretend to be a damn thing."
Fabian smiled into the crook of Julian's neck.
"Deal."
