Give it some, give it some, give it some time, But I think we're supposed to be

Part Two.

Charles comes back from Bahrain in the middle of the night, and you're awake waiting for him.

He shows up at your door straight from the plane, dragging a Louis Vuitton suitcase behind him, headphones hanging around his neck. There are bags under his eyes and his hair is all over the place and he's beautiful—he's beautiful and he's yours, coming to you the second he touches down at home.

"Hi, angel," he says, voice hoarse and eyes tired as he gently closes the door behind him. He won, a Ferrari 1-2, and you can see it on his face: the stress, the relief, the partying. There's probably still champagne in his hair but you couldn't care less; you don't think you'd care even if he rolled in mud before showing up tonight. You'd missed him so much every muscle had ached, like a surgery, a loss. You'd watched him step up on that podium and cried because you couldn't be by his side.

"Hi, my champion," you throw your arms around Charles' neck and he lifts you gently, swaying with you in his arms.

"This is just the first race," he says, lips pressed against your cheek. He has more stubble than usual, and it scratches as he speaks. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves."

You don't care. He could never win a race again and you wouldn't care—though you do love this, champion Charles, smelling of champagne and private jet and pride, his cheeks red and his eyes starry and his body relaxed, grateful, yours.

You let Charles carry you into the bedroom, abandoning his suitcase by the couch and kicking his shoes off as he walks. He drops you onto the bed with ease and you lay on your back and watch him strip, headphones placed gently on the chair, shirt thrown across the room in the general direction of your hamper. He steps out of his sweatpants and socks with his green eyes locked on yours, his lips parted, his chest heaving.

"You're not too tired?" You ask, as Charles crawls up your body. He's already hard in his dark blue boxers, and as he moves up your body he slides his hands under your sweatshirt—his sweatshirt, really, Ferrari red and worn in—and pulls it up over your head without a hitch.

"No," he's smiling when you get your eyes on him again, holding himself up over your face with one strong arm. His other hand cups your cheek, pulling you in for a kiss. "I slept on the plane. I am never too tired for you."

The kiss is a headrush, leaving you reeling and woozy when Charles pulls away to press his lips to your neck. He licks a steady, wet trail down the side of your neck, gentle bites making you gasp into the dark of your room every so often. He always kisses after a bite, soothes over the angry red spot, whispers that you sound so good for him.

"Missed it," Charles tells you, eyes catching yours as he pulls his lips away from your neck. "Missed these pretty sounds you make, amore ."

You whimper again, just for him, and Charles smiles. "That's it," he tells you, licking his thumb quickly before he rolls it over your nipple. " Parfaite."

It's natural, the way you tangle your fingers up in his dark hair and let him kiss the rest of the way down your body while he feels you up: lips between your breasts, down your stomach, over your hipbones. You arch your back, chasing him for more, and Charles pauses at the waistband of your lounge shorts, his eyes finding yours in the dark.

"Good?" He asks, mouthing against the fabric.

"Please," you tug at his hair, gasping when he hisses in surprise.

"Hips up for me, mon ange ," he says softly, pressing his lips to your stomach again. You do as Charles asks, lifting your hips so he can slide off your shorts, toss them across the room, and settle between your thighs. "Nothing under?" He asks, eyebrow quirking as he presses his lips to the inside of your bare thigh.

You shake your head against the pillow, desperate for him. He's teasing, slow on purpose, asking questions he already knows the answers to. Your chest heaves, and you feel like your heart might crack.

"So pretty," says Charles, slower now, as the moment starts to catch up with him, too. "You're so pretty for me. You were waiting for me, huh? Stayed up waiting for me, not wearing any underwear?" A beat of silence as you try to catch your breath, and then Charles' lips against your clit as he says, "answer me."

It comes out as more of a whine than anything else, a vague affirmative sound that's good enough for Charles. "Good girl," he presses a kiss to your clit, spreading your thighs a little wider as he gets more comfortable. "I'll give you what you waited for, now."

It's religion, when he gets his mouth on you properly. It's reuniting with half of yourself. It's impossible, it's the brink of death and the feeling of being reborn and it's—it's stopping. It's stopping way before it should stop and Charles is shouting and you're sitting up as quickly as you can, confused, momentarily terrified.

You reach over to flick the bedside lamp on, and then it all makes sense.

Buttons, sitting on Charles' bare back. Charles, with his shoulders hunched up, trying to shake him off. You, jaw dropped open, hand covering your mouth, laughter bursting at your chest.

"This cat cannot fucking be serious," Charles says, all the heat in his voice gone. He's trying to look at Buttons, still sitting triumphantly on his back. "Do you understand what was happening, Buttons? It has been over a week, you cannot cut me some slack? You cannot just leave me alone for once?"

"He doesn't know," you gasp between laughs, reaching forward to coax Buttons off Charles' back. The cat jumps into your arms happily, purring as you set him down next to you in bed.

"I think he does know," Charles huffs, eyeing Buttons suspiciously. "I think he knows exactly."

You cup Charles' cheek, tilting his chin so he's looking at you instead of the cat. "Let it go," you brush your thumb over the line of Charles' mouth, tugging gently at his lower lip. "How about a shower?"

"Good idea," Charles presses a kiss to the pad of your thumb, mouth quirking up into the smile that he saves for you. "Cats hate water."

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