Page 15 of Break the Rule
Twenty minutes.
Twenty minutes is exactly how long his mystery man is going to take to get here. Charlie made sure to ask for a name and pronouns upon offering his address, but all he received in return was a smirk that had left him achingly hard and eager to clean himself. Not that Charlie is any stranger to post-gala fucks, but something about this guy has him wanting to be prepared for anything.
Charlie is a very happy switch. He loves to fuck or be fucked, and he’s rarely got a firm opinion on which he wants, preferring to let his partner of the week decide. His versatility means he’s rarely disappointed by his own sexual escapades. If he’s being honest though, it’s been almost a full month since Charlie was fucked, and he’s kind of hoping that might be on the table. If it is, then his ass is definitely going to be on offer, at whichpoint he’d prefer to be clean and prepped. Not that Charlie’s too pressed about things. Sex can be messy, and he’s down for almost anything, but he has a feeling with this guy’s mention of rules, he might be particular. If that’s the case, Charlie is more than happy to oblige.
Once he’s ensured every inch of himself is clean and as cleared out as possible, he ambles to his room to throw on a pretty silk robe he got for his birthday. Charlie’s not usually one for luxurious things, but Andrew got him a silk robe a few years ago, and he’s been sold ever since. Besides, there’s no point in getting dressed again when they’re going to both be naked soon.
With five minutes to spare, Charlie makes his way through his house, retrieving clothing and checking on his pets. That damn hamster Alec convinced him to buy nearly a year ago runs around on its wheel, pausing to turn his beady little eyes on Charlie. Elderly hamster his ass. He looked it up, and they’re only supposed to live two to three years, meaning the pet store was wrong about his age or purposely lied. Charlie is of the private opinion they sensed Alec’s bleeding heart and preyed on him with a sob story so someone would buy this damn biting rodent.
“Maybe you and I can be friends one day,” Charlie tells him, tapping on the glass. Sweet Cheeks runs on his wheel, the squeak of it obnoxious. With a heavy sigh, Charlie opens the drawer beneath the enclosure, which sits on a large dresser in the living room, and takes out the bottle of dried mealworms which sits beside the lube and condoms he smartly stashed there earlier should they be needed for a guest.
Setting the container beside the enclosure, Charlie pops the lock on the top—there to ensure the little asshole doesn’t escape or isn’t eaten by his cats—before plucking out a single mealworm and lowering his hand into the cage. Sweet Cheeks comes running, and despite pinching the mealworm between thumband forefinger to make it easy to grab, the little asshole bites the end of Charlie’s finger hard before grabbing the worm and running off.
“You are the devil, you know,” Charlie grumbles. “Little fucker.”
The hamster, who Alec not at all aptly named Sweet Cheeks, shoves the entire meal worm in his cheeks before diving into his burrow.
No sooner has he turned to move to the kitchen than he barely avoids stepping on Agnes, his nearly blind senior cat.
“Sweet girl,” Charlie says, scooping her up into his arms. “Let's put you somewhere else, huh?”
Biscuit and Oreo, his other two cats who were also named by Alec, would probably kill him if he tried to pick them up. In fact, he rarely sees them make an appearance unless he’s got treats, but Agnes is old and cuddly and can usually be found wandering the house looking for Charlie. He has no problem playing favorites with his pets. He might love them all, even his asshole fucking hamster, but Agnes is his favorite hands down.
“Come on, Agnes. Time for bed.” She purrs against his chest, the rumble of it familiar and soothing as Charlie carries her toward the spare bedroom. Given his own night owl tendencies and the frequency of his bedroom guests, the spare room is where she usually sleeps anyway.
On the way to the bedroom, he grabs the shirt he discarded, laying it on the bed to make her a little nest. Andrew is gonna give him so much shit if Agnes ruins another silk shirt, but his scent calms her down when she’s falling asleep, so he can’t really care. He strokes her head, murmuring all the words of praise she deserves before flipping on the television and finding a random show to leave on. With her bad eyesight, the sound of voices on the television keeps her calm and should stop her from gettingworried by any other noises that might come out of Charlie’s room tonight. That is, if he’s lucky.
Dropping a kiss to the top of her very fluffy head, he smiles before taking a step back to make his way out of the bedroom.
Checking the clock on the microwave, he notes it’s been more than twenty minutes and grabs himself a beer from the fridge while he waits. Charlie isn’t a beer man, but the burn of carbonation is a balm to his unusual anxiety. He chalks it up to anticipation, dropping down onto his lime green velvet couch to wait.
And wait.
And wait.
As the beer can empties, his nerves fizzle down into something closer to disappointment by the time Charlie admits to himself no one is coming. With a soft frown, he flicks off the house lights and eventually retreats to bed, alone.
Charlie King is broken.
Or at the very least, his creativity is. Staring at the blank canvas, frustration rises in Charlie like the tide. The urge to paint, to create, is hovering at the edge of his subconscious. His entire body is alight with energy he has nowhere to direct, but every time he picks up a brush there’s nothing there.
Something is very wrong with him, and he kicks the leg of his easel, sending the canvas toppling to the ground. Annoyed at himself and flooded with dissatisfaction, he grabs the old coffee can off his desk full of paint brushes and throws it at the corner. It hits the studio wall with a loud clatter, the brushes raining down onto the floor into a cacophony of noise.
“Did that make you feel better?”
“Jesus fucking fuck,” Charlie curses, nearly falling off his stool. His heart races, and he has the desire to find something to throw at Andrew now, too. “Make some fucking noise next time to warn a guy.”
“I literally yelled for you twice as I walked across the yard. It’s not my fault you’ve got this God-awful noise blaring.”
Truthfully, Charlie zoned out to the point he didn't even recognize his music was still playing, which probably explains why he didn’t notice Andrew calling his name.
With a dramatic sigh, Charlie sinks off his stool to the floor and lays down. “This is the end, Andrew. I’ve only been freelance for two months and I’m going to have to beg the museum for my job back.”
Andrew hums noncommittally, stepping over Charlie to begin cleaning the mess.
“Don’t do that,” Charlie tells him, flinging an arm out to grab Andrew’s ankle.
“Why?” Andrew answers, ignoring Charlie and picking up the brushes anyway.
