Heartbreaker, a Heartstopper Story - Interlude

Gay Erotica, +18, Gay Cuckold, Cheating

The first thing Beto Montenegro thought when he woke up that morning was that he was not in his dorm at Westbridge.

The realisation came slowly, the way it did when you’d slept deeply and well and your body knew it before your mind caught up. The usual sounds were gone: no music bleeding through the wall from the room next door, no distant shouts from the quad, no Adams’ alarm going off at seven and getting snoozed four times in a row. Just the soft silence of the fourteenth floor of the Marriott Marquis Houston and the particular quality of morning light pressing through the gap in the heavy curtains, thick and golden.

Beto lay still for a moment, letting the quiet settle over him, and smiled at the ceiling.

The other side of the bed was empty. Nick Nelson was not the kind of man who stayed.

He became aware of his body gradually. The sting hit first — his ass, both cheeks, radiant heat that pulsed with every small shift of his hips against the sheets. Not livid anymore, not the bright crack of impact, but settled now into something slower and more insistent, a soreness that lived in the muscle underneath the skin. He’d have marks there for days. He knew without looking. Could feel the exact outline of each handprint like a map pressed into his flesh, vivid and specific, Nick’s palm and fingers rendered in heat against his skin.

He moved slightly and became aware of the bites.

His neck first, bruised throb just below the jaw where Nick’s teeth had found him early and found him hard. Then his pecs, his ribs, the curve of his hip, a scattered constellation of aches that told the story of Nick’s mouth moving south, each one a small record of exactly how much fury Nick had been carrying and exactly where he’d chosen to put it. Beto pressed two fingers lightly against the mark on his neck and felt the tenderness bloom outward from the contact, and his smile widened.

And then there was the deeper ache. The one that sat at his core, thoroughly present with every breath he took. That particular, undeniable soreness that came from being taken without ceremony by a man Nick’s size, at Nick’s pace, with Nick’s specific and considerable fury behind every thrust. It was not unpleasant. It was, if Beto was being honest with himself, deeply, thoroughly satisfying. Like the soreness after a hard workout. Proof of work done. Proof of something that had actually happened, that hadn’t been fantasy or patience or the careful game he’d been playing for months.

It had happened.

He lay there in the quiet of the fourteenth floor and took stock of every ache, every throb, every bruise, with the appreciative attention of a man cataloguing something valuable.

Nick, he thought, had been absolutely worth the wait.

The thing was, Beto had thought he knew what to expect. He was not, generally speaking, a man who went into things unprepared. It was one of the qualities he liked most about himself: the patience, the research, the careful attention to detail. And in the months leading up to Houston he’d had no shortage of source material. Charlie was not a private person, at least not with Beto, not after some caipirinhas, and when Charlie talked about Nick in bed the word that came up most consistently, delivered with that particular combination of pride and helpless affection that made Beto simultaneously fond of him and slightly envious, was generous. Attentive. The kind of lover who made it his personal mission to take you apart slowly and put you back together better than he found you.

Beto had filed that away and adjusted his expectations accordingly. Good, then. Enthusiastic. Probably beautiful to watch. He’d anticipated something powerful and controlled, the kind of sex that came from a man comfortable in his own body, confident in what he could do with it.

He had not anticipated that.

He shifted against the sheets again and winced pleasantly as the deeper ache reminded him, with considerable specificity, exactly what that had entailed. He’d been joking, mostly, when he’d asked Nick if he was going to destroy him. It had been provocation more than prophecy, a line designed to push, to see what was underneath all that carefully maintained British composure. He’d expected a reaction. Maybe some rough handling. A few slaps, sure, he’d clocked that potential in Nick from early on, the way his hands closed into fists when he was fighting something. Some filthy words spat through gritted teeth. The controlled aggression of a man allowing himself something he’d been denying for a long time.

He had not expected Nick to come apart quite so completely.

Or to take Beto apart with him.

That was the part that had genuinely surprised him. Not the wrath, but the totality of it. The way Nick had fucked him not like a man finally indulging a fantasy but like a man trying to burn something down. There had been nothing held back, nothing measured or careful or considered. Just all of it, every ounce of those months of repression and guilt and desperate wanting, channelled into Beto’s body with a single-mindedness that had, at several points, left Beto genuinely breathless in ways that had nothing to do with technique.

He’d had good sex before. He’d had great sex before.

He had never had his entire sense of self temporarily dissolved by another man’s cock.

Beto had been with a lot of guys over the years, enough to have developed a fairly comprehensive taxonomy of how they behaved in bed, what they wanted, what they thought they wanted, what they revealed about themselves when the performance dropped away. And the pattern he’d encountered most consistently, even among the ones who liked it rough, even among the ones who asked for exactly what Nick had delivered last night, was that they were always, on some level, watching him. Checking. One eye on Beto’s face, monitoring for approval, for the confirmation that they were doing it right, that he was enjoying it, that they were good. Even the dominant ones. Even the ones who pinned him down and talked dirty and left marks. Somewhere underneath the performance there was always that question: is this okay, am I enough, do you want me.

Nick hadn’t asked. Not once. Not in any language, spoken or otherwise.

Nick had walked into that room carrying months of rage and grief and repressed want and he had simply used Beto to put it somewhere. Not cruelly — or not only cruelly — but with a kind of absolute focus that had nothing to do with Beto’s pleasure and everything to do with Nick’s need. He hadn’t been performing dominance. He hadn’t been checking Beto’s reactions to calibrate his next move. He’d been somewhere else entirely, somewhere furious and desperate, and Beto had been the body he’d taken with him into that place.

It should have been impersonal. In a way, it was.

Beto found, to his own quiet surprise, that he didn’t mind at all.

He stretched, his arms reaching above his head and legs pushing toward the foot of the bed until his whole body was one long line of soreness, joints popping in soft succession. He let out a satisfied sound into the empty room that he would not have made if anyone had been there to hear it. It was an embarrassingly contented sound. He didn’t particularly care. He reached for his watch on the nightstand and squinted at it. 9:27. Beto did the math with the unhurried patience of a man whose brain was still mostly asleep. He’d gone to bed — when, exactly? He genuinely couldn’t say. Time had done something strange and unreliable sometime around the point where Nick had buried himself to the hilt one final time and the orgasm had hit Beto so completely that conscious thought had simply vacated the premises for a while. After that there had been the gradual return to awareness. The sound of Nick moving around the room. The soft sounds of someone getting dressed, the zip of jeans. Beto had lain face down in the sheets, too wrung out to move, too emptied out to speak, and listened to Nick reconstruct himself in the dark without offering a single word. No acknowledgment. No goodbye. Not even the courtesy of a glance back at the bed, as far as Beto could tell.

Nick had done what he’d come to do and then he’d left. Beto had watched the strip of light under the door disappear when it clicked shut and had thought, with the last functioning part of his brain, that that was very on brand for Nick Nelson. And then he’d thought nothing at all for approximately five hours.

He could use more sleep. His body was making a fairly compelling case for at least two additional hours horizontal, the ache in his core particularly persuasive on this point. But the flight back to California wasn’t going to reschedule itself. He sat up slowly, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and placed both feet flat on the carpet. Sat there for a moment in the morning quiet of the room, elbows on his knees, head hanging, hair falling forward across his forehead.

Beto became aware of how urgently he needed a shower he swung his legs off the bed and stood, his skin registering every objection at once. He was sticky in all the worst places, a comprehensive inventory of the previous night mapped across his body in drying sweat, his own and Nick’s, and saliva, his own and Nick’s, and cum, his own and Nick’s. He gathered his phone from the nightstand and made his way to the bathroom with the careful gait of a man whose body had opinions about sudden movement,checking his notifications on the way.

A message from Mamãe, sent forty minutes ago: Meu filho, me avisa quando chegar em casa. Let me know when you’re home safe. He smiled at that an typed back a quick tá bom, mãe. Beijo before opening the rest. Seven Instagram DMs. He read them and laughed out loud, the sound bouncing off the bathroom tiles. All of them Houston locals who had apparently seen something on his Story yesterday and wanted to take him out for drinks while he was in town. Polite, doing the whole gentlemanly approach. Half of them were genuinely hot.

Beto set his phone on the vanity and looked at his reflection.

His neck. The jaw. The marks running down his chest. The particular look of a man who had been handled without ceremony by someone who had absolutely no interest in being gentle about it.

He looked back at the DMs and laughed again, softer this time.

Poor guys, he thought, not unkindly. Doing everything right, being perfectly charming and perfectly considerate, while the man who had actually gotten him last night hadn’t spared a single thought for what Beto wanted from the moment he walked through that door. Hadn’t asked. Hadn’t performed. Had simply taken, thoroughly and without apology, and left without saying goodbye.

Beto turned on the shower, waited for the water to heat, and picked up his phone again, this time to check the messages Charlie had sent. Twelve of them. He counted twice to be sure, yes, twelve, sent between 10:43pm, roughly when the final whistle must have blown, and 1:15am, which was approximately the hour Nick had been using Beto’s throat like a means to an end. He read through them in the steam of the shower warm-up, a small, fond smile pulling at his mouth.

(22:43:47) oh fuck. can’t believe they lost

(22:45:47) this is such a mess. i should be there. FUCK

Then a succession of updates, each one slightly more anxious than the last: had Beto seen Nick, did he know where Nick had gone after the game, had anyone heard from him, Torres wasn’t picking up either. The messages got shorter as the night went on, the way Charlie’s always did when he was genuinely worried, the sentences compressed down to their essential concern.

The last one, sent at 1:15am: please let me know if you see Nick ok? I’m really worried about him.

Beto set the phone on the vanity and stepped into the shower. Charlie had waited twelve messages worth of patience. He could wait another ten minutes. He deserved that much, a proper reply, not something dashed off with shampoo in his hair. Beto stood under the hot water and let it do its work, washing away the comprehensive evidence of the night with methodical attention. He shampooed his hair twice, worked conditioner through to the ends the way his mother had taught him, scrubbed his skin until it stopped telling the story of the previous eight hours quite so loudly. The bite marks stayed, obviously. Those weren’t going anywhere for a while.

He towelled off slowly, wrapped it around his hips, and picked up his phone.

(09:30:52) you heard from your man yet?

The reply came in under thirty seconds. Beto smiled, already picturing it, Charlie somewhere in that dorm room of his, probably cross-legged on the bed with his laptop open and three different tabs running, phone face-up on the mattress because it was always face-up, always within reach. The soft dark curls falling across his forehead as he glanced down and grabbed it without thinking, the way he always did, reflexive as breathing. Adorable, honestly. Like a puppy that had learned to operate a smartphone.

(09:31:14) he texted this morning but we still haven’t talked

(09:31:47) he must be ashamed about losing or something

Beto considered that for a moment. Then typed:

(09:32:05) well he was still alive when I last saw him so don’t worry ok?

He was already smiling when he sent the next one.

(09:32:41) I last saw him when he left my room btw

(09:32:48) at 2am

The three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. Disappeared.

Beto waited, shoulders already shaking. The dots appeared a third time and he laughed out loud. He could picture it so clearly, Charlie somewhere in Westbridge, phone in both hands now, sitting very still with that particular expression he got when something had short-circuited his ability to form sentences, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, brain spinning its wheels in the mud.

The dots disappeared again. Beto decided, briefly, to let him suffer. To put the phone down, finish getting dressed, let Charlie stew in it for twenty minutes or so. It would be good for him, probably. Build character.

He lasted approximately four seconds.

(09:34:17) wait

(09:34:19) what

(09:34:24) what is that supposed to mean

Beto smiled at the ceiling. Then, taking mercy on his friend, typed:

(09:35:02) well

(09:35:08) just that you were right

(09:35:31) your little diabolical plan worked. the distance cracked him

He was full on beaming when he typed the final message, leaning against the cold marble vanity in a Houston hotel bathroom wearing nothing but a towel and the best collection of bruises he’d acquired in recent memory.

(09:35:47) congratulations carlinhos. you’re officially a cuck

He set the phone down and waited for Charlie to have the time of his life.

—

Some of you had already clocked that Charlie wasn’t exactly oblivious about Beto’s little game with his man. For those of you who didn’t, well, I hope it blew your mind, haha. Next chapter we’re going into Charlie’s POV to see what’s going on in that sneaky little head of his. I genuinely can’t wait for you guys to read what I have planned.

And as usual, please consider becoming a paid subscriber! I’m only 3 away from my monthly target and it would honestly mean the world. Thanks!