Charles doesn't get laid as often as he'd like—hasn't, not since the accident. There are plenty of men capable of not only seeing him as a person but a sexual, desirable one; and there are (rather fewer, honestly) men interested in sleeping with someone who knows what they're thinking; yet while the two aren't mutually exclusive, not by a long shot, they may as well be sometimes.
He hasn't had the best of luck, that's all, especially lately. It's been a dry couple of months. He usually has to do a lot more work, a lot more negotiating, casting out lines only to reel them back empty, to end up in a situation like this: locked in a broom closet so small he's surprised his chair even fits, with a gorgeous man—Erik, Erik Lehnsherr—he's just met on his lap, breathing harshly into Charles' ear as Charles strokes his massive cock.
There's lust coming off Erik in waves, spiking with every movement of Charles' hand. There are no conditions this time, not with him, no 'you can look at this or this but stay away from that,' and so Charles is free to go along for the ride, letting all Erik's sensations wash over him, all Erik's associations flit across Charles' own mind, fleeting or prolonged or anything in-between.
"You're huge," Charles says. "You're gorgeous. Are you sure you're real?"
(Charles isn't. He's had relatively realistic sex dreams before, though they've never involved being shouted at about his politics half an hour before the necking started.)
"Are you?" Erik groans, right in Charles' ear again, and he's not thinking about what Charles' telepathy could do for him, not like so many of the people Charles has met at parties before; he's thinking about Charles' lips and Charles' eyes, the way Charles has flushed so red, how far down it goes; he's thinking about Charles' hand, furiously up and down on his cock.
For that, he deserves to be rewarded, and so Charles does what he nearly never does, out of principle; he lets Erik feel Charles' arousal, twinning through and around Erik's own until neither of them can quite discern which of them is feeling what. They come together moments later, Erik spurting through Charles' fingers as Charles shudders against him.
Erik leans forward, resting his forehead on Charles' shoulder. "I think I owe you a shirt," he mutters, sounding sleepy.
Charles hopes he's not about to drift off right this second; it could get pretty claustrophobic in here, pretty quickly. He tries to ignore the rush of affection, at the thought that this man he hardly knows—whose mind he knows so well already, wonder of wonders—who does not let his guard down around people, ever, as far as Charles can tell—seems to be comfortable enough with him to fall asleep right here.
"Come home with me," Charles says. "There's much more where that came from."
"Okay," Erik says, but makes no sign of moving anytime soon.