Leo's fingers were sticky with crumbs and sugar dust as he reached for the glass of juice in front of him. His mouth still carried the buttery taste of the croissant he had just eaten, and his stomach, oddly, felt full in a way it rarely did.
He picked up the glass with both hands, careful, but not careful enough.
A second later, it slipped—just slightly—against his palm. A sudden, shallow splash leapt over the rim and fell onto his lap.
He gasped quietly, jerking back. The cold liquid seeped into the white fabric of his shirt and pants. Red-orange streaks bloomed across the pale material like wounds. His heart thudded.
"Leo," his mother said quickly, concerned, already moving to stand.
But before she could rise fully, the man raised a hand—casual, but firm.
"Relax. He's fine," he said. Then, turning toward Leo, "Come on, kid. You'll want to clean that up before it stains."
Leo hesitated.
The man stood and gestured. "Come. You don't know the way."
His mother remained halfway out of her seat, torn between deference and instinct."I can take him—"
"No need," the man cut in, his tone final but polite. "He'll be back in a moment."
Leo looked at her. She opened her mouth slightly, but then closed it. She nodded once.
He followed the man.
The penthouse was quiet, save for the soft hush of their footsteps on the dark flooring. They walked up the winding staircase before walking ahead and passing different rooms and walking hallways lined with tall mirrors and framed, abstract art that looked too expensive to mean anything.
The man said nothing for most of the walk, until they reached a door near the far end of the hallway. He opened it.
The washroom was vast—more like a spa. Marble floors. A mirror that stretched across the entire wall. A glowing sink basin set in black granite.
"There," the man said, pointing toward a closet near the sink. "Towels and things. You can take off the shirt."
Leo didn't move.
"Need help?" the man asked, stepping in behind him. Leo could see him the mirror and noticed how he only reached the man's chest.
Leo swallowed. He wasn't sure what to say.
He let the man reach for the buttons on his shirt. One by one, slowly, they came undone. The fabric peeled away from his skin, damp and clinging slightly. The man's hands were warm. Too warm.
Leo watched the man through the mirror.
He wasn't looking at the mirror—he was looking through it, directly into Leo's eyes, as though trying to read beneath the surface. Then, slowly, the man shifted, stepping closer behind him, the faint scent of something expensive and unfamiliar brushing Leo's senses.
He felt the man's hand move across his chest and down to his stomach, brushing away a few biscuit crumbs that had settled there, though he moved slowly.
"How messily do you eat?" the man asked, his voice almost amused, almost fond.
Leo wanted to respond, to explain that it wasn't like him. The biscuits had crumbled too easily, and he'd just… let them fall. He wasn't usually this careless. Not in front of people.
But the words never came. His throat felt tight. His body heavy. Just looking at the man standing behind him made his limbs feel slow, like he was moving through water—or waking from a deep, too-heavy sleep.
He watched the man move again—saw him reach for the towel, unfold it, and run it under the faucet. The sound of running water filled the silence between them.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, Leo caught something else: the man licking his thumb and forefinger—the same ones he'd used to brush the crumbs from Leo's chest.
His breath caught. The heat hit him almost immediately—rising in his face, settling in his neck. He could see the color in his cheeks, the sharp contrast in the mirror. A flash of pink. Embarrassment. Or was it?
Was it shame? Was it confusion?
The man stepped back, holding the warm towel with care. He gently drew it across Leo's neck, the heat of the fabric deepening the flush on Leo's skin, turning it a soft shade of pink.
Unfazed, the man continued, moving the towel down to Leo's chest. Leo tensed, a familiar wave of self-consciousness washing over him. Despite his lean frame, his chest was softer and more prominent than he liked, a trait that had always made him uneasy.
It was why he gravitated toward baggy clothes, hiding what he couldn't accept about himself.
Yet the man's touch lingered, deliberate and unhurried, as if he found something appealing in what Leo had always tried to conceal. The towel brushed lightly against Leo's chest, a subtle pressure grazing his nipple, drawing a faint, involuntary whimper.
The man's hands moved downward, the towel gliding smoothly across Leo's stomach, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake.
Leo felt the man's gaze linger, drifting toward his pants as he moved behind him.
"Your pants are dirty too," the man said, his tone matter-of-fact.
Leo instinctively leaned forward, as if to shield himself, his cheeks burning. "I-I'll take care of it," he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper.
The man paused, his eyes meeting Leo's for a fleeting moment, as if noting something unspoken. Then, without a word, he turned and retrieved a black shirt and trousers from a nearby shelf. "These should fit," he said, setting them on the counter. His voice softened as he added, "Black will look good on you." With that, he stepped out of the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him.
Leo thought he heard a faint murmur as the man left, but his mind was too clouded to make sense of it. Alone now, he glanced down, his trembling fingers hesitating before slowly undoing his pants. As the fabric slid to the floor, he winced.
He'd always skipped underwear, finding it restrictive and uncomfortable, but today he regretted the choice. His erection, painfully red, grazed the rough fabric of his tight pants as they fell, drawing a soft whimper from his lips.
Leo's gaze dropped to himself, a familiar wave of insecurity crashing over him. His size—barely a finger's length, even when fully erect—had always been a source of shame. He'd seen enough porn to know how he measured up, and it made him feel small in every sense.
Normally, his clothing hid it well, even when fully erect, which wasn't something he was proud of, but today's tight pants had betrayed him. A sinking feeling told him the man had noticed.
The memory of that moment in the man's office flooded back—an embarrassingly similar situation, his body betraying him in the same way. Overwhelmed, Leo's hand moved almost on its own, wrapping around his sensitive length.
His small hands enveloped it easily, and with a single stroke, a rush of heat surged through him. Slickness coated his fingers as he came, the release sudden and intense. Yet, his erection lingered, still throbbing, still painfully sensitive. When he brushed against it again, a tremor shook his body, a low moan escaping despite himself.
Catching his reflection in the mirror, Leo saw the deep pink flush spreading across his chest and face, a map of his embarrassment. He stood there for a moment, catching his breath, before cleaning himself up, wiping away the evidence of his shame. He slipped into the trousers, grateful for their loose fit, which concealed his still-sensitive arousal. The black shirt followed, its bagginess a comforting shield, just the way he liked it.
Splashing cold water on his face, he dried off with a towel, steadying himself. Then, with a deep breath, he stepped out of the bathroom. The hallway was empty, so he retraced his steps, the faint rustle of the oversized clothes accompanying him as he walked.