Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The apartment is quiet except for the low hum of your laptop fan and the occasional creak of the floorboards when you shift on the rug. You’re cross-legged in an oversized t-shirt and nothing else, hair still damp from the shower you took two hours ago in a futile attempt to settle your nerves. The screen glows too brightly in the dark room, casting harsh light across your thighs.

You’ve been scrolling for what feels like forever.

The first few sites were exactly what you expected—cheap, loud, and somehow worse than you imagined. One ad showed a guy in a dimly lit motel room, shirtless and flexing in a mirror selfie, promising “no-rush girlfriend experience, $150/hr, text for pics.” The next was even sleazier: a wall of poorly cropped torso shots, bad grammar, and a list of “services” that made your stomach turn. “Full service, no limits, very open-minded. Cum and go policy. Cash only.” Another one had a profile picture of a man winking at the camera with a caption that read, “Let me pop that cherry, baby. First-timers get a discount ;)” followed by a string of emojis that made you physically recoil.

You almost closed the tab right there. This was stupid. Reckless. You weren’t even sure what you were looking for anymore—just someone who wouldn’t make you feel like a transaction or a joke. Someone who wouldn’t laugh, or push, or leave you feeling worse afterwards. Your finger hovered over the browser’s back button, heart already sinking with the familiar mix of shame and disappointment.

But then you remembered the forum post from three nights ago. A single anonymous comment buried in a thread about “discreet high-end companionship” that had sounded too good to be real. You typed the exact phrase into the search bar again, half-expecting nothing.

This time, something different was loaded.

The page was stark black with crisp white text. No photos. No sleazy thumbnails. Just a simple header:

Velvet & Shadow – Private Companionship For the discerning client. Absolute discretion. Fantasy fulfilment by referral only.

You had to create an account with an invite code you’d paid for on that same shady forum. Once inside, the listings were sparse. Most were vague descriptions and eye-watering rates. But one stood out.

L. 6’0”, 47. Expertise in conversation, seduction, and absolute discretion. Special requests considered. One night only. Rates reflect rarity.

No shirtless gym pics. No crude promises. Just those few lines and a single contact form. It felt different. Professional. Almost dangerous in how polished it was. As if whoever ran this wasn’t just selling sex—he was selling the illusion that it could feel real.

Your pulse kicked up. This was the one that didn’t make you want to slam your laptop shut. Before you could overthink it, you slid off the bed, padded to the junk drawer in the kitchen, and came back with your chipped navy mug and a handful of random crap: three pens, two toothpicks, a crumpled paperclip, and the metal tab from last night’s soda can.

You set the mug in front of you on the floor. The rules were the same childish ones you’d used since you were a teenager: ask the question, toss something, if it lands, you have to follow through. No takebacks. “Should I message this guy tonight?” you whisper.

A toothpick arcs through the air and drops cleanly into the mug with a soft plink.

Your stomach flips.

“Should I be honest and tell him I’ve never done this before? That I want it gentle…safe?”

A pen this time. It bounces off the rim, wobbles, then tips inside.

Heat floods your face. You press your thighs together without thinking.

“Should I go for the most expensive option? The one that says, ‘full experience, no limits on time or intensity’?”

The paperclip sails in a perfect lazy spin and lands dead centre with a metallic tink.

You let out a shaky laugh that sounds a little wild. This is insane. You’re a grown woman letting office supplies decide your virginity. And yet.

One last question, voice barely audible.

“Should I actually go through with this?”

The soda tab tumbles end-over-end and drops straight into the mug.

You stare at it for a long second, then drag the laptop closer. Fingers trembling only slightly, you open the contact form.

Subject: First time – gentle, thorough, no rush

Message: Hi. I’ve never done anything like this before. I want my first time to feel safe. And real. I’m nervous, but I’m sure. Whatever you charge, I’ll pay it. Just tell me when and where.

You hit send before the panic can catch up.

The confirmation screen flashes once. Then the page goes dark, replaced by a single line of text that makes your pulse stutter:

Request received. L. will contact you within the hour. Delete this conversation.

You close the laptop with a soft click, press your forehead to the cool ceramic of the mug, and let out the breath you’ve been holding since the first sleazy ad. The apartment feels too quiet now, the hum of the fan the only sound besides the frantic thud of your own pulse.

What the hell did I just do?

The doubt crashes in immediately, loud and ugly. High-class guys like him—polished, expensive, the kind who probably sleep with models and CEOs and women who know exactly how to arch their backs and moan the right way—do they even do virgins? You can already picture it: a polite but firm rejection. Or worse, a bored sigh on the other end of whatever encrypted line he uses. Sorry, honey, I don’t do charity cases. Come back when you’ve had a few practice rounds.

You squeeze your eyes shut tighter. God, you’re going to be a nightmare client. Clumsy. Too eager. Too quiet. You’ll probably freeze up the second he touches you, or worse, start crying from sheer overwhelm like some pathetic cliché. He’ll be gentle because he’s a professional, sure, but underneath it, he’ll be counting the minutes until he can leave. You’ll pay him a small fortune for the privilege of feeling like an inconvenience. Like a chore.

Your stomach knots so hard it hurts. Maybe you should message him again right now—never mind, mistake, delete my request—before he even reads it. Before he laughs at the desperate little virgin who thought she could buy a perfect first time.

You’re reaching for the laptop again, fingers shaking, when your phone lights up on the rug beside you. A single notification. Encrypted messaging app. Unknown number. Your heart stops. You snatch it up, screen bright in the dark, and open the message with your thumb before your brain can scream don’t.

L.: I don’t normally conduct business with virgins. Too many complications, too much pressure for something that should stay simple. But you came through the proper channels with a valid invite code, so I’ll honour the request.

One night. My terms. Full experience, as gentle as you need it to be. No rush. I’ll send the hotel details and time in the next message. Delete this thread after you confirm.

You stare at the words until they blur. The relief hits first—sharp and dizzying—followed immediately by a fresh wave of heat that pools low in your belly. He said yes. He knows now, and he still said yes.

Your thumbs hover over the keys for a long second before you manage a reply that doesn’t sound completely unhinged.

You: Confirmed. Thank you.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Then nothing. You drop the phone as if it burned you and bury your face in your hands, a shaky laugh bubbling up that’s half terror, half delirious thrill.

But the relief only lasts a heartbeat. The panic floods back in, thicker than before, twisting every positive thought into something ugly.

What if he doesn’t find me attractive?

The thought hits like ice water. You’re sitting here in an old t-shirt, no makeup, hair still messy from the shower, and he’s probably used to women who look like they stepped out of a magazine. Perfect skin. Perfect bodies. Women who know how to pose, how to flirt, how to make a man want them without even trying. What if he walks into the room, takes one look at you, and must force that professional smile? What if the “gentle” turns into pity? Or worse—what if he’s polite about it, but you can feel the disappointment rolling off him the whole night?

And then the flip side crashes in right behind it.

What if I don’t find him attractive?

You have nothing to go on. No picture. No voice note. Just those sparse lines on a black screen and the name “L.” What if he sounds bored and clinical, like a doctor reading off a chart? What if he’s older than you pictured, or younger, or has some feature that just doesn’t do it for you? You’re about to hand over your first time—your virginity—to a stranger whose face you can’t even picture. What if the chemistry is dead on arrival, and you spend the entire night faking it out of sheer politeness while he mechanically checks every box on your “gentle” request?

Your stomach knots tighter. You pull your knees up to your chest on the rug, rocking slightly as if that might settle the whirlwind in your head.

And the money—God, the money. That invite code had already cost you a full month’s rent. You’d told yourself it was worth it for the discretion, for the safety of knowing you weren’t walking into some back-alley trap. But now the reality is sinking in like lead. If the hotel he picks is one of those ultra-luxury places downtown, what then? His fee on top of that. The “full experience, no limits on time” option you’d stupidly committed to with a paperclip and a prayer. You’ll be eating instant noodles for the next three months. Maybe four. Maybe you’ll have to pick up extra shifts at the café just to not bounce your rent check.

You’re spiralling so hard your breathing has gone shallow. This was insane. Reckless. You should message him back right now—changed my mind, sorry—before he sends the details and it becomes real. Before you’re standing in some five-star suite feeling like the cheap, inexperienced fraud you are, while a man who probably charges by the hour sizes you up and decides whether you’re worth the trouble.

Your phone vibrates again on the rug. The same encrypted app. Same unknown number.

L.: Suite 1420. The Continental. 9 PM tomorrow. Wear whatever makes you feel comfortable. No pressure. See you soon.

Your heart slams against your ribs so hard it hurts. The Continental. Of course, it’s the Continental—one of the most expensive hotels in the city, with private elevators and views that cost a fortune just to look at. Your savings account is already screaming.

But underneath the fresh wave of financial terror, something else flickers to life: a low, electric thrill that curls low in your belly at the thought of tomorrow night. At the thought of him, whoever he is, waiting.

You read the message three times, then delete the entire thread as instructed.

The mug sits beside you, innocent and chipped, the pens and toothpicks still scattered inside it like evidence of your temporary insanity.

The next day at work is a complete disaster.

You’re supposed to be restocking the pastry case at the little downtown café where you’ve pulled the same 7-to-3 shift for the last two years, but your hands won’t cooperate. You drop a tray of croissants. Twice. The third time, you nearly knock over the entire espresso machine because your brain is somewhere else entirely—Suite 1420, 9 PM, a man whose face you still can’t picture, whose voice you’ve never heard, who is going to see you naked in roughly twelve hours.

What the fuck am I supposed to wear?

The thought loops on repeat while you mechanically wipe down the counter for the fourth time in ten minutes. You don’t own lingerie. The closest thing in your drawer is a plain black cotton bra and the matching boy-short panties you bought on sale last year because they were “practical.” Sexy? Not even close. You picture showing up in that and want to crawl under the pastry case and die. But buying something new feels desperate.

Makeup? God. If you wear it, you’ll look like you’re playing dress-up. If you don’t, you’ll look like you just rolled out of bed and couldn’t be bothered. You keep imagining him—whatever he looks like—walking in and immediately regretting the entire booking.

Should I flirt? The idea is almost laughable. You’ve never been good at it, even when you weren’t about to lose your virginity to a professional. Do you make eye contact and smile coyly? Say something witty? Or do you just lie on the bed like a nervous starfish and hope he knows what the hell he’s doing? (He does. That’s literally the point of hiring him.) The mental image of you starfished in your boring underwear while a high-end gigolo tries to be polite about it is so mortifying that you make a small choking sound into your coffee mug.

“You okay back there?” Your coworker Mia is leaning over the counter, eyebrows raised, a half-eaten muffin in one hand. Behind her, Jake is pretending to wipe tables but is clearly listening in.

“Yeah,” you squeak. “Totally fine.”

“You’ve been staring at the same spot on the counter for like five minutes,” Mia says, not buying it. “And you just put the oat milk in the fridge upside down. Again.”

Jake snorts. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re either about to rob a bank, or you’ve got a hot date tonight.”

Your face ignites. You spin toward the espresso machine so fast you nearly headbutt it. “It’s nothing,” you mutter, attacking the steam wand. “Just…stuff on my mind.”

“Uh-huh.” Mia’s grin is way too knowing. “The kind of ‘stuff’ that makes you smile at the register like a lunatic and then look like you’re gonna throw up thirty seconds later?”

You groan and hide your face in your hands for a second, peeking through your fingers. “I hate both of you.”

They laugh, but it’s fond. Jake tosses a dish towel over his shoulder. “Whatever it is, you’ve got this. Just breathe. And maybe don’t drop any more pastries—we’re running low on almond ones.”

The rest of the shift is a blur of spilled drinks, wrong orders, and you checking your phone every time it vibrates as if it might bite you. Every spare second, your brain is right back in that spiral: What if he’s disappointed the second he sees me? What if I freeze up? What if I laugh at the wrong moment and ruin the whole vibe? What if the hotel room is so fancy that I look like a scrub?

By the time your shift ends at three, you’re a live wire of nerves and anticipation. Your stomach is doing cartwheels. Your palms are sweaty. You practically sprint home, already mentally cataloguing your closet for the least embarrassing option that still feels like you.

Somewhere across the city, Leon Kennedy is finishing his own prep for the night—sliding the slim vial of sedative into his bag, along with his firearm and knife in its ankle holster and running through the contract details one last time. He’s already booked the suite, already confirmed the clean exit plan.

He still has no idea that the nervous client he’s about to ruin gently is the same woman he’s being paid to make disappear by morning.

You burst through your apartment door at 3:45 PM, keys still jangling in your hand, heart already sprinting like you ran the whole way home instead of taking the bus. The café uniform gets yanked off in record time and left in a heap on the bathroom floor. You shower again—hot, frantic, scrubbing like you can wash the nerves right off your skin—then stand dripping in front of your closet with a towel wrapped around you, staring at the clothes.

Twelve outfits later, and you still hate everything.

The first try was jeans and a nice sweater. Too casual. Like you were going for coffee, not losing your virginity. Off.

Second: the little black dress you bought for a wedding two years ago. It hugged your soft belly and the full curve of your hips a little too honestly; you turned sideways in the mirror and immediately hated how the fabric clung to the gentle roll above your waistband. Nope.

Third through sixth were various tops and skirts. A flowy blouse that made your breasts look enormous, but your waist disappeared. A tight tee that showed every inch of your wide hips and the way your thighs pressed together. A button-up that gaped at the chest, no matter how you adjusted it. Each time you stripped down to the same plain black cotton bra and boy-short panties—the only set that didn’t scream “trying too hard”—and told yourself you weren’t brave enough to skip underwear entirely. What if you got there and felt too exposed? What if he noticed? What if you leaked or something mortifying happened, and there was nothing between you and the fancy hotel sheets?

Seventh outfit: leggings and an oversized hoodie. You looked like you were about to binge Netflix, not meet a professional who probably expected silk and confidence.

By the twelfth change, you’re sweating again, standing in front of the full-length mirror in nothing but the black underwear, turning this way and that. Your reflection shows every soft inch—the gentle curve of your stomach, the way your thighs touch, the slight dimple at your hips when you shift your weight. You poke at the plush give of your belly and sigh. He’s probably used to flat stomachs and toned everything. God, what if he sees all this and has to fake the attraction?

You finally settle on something simple but not sloppy: a soft, knee-length black sweater dress that skims your curves without clinging like a second skin. It’s comfortable. It makes you feel okay. Not sexy, maybe, but you. The black underwear stays underneath because the idea of going without feels way too bold for someone who still can’t believe she’s doing this.

Heels? You try the only pair you own—simple black pumps you wore once to a funeral. They make your legs look longer, sure, but after two steps, you wobble and immediately kick them off. No. Bare legs and your favourite black flats, it is. At least you won’t face-plant in the hotel lobby.

Perfume, though, you spritz the light vanilla one you love on your wrists and throat, then immediately panic and blot half of it off with a tissue. Too much? Too little? Will he hate the scent? Will it mix weirdly with whatever cologne he’s wearing?

You check the time. 8:12 PM.

Your stomach flips so hard you press a hand to it. The Uber is already booked for 8:30. You’re really doing this. In less than an hour, you’re going to walk into Suite 1420 and meet a man whose entire job is to make women feel good—and whose other job, unknown to you, is to make sure you never leave that suite alive.

You grab your small cross-body bag, keys, phone and the last of your courage, then lock the door behind you before you can talk yourself out of it for the hundredth time tonight.

The elevator in your building feels slower than usual. Every ding makes your pulse spike. By the time you slide into the back of the Uber, you’re a live wire of nerves and want, thighs pressed tight together under the soft black dress, wondering for the millionth time what the hell he’s going to look like.

The Uber ride is over before your brain can even catch up.

You’re clutching your little cross-body bag in the back seat, knees pressed together under the soft black sweater dress, replaying every single outfit change and wondering if the vanilla perfume is too strong or not strong enough. The next second, the driver is pulling up to the curb with a cheerful “Here we are!” and the towering glass-and-marble façade of The Continental is filling the entire window like some kind of expensive fever dream.

Too fast. Way too fast.

You fumble with the door handle, heart hammering so hard it feels as if it’s trying to escape through your throat. Your legs feel like jelly as you gingerly step out onto the sidewalk, flats scraping quietly against the pavement. The cool night air hits your bare thighs, and you tug the hem of the dress down automatically, hyper-aware of every soft curve it skims over.

You forgot to say thank you. The door swings shut behind you with a solid, far-too-loud thunk. You wince. Great. That’s definitely knocking a star off my rating. The driver’s probably already muttering about weird passengers who slam doors and ghost without a word.

You stand there, frozen, staring straight up at the hotel. It’s even more intimidating in person—gleaming lights, a doorman in a crisp uniform, a place where people probably tip in hundreds and never worry about rent. Your stomach does a slow, nauseating roll. The invite code has already wiped out a month’s savings. This suite, his fee, you’re going to be broke for the rest of the year. Maybe longer.

It’s not too late, you tell yourself frantically. You could still chicken out. Pull out your phone right now, message him that you changed your mind, and blame it on a sudden emergency. He’d probably be relieved. Then you could just go home. Eat ice cream. Pretend this whole night never happened.

Except that the hotel has already been booked and charged. You can picture it so clearly: some terrifyingly polite email tomorrow morning, followed by a polite but firm collection notice, followed by an actual bailiff showing up at your apartment like a scene from a bad sitcom, asking for the unpaid balance while you die of embarrassment in your pyjamas.

You spin on your heel, ready to yank the Uber door open again and beg the driver to take you back home—please, anywhere but here—but the car is already gliding away into traffic, taillights disappearing around the corner.

You wilt. Shoulders slumping, bag clutched to your chest, you stand on the sidewalk in front of the most expensive hotel you’ve ever seen, dressed in the only outfit that didn’t make you want to cry, vanilla perfume faintly clinging to your wrists, and realise there’s no escape hatch left.

You’re really doing this. You take one last deep breath on the sidewalk, the cool night air doing exactly nothing to steady the storm in your chest. Your fingers tighten around the strap of your little cross-body bag. Just walk. One foot in front of the other. You’re already here.

The automatic doors glide open with a soft whoosh, and the lobby of The Continental swallows you whole.

It’s even more overwhelming inside—gleaming marble floors that reflect the crystal chandeliers overhead, fresh flowers on every surface, the faint scent of expensive leather and citrus. You feel instantly, horribly undressed. The soft black sweater dress that felt safe and comfortable in your bedroom now clings to every soft curve of your stomach, the gentle roll at your hips, the way your thighs brush together with each step. Your flats look cheap against the polished stone. Your vanilla perfume suddenly feels childish next to whatever subtle, sophisticated scent is probably piped through the air vents. You tug the hem of the dress down again, hyper-aware of how the fabric skims your belly, how your arms press into your sides like you’re trying to shrink.

You make it to the front desk on pure momentum, cheeks already burning. Two women are behind the counter—both stunning, both dressed as if they stepped out of a fashion editorial. Tailored black blazers, perfect makeup, hair swept into sleek, low buns. Effortless beauty that makes you feel like you’re taking up too much space just by existing.

“Excuse me,” you manage, voice smaller than you want it to be. “What floor is Suite 1420 on?”

They both look up at the same time. Polite smiles freeze for half a second. Then their eyes flick to each other—quick, unmistakable. One of them (the blonde with the perfect winged liner) lifts a single brow. The brunette’s mouth twitches, just barely, as if she’s trying not to smirk. You can practically hear the silent conversation:

That’s the suite the tall blond guy checked into earlier. The one who looked like he walked off a runway and into a spy movie. And…this is his guest?

You didn’t pass the bar. Not even close. The blonde recovers first, professional mask snapping back into place. “Fourteenth floor, ma’am. Private elevator on the far left. Keycard access only once you’re inside, but the button is already programmed for the suite.”

The brunette nods, smile perfectly neutral. “Have a lovely evening.”

You mumble a thank you that comes out more like a squeak. Your vision tunnels a little at the edges. The lobby tilts. For one terrifying second, you’re sure you’re either going to faint right here on the pristine marble or throw up the half sandwich you forced down at lunch all over their perfect front desk.

Your stomach lurches. Your skin goes clammy. You turn on shaky legs and head for the elevators before either of those things can happen, heart slamming so hard against your ribs it feels like it might crack something.

The elevator doors slide shut with a soft, expensive ding, sealing you inside a mirrored box that smells like money and faint citrus.

Fourteenth floor.

You watch the numbers climb on the digital panel, each one ticking up like a countdown to your own execution. They saw him, your brain whispers. Those two perfect receptionists saw the man in 1420 and then looked at you like you were the punchline to a joke.

The elevator glides to a stop. The doors open onto a wide, hushed hallway lined with dark wood panelling and soft golden sconces. Suite 1420 is all the way at the end. Of course it is.

You step out on legs that feel borrowed. The carpet is so thick your flats sink in with every step, muffling the sound so it feels like you’re floating toward doom in slow motion. Door after door slides past—1412…1414…1416—each one a reminder that normal people are behind them, probably having normal evenings, while you’re about to knock on the door of a stranger who’s been paid to take your virginity and (he doesn’t know it yet) make sure you never walk back out.

Your heart is beating so hard you can feel it in your teeth. Sweat prickles at the small of your back. Every soft inch of you feels exposed under the dress, every curve suddenly too much. What if he opens the door and his face does that thing—the polite little flicker of disappointment before he hides it behind professionalism? What if he’s older, experienced, hunky in that effortless way that makes you feel even more like the chubby girl who just wandered into the wrong fantasy?

1418.

You slow down, breathing shallow. The hallway seems to stretch longer the closer you get, as if the hotel itself is giving you one last chance to turn around. Your hand tightens on the strap of your bag until your knuckles ache. You could still run. The stairwell is right there. But then you remember the charged suite, the invite code that already gutted your savings, the way those receptionists looked at each other, and your feet keep moving.

Suite 1420.

The gold numbers gleam under the sconce light. You stop in front of the door, close enough to see your own distorted reflection in the brass plate. Your pulse is roaring in your ears. You lift your hand, fingers trembling, hovering an inch from the wood.

Knock and run, your brain screams. Just do it. One quick rap, spin around, and bolt down the hall before he even opens the door.

But you already know how that ends. With your luck, you’d trip over your own feet on this stupidly thick carpet, go sprawling in a heap of black sweater dress and soft curves, and have to explain to the man why you just tried to ghost him in the middle of a five-star hallway. No. No running. You suck in a shaky breath, knock twice—soft, polite, terrified—and immediately regret every life choice that led you here.

The door opens almost instantly. And the man who fills the frame is…Jesus Christ.

He’s tall—six feet easy—and the way he stands there, one hand still on the door handle, makes the entire hallway feel smaller. Dirty-blond hair falls just a little too long across his forehead, like he’s been running a hand through it, an effortless mess that looks expensive. Sharp blue eyes lock onto yours immediately, calm and assessing, and so intensely focused it feels as if he’s already cataloguing every nervous flutter of your lashes.

His jaw is cut as though it was carved by someone who knew exactly what they were doing—strong, clean-shaven, with the faintest shadow of stubble that says he shaved right before you got here. Broad shoulders stretch the black dress shirt he’s wearing; sleeves rolled to his elbows to reveal corded forearms and lean, powerful muscle that comes from years of real work, not just gym mirrors. The shirt is tailored perfectly, tucked into dark slacks that hug narrow hips and long legs. A faint, expensive cologne drifts toward you—something woody and warm with a hint of spice—and it short-circuits every rational thought in your head.

He’s rugged in the most devastating way. Not pretty-boy perfect. Hot. Like he could pin you against a wall without breaking a sweat and still make it feel like worship.

Your jaw drops before you can stop it. A tiny, mortified squeak slips out of your throat, half surprise, half straight-up terror. You were expecting competent and attractive. Not whatever the hell this is. This man looks like he stepped out of a late-night fantasy you’d never admit to having.

For the briefest second, his expression flickers—blue eyes widening a fraction, something sharp and unreadable flashing across that gorgeous face as the words fuck…she’s my target just slammed into him at full speed. Then it’s gone, smoothed away behind a slow, professional smile that somehow makes him even more dangerous.

You’re still standing there like an idiot, mouth open, cheeks burning hotter than the sun, every soft inch of you suddenly hyper-aware of how the sweater dress is hugging your belly, your hips, the full curve of your breasts. You manage another tiny, strangled sound that might have been an attempt at “hi” but mostly sounds like a dying mouse.

The man’s voice is low, smooth, and laced with that dry, effortless charm when he finally speaks. “Well…hello.” His gaze doesn’t leave yours, but the corner of his mouth ticks up enough to make your knees feel liquid. “You must be my nine o’clock.” He steps back, holding the door wider, the movement graceful and controlled in a way that screams experienced—in every possible sense of the word. “Come on in. I don’t bite…unless you ask nicely.”

His nine o’clock.

The words hit you like a slap. You’re not even a person to him right now—you’re an appointment. A slot on his calendar between whoever came before you and whoever’s probably booked for midnight. The thought spirals instantly, vicious and unstoppable.

How many other women has he seen tonight? Did they look like you—soft, chubby, nervously tugging at the hem of a dress that suddenly feels two sizes too small? Did he make exceptions for other virgins, or are you the only pathetic outlier who needed the special “gentle” treatment? Was it your belly he noticed first? The way your thighs touch? The way nothing about you is sleek or toned or magazine-perfect? Does he even find you attractive, or is he already mentally calculating how to stay hard long enough to get through the night without bruising his professional pride?

The “unless you ask nicely” part about biting lands a half-second later, and your entire face ignites. Bright, mortifying red floods your cheeks, your neck, the tops of your ears. You can feel the heat radiating off your skin like a furnace. He just offered to bite you. Casually. As though he says shit like that to women who know how to flirt back instead of standing here squeaking.

You’re hovering half-in, half-out of the suite, one hand still gripping the strap of your bag so tight your knuckles are white. Your brain has short-circuited so completely that the only thing that manages to tumble out of your mouth is the most awkward, idiotic introduction possible. You introduce yourself, voice cracking on your own name like a thirteen-year-old at her first school dance. “Sorry. I mean—hi. Yes. Nine o’clock. That’s me.”

His blue eyes don’t leave yours for a second. That slow, professional smile stays in place, but there’s a flicker behind it—something sharper, almost as if he’s recalculating the entire evening in real time. He steps back another pace, holding the door wider, the movement pulling the black dress shirt across his chest, and you catch the faint outline of muscle underneath. He repeats your name, low and warm, as though he’s tasting the name and deciding he likes how it sounds on his tongue. “Nice to meet you. My name is Leon. Come on in before the whole hallway gets a show.”

He doesn’t laugh at you. Doesn’t look disappointed. If anything, his gaze drifts—quick, professional, but unmistakably appreciative—over the soft curves the sweater dress is hugging, the flush still burning across your cheeks. But all you can think is how completely, devastatingly hot he is up close, and how utterly unprepared you are for any of this.

Your feet finally remember how to move. You step inside on shaky legs, the door clicking shut behind you with a quiet, final sound that seals you in with him.

And somewhere in the back of Leon’s mind, the contract photo he studied earlier is screaming at him that the sweet, nervous, chubby girl who just squeaked her own name is the same woman he’s supposed to kill before sunrise.

“Wait—wait, hold on, I have to ask this right now, or I’m going to lose my mind,” you blurt, voice cracking, hands twisting the strap of your bag so hard the leather creaks. “Do you…do you even find me attractive? Because if you don’t, it’s totally fine. I swear. I won’t be mad or offended or anything. I can just…go home right now. We can pretend this never happened. I’ll leave, no questions asked, and you can keep the money or whatever, I don’t care. I just—God, I’m not trying to make this weird, but I saw the way the women downstairs looked at each other when I asked for your floor, and I know I’m not…I mean, look at me.” Your free hand gestures helplessly down at the soft black sweater dress hugging every full curve of your stomach, your hips, the way your thighs press together. “I’m not exactly the type of person people like you usually…you know. So, if this is going to be awkward or you have to fake it or something, please just tell me. I’d rather leave than make you spend the whole night forcing yourself to—”

You run out of air, chest heaving, face still flaming, eyes locked somewhere around his collarbone because looking him in the face feels impossible right now.

Leon doesn’t interrupt. He stands there in the softly lit living area of the suite, one eyebrow lifting a fraction, that slow, professional smile still playing at the corner of his mouth. He takes one measured step closer, close enough that you catch the faint warmth of his cologne again, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to keep looking at him. His voice is low, smooth, and laced with that dry, teasing edge when he finally answers. “Easy,” he murmurs, the word gentle but commanding enough to cut straight through your spiral. “Breathe.”

His gaze does a slow, deliberate sweep over you—your flushed face, the soft curves the dress is clinging to, the way you’re practically vibrating with nerves—and when it returns to your eyes, there’s nothing fake about the heat in it. “You’re exactly the kind of trouble I don’t usually get paid to handle,” he says, voice dropping just a little. “But yeah…I find you attractive. Very. And we’re not pretending anything tonight unless you want to walk out that door.” He tilts his head, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips again. “So. Still my nine o’clock…or are you running?”

You swallow hard, eyes flicking up to meet those sharp blue ones again. Your voice comes out small and honest and a little shaky. “I’m…very tempted to run, actually.”

The words tumble free before you can swallow them back. You hug your bag tighter to your chest. “Really tempted. You’re…God, you’re a lot. I didn’t expect—” Your hand gestures vaguely at all of him, the broad shoulders, the rolled sleeves, the quiet, rugged confidence that makes the entire suite feel smaller. “I thought I could handle walking in here, but now I’m standing in front of someone who looks like you, and my brain is screaming that I should turn around, get back in the elevator, and pretend I never hit send on that message.” You let out a breathless little laugh that sounds half-hysterical. “So yeah. Running sounds safe. Running sounds smart.”

The corner of his mouth curves—just a fraction, not mocking, but warm and knowing in a way that makes your stomach flip for an entirely different reason. He takes one slow step closer, giving you plenty of space, hands loose at his sides. “Running’s always an option,” he says, voice low and easy, that dry edge of humour threading through it. “Door’s right there. No hard feelings, no questions asked. I’ll even walk you down myself if it makes you feel better.”

He pauses, tilting his head enough that a stray lock of dirty-blond hair falls across his forehead. His gaze stays on yours, steady and patient, but there’s a flicker behind it—something sharper, as if he’s recalibrating every plan he walked in here with. “But if you stay…” His tone drops, gentle and deliberate. “We do this at your pace. No performance. No pressure. Just you and me figuring out what feels good. You tell me what you want, and I listen. That’s the deal.”

He gestures toward the living area behind him—low leather couches, soft lighting, a bottle of something expensive already open on the side table with two glasses waiting. “Or you can keep standing here turning red while I pretend I don’t notice how cute it is. Your call.”

You’re still tempted to bolt. But the door feels farther away now, and the man in front of you is looking at you like you’re not an inconvenience or a pitiable case, as though you’re something he wants to unwrap.

Before you can stop yourself, the question blurts out, blunt and tactless and mortifying the second it leaves your mouth. “Will you actually…get hard?”

The words hit the air, and you immediately want to die. You realise he just said he finds you attractive, but your brain won’t let it go. You need the confirmation. Need to hear it out loud. Because what if “attractive” is polite gigolo-speak for “I’ll fake it for the paycheck”?

Your hands twist the strap of your bag harder. “I mean—you already said you find me attractive, and I believe you, I think I believe you, but…I just need to know it’s not going to be a problem. Physically. For you.” Your voice cracks. “God, that sounds awful. I’m sorry. It’s just…I’ve never done this. Obviously. And it feels pathetic that I’m still a virgin who had to pay someone to take care of it because no one else ever wanted to. What’s wrong with me that I couldn’t just…find a normal guy who wanted me enough to do it for free? And now I’m standing here asking a literal professional if he can even get it up for me, and I sound like the most insecure mess on the planet—”

You run out of breath again, face flaming hotter than before, eyes locked somewhere around the open collar of his shirt. You’re trembling, half-expecting him to politely show you the door now that you’ve officially made it weird.

Leon lets out a low, quiet breath—almost a chuckle, but softer, warmer—and takes one slow step closer, still giving you space. Those sharp blue eyes stay on yours, calm and steady, experienced patience that makes your stomach flip for an entirely different reason. “Easy,” he murmurs again, the same gentle command from before, but this time there’s a rough edge of amusement underneath it. “First off, yeah. I’ll get hard. No performance required on my end. You’re soft, you’re real, and you’re standing here turning the prettiest shade of red I’ve seen in a long time. That’s more than enough to do it for me.”

He tilts his head, dirty-blond hair shifting across his forehead, and the smirk deepens enough to show the faintest hint of teeth. “Second…it’s not pathetic. It’s honest. Most people who walk through my door have an agenda or a fantasy or a checklist. You’re just here because you want your first time to feel good. That’s rarer than you think.” His voice drops lower, almost conspiratorial. “And for the record? I don’t do pity fucks. I don’t have to. So, if I’m here with you tonight, it’s because I want to be.” He gestures again toward the low leather couch and the waiting glasses, the movement pulling the fabric of his shirt across those broad shoulders in a way that makes your brain stutter. “So. Still tempted to run? Or do you want to come sit down, let me pour you something to take the edge off, and we can keep talking until you feel ready? Your pace. Always.”

You take a shaky breath and force your feet to move before your brain can talk you out of it again. The suite opens around you as you step fully inside—soft golden lighting, plush leather couches arranged around a low coffee table, floor-to-ceiling windows showing off a glittering city view that probably costs more per night than your entire rent. Everything screams money. Your flats sink into the thick carpet with every cautious step, the soft black sweater dress brushing against the full curve of your hips and the gentle swell of your stomach. You feel every inch of yourself under the fabric, hyper-aware and exposed

You’re still tempted to run. The thought loops on repeat, loud and frantic, but your legs carry you toward the nearest couch anyway. You set your bag onto the side table along with your phone. As you lower yourself onto the edge of the leather—perched right on the very end as if you might bolt at any second—you mutter under your breath, barely audible even to yourself. “Still tempted to run…But I already paid for that stupid invite code, so it’s gonna be weeks of instant noodles anyway…”

Leon hears you. He’s already moving with effortless, controlled grace—crossing to the side table where the open bottle waits, pouring two low glasses of something amber and expensive without missing a beat. The corner of his mouth twitches upward, not quite a laugh, but close enough to soften the professional mask.

“Instant noodles, huh?” he says, voice low and dry with that familiar teasing edge. He sets one glass on the table in front of you, then sinks onto the couch a respectful distance away—close enough that you catch the warm, woody spice of his cologne again, far enough that you don’t feel cornered. “Sounds like a solid investment return on my part. I’ll try not to make you regret the dietary downgrade.”

He leans back slightly, one arm draped along the back of the couch. “Drink if you want,” he adds, nodding toward the glass. “Or don’t. No expectations. We can sit here and talk until the noodles stop sounding so bad…or until you decide you’re ready for something else. Your call, every step.”

You reach for the glass with fingers that still aren’t quite steady, the cool crystal heavy and expensive against your palm. One cautious sip and the liquor rolls across your tongue—smooth, smoky, with notes of caramel and something dark and rich that probably costs more per bottle than your monthly grocery budget. It tastes like luxury. Like something you’re not supposed to be drinking in a sweater dress that’s already seen better days.

You set it down almost immediately, barely a mouthful gone, and wipe your lips with the back of your hand as if you’re afraid even that tiny taste might leave a stain on your savings account.

Leon watches you without comment, one eyebrow lifting just a fraction, but he doesn’t push. He settles a little deeper into the opposite end of the couch, the black shirt pulling across the solid line of his chest and the quiet strength in his shoulders.

You stare at the glass for a long second, then finally find your voice again—small, shy, and a little breathless. “So…how does this work, exactly?” The words come out softer than you mean them to. “What do you do? What…don’t you do? Is there something I’m supposed to do? Do I just sit here? Or should I…I don’t know, move closer, or say something, or—” You cut yourself off with a tiny, embarrassed laugh, cheeks warming all over again. “I feel like I’m supposed to know the script, and I definitely don’t.”

Leon’s gaze stays steady on you, the faint smirk returning as though he’s both charmed and a little amused by how thoroughly you’re overthinking this. He shifts his weight, the leather creaking softly under him, and when he speaks, his voice is low, even, and laced with that dry, reassuring edge. “No script,” he says. “That’s the whole point. I don’t have a checklist, and neither do you. What I do is whatever feels good to you—kissing, touching, undressing, going slow, going down on you, whatever you want. I don’t do anything that makes you uncomfortable. No pain, no rushing, no pretending. If you say stop, we stop. If you want me to take the lead, I will. If you want to stay right there and talk for the next hour, that’s fine too.”

He tilts his head, dirty-blond hair catching the low light, blue eyes never leaving yours. “As for you…you don’t have to do anything except tell me what feels right. Breathe. Touch me if you want. Ask questions. Moan if it slips out.” The smirk deepens enough to make your stomach flip. “And if you decide halfway through that you’d rather finish your very expensive drink and call it a night, that’s allowed too. I’m not here to perform. I’m here to make sure you enjoy every second.” He picks up his own glass, takes a slow sip, then sets it back down without breaking eye contact.

Your brain short-circuits so hard you’re surprised it doesn’t make an audible pop. Allowed to touch him? The words bounce around your skull as if they’re in a foreign language. This man—this tall, rugged, unfairly hot professional who looks like he could bench-press a car and still have perfect hair—is telling you that you can put your hands on him.

And then the rest of it lands. He would go down on you. Just offered it. Casual as ordering room service. Your face hits a whole new shade of red. Heat floods from your cheeks all the way down your neck and across your chest, making the soft fabric of your sweater dress feel suddenly too warm, too tight over the full curve of your breasts and the gentle swell of your stomach.

Then the final blow: Moan if it slips out. A tiny, mortified noise escapes you—half whimper, half strangled groan—before you can slap a hand over your mouth. Your palm presses hard against your burning face, fingers splaying across your eyes as if that might hide the fact that you’re currently dying on this very expensive couch.

He’s probably got a clock running in his head right now, your brain supplies helpfully. Ticking down the minutes while you sit here turning into a tomato and wasting his very costly time. Every second you spend freaking out is another chunk of rent money evaporating.

“You can’t just…say things like that. I’m going to pass out.”

Leon’s low chuckle is soft, warm, and way too knowing. He hasn’t moved from his relaxed spot on the couch, blue eyes steady on you with that same patient, experienced calm. The faint smirk tugging at his mouth says he’s not annoyed—he’s enjoying how completely you’re unravelling. “Take your time,” he murmurs, voice like rough velvet. “I’m not in a rush. And yeah…you’re allowed to touch me. I’d like it.” He tilts his head, dirty-blond hair shifting across his forehead. “But only if you want to. We can sit here all night if that’s what feels right. No meter running on my end.”

You peek through your fingers, the mortified little noise still ringing in your own ears, and your free hand starts fidgeting in your lap. The hem of the sweater dress twists between your fingers, the soft fabric pulling tight across the full curve of your stomach before you yank it down again, only for it to ride back up the slightest bit over your thighs when you shift on the leather.

You swallow hard, cheeks still glowing nuclear, and force the question out in a shy, stumbling whisper. “Where…where can I touch you?” Your voice cracks on the last word. “Or—or if that’s weird, you can just…place my hand wherever you’d prefer. I don’t know the rules. I don’t know anything.”

Leon’s blue eyes soften at the edges, but that faint, knowing smirk stays right where it is. He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t tease. He leans forward and reaches for the hand that’s been torturing the hem of your dress. His fingers are warm, calloused enough to feel real, and the gentle way he wraps them around yours makes your pulse spike so hard you feel it in your throat.

“Rules are whatever we make them,” he murmurs, voice low and rough around the edges like good whiskey. “And right now? I’d prefer your hands on me exactly like this.”

He guides your palm across the small space between you and presses it flat against the centre of his chest. The black dress shirt is warm from his body heat, the fabric smooth and expensive under your fingertips, but underneath it, you feel the solid, steady thump of his heart and the hard plane of muscle that shifts when he breathes. Broad. Firm. Alive in a way that makes your stomach flip. His hand stays over yours, holding you there, thumb brushing once, slow, along the side of your wrist. “See?” he says, quiet and steady. “No script. Just whatever feels good.”

Your fingers tremble against his chest. You can feel the faint rise and fall of his breathing, the warmth bleeding through the shirt, the way his pectoral flexes ever so slightly under your touch. The contrast is dizzying—your soft, plush hand against the hard, sculpted line of him—and every self-conscious thought about your own body (the way your belly presses against the dress, the way your thighs spread when you sit) suddenly collides with the sheer heat of touching him.

He’s still watching you, patient as ever, that rugged jaw relaxed and those sharp blue eyes locked on your face. “Too much?” he asks, voice dropping even lower. “Or do you want to keep exploring?”

You keep your hand exactly where he placed it, and the words slip out before you can overthink them any further. “I…I want to keep exploring,” you admit softly, voice barely above a whisper. Your cheeks are still burning, but the confession feels like the bravest thing you’ve said all night.

You shift along the couch, scooting just a little closer. The leather creaks under you. Your thigh brushes the edge of the cushion between you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from his leg, but you stop short of pressing against him. Not brave enough. Not yet. Experience with men has never been your strong suit, and experience with men who look like him is basically non-existent. The kind of rugged, older, stupidly hot guy who probably has women throwing themselves at him on a nightly basis — and here you are, soft and nervous and completely out of your depth.

Your fingers tremble slightly against his shirt, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat, the firm muscle underneath. You swallow hard and force the rest out in a rush. “You’re probably going to have to take the lead,” you tell him, eyes flicking up to meet his for half a second before dropping again. “Because I have no idea what to do. Like…none. I’ve never even — God, this is embarrassing. Just…tell me what you want me to do, or show me, or…whatever. I trust you. I think.”

His hand stays over yours for another long beat, thumb brushing slowly and reassuringly along your wrist. Then he lets out a low, quiet breath — almost a chuckle, but warmer, gentler — and the smirk that tugs at the corner of his mouth is softer this time, less professional polish and more genuine. “Taking the lead I can do,” he murmurs, voice low and rough like gravel wrapped in velvet. “But I’m still gonna need you to keep talking to me, alright? Tell me if it’s too much, too fast, too anything. No guessing games tonight.”

He shifts then, turning toward you on the couch so his knee is inches from yours. The movement pulls the black shirt tighter across his shoulders and chest, and your hand slides a little with him, fingers now tracing the edge of his collarbone through the fabric. His free hand lifts slowly — giving you every chance to pull away — and settles lightly on your knee, thumb stroking once over the soft black fabric of your dress. “Start simple,” he says, blue eyes locked on yours, patient and steady. “Keep touching me wherever you want.” His voice drops another notch, that dry, teasing edge creeping back in. “And if you want me to kiss you…all you have to do is say the word. Or just lean in.”

He’s close enough now that you can smell the faint spice of his cologne mixed with the warmth of his skin, close enough that the heat of his palm on your knee is bleeding through the dress and making your breath catch.

You feel the words building in your throat as if they’re being dragged out by force, and before you can swallow them back, they tumble free in a shy, mortified little squeak. “I…I haven’t kissed anyone in a while,” you admit, voice barely louder than a breath. “I’m probably terrible at it.”

Your heart is pounding so hard you’re convinced he can hear it — a frantic thud-thud-thud echoing between you like a drum in the quiet suite. The sound fills your ears, drowns out everything else. His hand is still resting on your knee, warm and steady through the soft fabric of your dress, thumb tracing one slow, absent circle that makes your skin prickle. At the same time, your own palm is still pressed to the centre of his chest, feeling every rise and fall of his breathing, every subtle flex of the hard muscle beneath the black shirt. You can see the outline of it — the broad, sculpted lines of his pectorals, the way the fabric stretches across his shoulders — and a desperate little voice in the back of your head whispers that you want to slide your hand lower, feel the ridges of his abs, trace the firm dip at his waist, but you’re not brave enough to ask. Not even close.

You want to kiss him so badly it aches. Because you just know he’s going to be ridiculously good at it — a kiss that ruins you for anyone else, slow and sure and experienced in a way that makes your stomach twist with anticipation and terror all at once.

“Terrible at it, huh?” he murmurs, voice low and rough, the words brushing warm against your skin. “Doubt that. But even if you are…I’ve got enough practice for both of us.”

His hand on your knee gives a gentle, reassuring squeeze, thumb stroking once more along the inside curve. The other hand stays over yours on his chest, holding you there, letting you feel the steady thump of his heart — slower than yours, but not unaffected. “You’re already doing everything right,” he adds, softer now, that experienced patience threading through every syllable. “Just breathing. Touching me. Telling me what’s in your head. That’s all I need.”

He leans in a fraction — not enough to close the distance, but close enough that you catch the full warmth of his cologne and the faint heat of his breath. His gaze drops briefly to your mouth, then back up, patient as ever. “So…you want that kiss?” he asks, voice dropping even lower, almost a rumble. “Or do you want to keep feeling me first? Your hand’s already there. Slide it wherever you want. I won’t stop you.”

Your brain blanks out the second he says it — slide it wherever you want. The permission unravels you completely. Heat floods through your body as if someone flipped a switch, starting low in your belly and spreading outward in slow, tingling waves that make your skin prickle and your breath catch. It travels lower, settling heavy and warm between your legs, a sudden, undeniable throb that has you pressing your thighs together on the leather couch. Your face burns hotter than ever, but you can’t stop yourself.

Your hand moves before your nerves can catch up. Slowly, you slide your palm down the centre of his chest, feeling the firm planes of muscle shift under the smooth black fabric. The shirt is warm from his skin, and as your fingers drift lower, they trace the hard ridges of his abdomen, each one taut and defined beneath the material. Rigid. That’s the only word that fits. You can feel the power there, the way his stomach tightens just a little under your touch, and it makes that heat between your legs pulse sharper, wetter.

You lean in closer, close enough that your knee finally brushes his, close enough that the vanilla on your skin mixes with the woody spice of his cologne. Your voice comes out shaky, barely more than a whisper. “Both,” you breathe, the single word trembling on your lips. “I want…both.”

Leon’s blue eyes darken at the edges, that calm, experienced mask cracking enough for you to see the flicker of real heat underneath. His hand stays on your knee, thumb stroking a slow circle that sends sparks straight up your thigh, but he doesn’t push. He simply lets you feel him — lets you keep your palm pressed to the rigid warmth of his abdomen while he tilts his head, dirty-blond hair falling across his forehead. “Whenever you’re ready, honey.”

The word honey rolls off his tongue, low and warm and far too intimate for a man you’ve only just met. It slides down your spine and pulls a shiver out of you, that makes your breath hitch and your thighs press tighter together.

You tilt your head and press your mouth to his — oh so softly, barely there, as if you’re afraid even this gentle contact might be too much. Your lips are tentative, trembling, testing. You’re acutely aware of everything at once: the warm firmness of his mouth, the faint scratch of stubble against your skin, the steady rise and fall of his abdomen under your palm. Your hand shakes against the rigid muscle there, fingers curling slightly into the black fabric as if you might fall off the edge of the earth if you let go.

What if I’m doing it wrong? What if he’s judging every clumsy second of this?

The thoughts spiral fast and sharp, but you don’t pull away. You stay, mouth soft and uncertain against his, heart hammering so loudly you’re sure he can feel the vibration through your lips.

Leon’s hand on your knee slides a fraction higher, steadying, while he cups your face and tilts your chin enough to angle you better. His mouth moves against yours — slow, unhurried, impossibly gentle — savouring the shy press of your lips rather than correcting them. The kiss deepens by the smallest degree for you to feel the warmth of him, the controlled hunger he’s keeping leashed. When he finally eases back a fraction, his forehead rests lightly against yours, blue eyes half-lidded and dark with something that looks a lot like genuine affection.

“Fuck, you’re sweet,” he murmurs, voice rougher now, the words brushing warm across your still-tingling lips. “That timid little kiss? Yeah…I like that more than you know.” His thumb strokes once along your jaw, soothing. Your hand is still trembling against the hard plane of his abdomen, and he covers it with his own for a moment, pressing your palm firmer into the muscle like he wants you to feel exactly how real and solid and affected he is. “Do you need me to slow down?” he asks, the faintest trace of that dry, teasing smile in his voice.

You shake your head wordlessly at first, the movement small and quick, eyes fixed on his mouth as if you’re afraid looking away might break whatever spell this is. No. You don’t want him to slow down. Not even a little.

Leon’s thumb pauses on your jaw, gentle but insistent. His voice drops lower, rougher around the edges, but still steady and calm. “Words, honey. I need the words. Tell me.”

The endearment hits you again like a spark, and this time you find your voice, shaky but certain. “I don’t want you to slow down,” you whisper, the confession trembling between you. “Please.”

Your mouth finds his again, bolder this time, and you gently catch his bottom lip between your teeth — a soft, experimental bite that makes your stomach flip with how forward it feels. You suck the plush skin into your mouth, slow and careful, tasting the faint warmth of him and the lingering trace of that expensive liquor. Your heart is still hammering so hard you’re sure he can feel it, but the little sound he makes against your lips — low, surprised, appreciative — only makes you press closer.

At the same time, your hand moves. Still trembling, still hesitant, it slides further down from the rigid plane of his abdomen, fingertips tracing the hard lines of muscle until your palm settles low on his pelvis, right at the waistband of his slacks. Your fingers toy nervously with the hem of his black dress shirt, brushing the warm skin just beneath it, feeling the sharp cut of his hipbone and the faint trail of hair that disappears lower. The heat of him there is dizzying. You can feel the growing tension in his body, the way his muscles tighten under your touch, and it sends another rush of slick warmth straight between your legs.

Leon groans softly into the kiss — a deep, restrained sound that vibrates against your mouth. His hand on your knee slides higher, gripping the soft flesh of your thigh through the dress, while the one cupping your face tilts you deeper into the kiss. He lets you lead for a moment, lets you suck and nibble at his lip, before he answers with a slow, deliberate stroke of his tongue that makes your toes curl. When he pulls back enough to speak, his forehead rests against yours again, breath a little rougher now, blue eyes dark and heated. “Fuck…that’s it,” he murmurs, voice gravel-rough and approving. “You’re doing perfectly.”

Your hand is still playing at the hem of his shirt, fingertips brushing the warm skin of his pelvis. Your mouth is still tingling from the taste of him. And the way he’s looking at you — like your shy little bite and wandering hand are the hottest thing he’s felt in a long time — makes every soft, self-conscious inch of you feel wanted.

You can’t think straight. No one’s ever made a sound like that because of you. You’ve never been undone by the sound of a man enjoying himself. Never. Every past fumbling attempt with boys who barely looked at you twice had been silent, awkward, clinical. But this? This low, appreciative rumble from a man who looks like him — older, rugged, built like sin — is unravelling you in ways you didn’t know were possible. It makes you feel wanted. Dangerously wanted. And the realisation is so overwhelming, you feel like you might combust on this stupidly expensive leather couch.

You’ve never French-kissed anyone before, either. The thought flashes through your head like a dare. You want to try — God, you want to slide your tongue against his and see if you can pull another one of those sounds out of him — but what if you’re terrible at it? What if he laughs? What if—

You don’t give yourself time to spiral further. Your fingers slip under the hem of his black dress shirt. Your palm meets bare skin — warm, sculpted muscle that jumps and tightens under your touch — and the sensation is so electric you swear under your breath. “Fuck,” you whisper, the word slipping out before you can stop it, soft and shocked and reverent all at once.

Your fingertips trace the hard ridges of his abdomen, feeling every defined line, the faint trail of hair that leads lower, the way his stomach flexes when he breathes a little sharper. He’s so warm. So solid. So real. Your hand is trembling against him, but you don’t pull away. You can’t. Not when every inch of new skin under your palm is making that throb between your legs even worse, not when his groan from moments ago is still echoing in your ears.

Leon’s breath hitches — just barely — but you feel it under your fingers. His hand on your thigh squeezes once, encouraging, while the one cupping your face stays gentle, thumb stroking along your flushed cheek. “Keep going,” he murmurs against your lips, voice rougher now, that dry edge of amusement threaded with something darker, hungrier. “You’re doing so well, honey. Touch me how you want.”

You kiss him again before your brain can catch up and ruin it. This time, your mouth finds his with a little more certainty, soft and warm, and on pure instinct, you shyly drag the tip of your tongue along his bottom lip — a tentative, experimental lick that makes your stomach flip with how bold it feels. You half-expect him to pull back or laugh, but he doesn’t. Leon lets out another low sound of approval, almost a growl, and parts his lips for you.

His hand on your jaw tilts you gently, guiding without demanding, and then he takes over to show you. His tongue slides against yours — coaxing you into the rhythm. The kiss deepens, turns wet, warm, and devastatingly good, and you forget how to breathe. Every stroke of his tongue makes that heavy throb between your legs pulse harder, slicker, until you’re trembling all over and your hand is moving on autopilot under his shirt.

You don’t even realise you’re shifting until it’s already happening, your knees are pressing into the leather on either side of his thighs, and you’re straddling his lap. Your hand is wedged higher now under the hem of his shirt, palm splayed across the warm, sculpted ridges of his abdomen. The difference in height means you’re still perfectly face-to-face with him — his broad shoulders and powerful frame keeping you at eye level even on your knees, your soft curves pressed against the hard line of his chest.

Oh my God, what the fuck am I doing?

You freeze mid-kiss, eyes flying wide, every inch of you suddenly burning with mortified panic. You’re straddling him. On his lap. In a five-star hotel suite. Your dress has ridden up your thighs, your belly is soft and warm against his abs, and your hand is still shoved under his shirt as if you have any right to be groping a man who looks like this. Your heart is hammering so hard it feels like it might crack ribs. Heat floods your face, your neck, your chest. “I—I didn’t mean—oh God, I’m sorry, I just—I got carried away, and now I’m on you, and I swear I wasn’t trying to—”

Leon’s hands settle on your hips, steady and warm through the fabric of your dress, holding you right where you are without pulling you closer or pushing you away. His blue eyes are dark, his lips still shiny from your kiss, and that faint, crooked smirk is back — the one that says he’s not even a little bothered.

“Easy,” he murmurs, thumb stroking slow circles over your hip. “You’re not in trouble. You’re exactly where I want you.” His gaze flicks down to your mouth, then back up, voice dropping lower. “Still good? Or do you want to climb off and pretend that didn’t just happen?”

You gape at him. The words “exactly where I want you” hit like a stun grenade, and for a second, your brain stops. Your mouth parts, eyes wide, staring at him. What?! He can’t mean that. Not when you’re soft, chubby, and currently parked on his lap.

Your gaze drops before you can stop it. The black sweater dress has ridden up your thighs, bunching awkwardly around your hips, and the sight makes your face burn hotter than it has all night. You can feel him. His cock is hard, thick, and unmistakable, pressed firmly against the heat of your labia through the thin layers of your dress and the plain black cotton of your underwear. He’s big. Really big. The solid, heavy length of him radiates warmth straight through the fabric, nestled right against you.

Your stomach flips hard, a dizzying swoop of pure want and terror that leaves you breathless. Heat floods between your legs, slick and sudden, and you swear you can feel yourself getting wetter just from the pressure of him.

Leon’s hands stay steady on your hips, warm and solid through the dress, thumbs stroking slow, soothing circles as if he’s trying to keep you from bolting. His blue eyes are dark, patient, watching every flustered micro-expression flicker across your face. “Words, honey,” he prompts gently, voice low and rough with that same steady patience. “Tell me what’s going on in that head of yours. Do you want to move?”

You struggle for a second, cheeks burning hotter than ever, then the confession squeaks out in a mortified rush. “I—I don’t want to move,” you whisper, voice cracking. “But I also…I really, really want to do something completely inappropriate right now.”

Leon’s smirk deepens instantly, a low, amused chuckle vibrating under your palm where it’s still pressed to his bare abdomen. The sound is warm and dry, and so unfairly attractive it makes your stomach flip all over again. “Inappropriate, huh?” he murmurs, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he’s trying not to laugh outright. “Given that you’re already straddling my lap, I’d say we’re already in inappropriate territory, honey.”

Your underwear is saturated. You can feel it — the slick, embarrassing heat soaking through the plain black cotton, making the fabric cling wetly to your folds. You’ve never been this wet before in your life. Not even close. The heavy, unmistakable press of his cock is right there against your core, and you’re mortified at the thought that he can probably feel how soaked you are through the thin layers of your dress and panties. That he knows exactly how desperate your body already is for him.

You swallow hard, eyes flicking down to where your bodies are pressed together, then back up to his face. Your voice comes out even smaller, dumb and dazed and completely unfiltered. “You’re…you’re hard,” you point out breathlessly, as if he might not have noticed. “And you feel big. Exactly how big are you?”

The words hang in the air between you, ridiculous, honest, and so mortifying you want to hide your face in his shirt. Your hand is still trembling under the hem of his shirt, fingertips brushing the warm skin just above his waistband. Your soaked underwear is pressed right against the thick, rigid length of him, and every tiny shift of your hips makes that wet heat throb harder.

Leon doesn’t laugh at you. His blue eyes darken further, but the amused smirk stays, softening into something hotter, more predatory. “You want to find out?” he asks, voice dropping to a gravelly rumble as one hand slides from your hip to rest lightly over your own, where it’s still under his shirt. “Or do you want me to show you exactly how big I am while you grind your pretty, soaked pussy against me?”

You squeak. A tiny, mortified little sound that slips out before you can stop it, high-pitched and completely undignified. The dirty talk hits you like a slap — pretty, soaked pussy — and your brain whites out for a second. You are not prepared for this. Not for the low rumble of his voice saying things that, not for the way it makes fresh heat flood between your legs, not for how your soaked underwear suddenly feels even wetter against the thick, unyielding line of his cock.

Against every screaming instinct in your head that says you’re going to embarrass yourself, you’re going to ruin this, you give a small, experimental roll of your hips. The movement is shy, barely there — just a slow grind forward — but it’s enough.

His hardness presses perfectly against your clit through the thin, drenched layers of your dress and panties. The friction is sudden and electric, sending a sharp bolt of pleasure straight up your spine. A tiny, broken sound tries to claw its way out of your throat — half whimper, half moan — and you slap your free hand over your mouth just in time, burying your burning face against the front of his shirt instead.

Oh God. Oh God. He felt that. He definitely felt that.

You feel the low vibration of a rough, appreciative chuckle against your cheek, his breath stirring your hair. “Fuck…that was cute,” he murmurs, voice gravel-rough and amused, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading gently into your hair. “Don’t hide from me, honey. I felt that little roll. Can feel how wet you are, too.”

Your heart is hammering so hard you’re sure he can feel it against his chest. Your soaked underwear is clinging obscenely to your folds, pressed right against the thick heat of his cock. And you still haven’t lifted your face from his shirt.

You’re dead.

Gone.

Completely, utterly mortified.

He can feel it. He can feel the way your soaked underwear is clinging to your folds, the slick heat of you grinding against the thick, hard line of his cock. The realisation crashes over you like ice water and lava at the same time — horror and humiliation and another rush of fresh wetness that only makes it worse. Backing out now would just make you look even more pathetic than you already feel. You’ve come this far. You’re literally in his lap. You force yourself to lift your head, the movement slow and effortful. Your eyes meet his. “I…I have one request,” you manage. “If you’re…if you’re into it.”

Leon’s eyebrow lifts, the faintest hint of that crooked smirk returning. His hands stay firm on your hips, holding you, thumb still stroking slow circles. “Tell me,” he prompts, voice dropping lower, rougher. “What’s the request, honey?”

You hesitate for half a second, then the confession spills out in a rush, cheeks burning hotter than ever. “I want…I want to be dominated. Not forced, exactly. Just…not given a choice. You decide what happens, and I don’t get to overthink it or second-guess everything. I just…follow.”

Then the panic hits, and you start babbling, mortified at yourself.

“God, that sounds so dumb when I say it out loud. Forget I said anything, okay? It’s probably a stupid request, and I don’t even know why I thought that would be hot or if you even do that, and I’m already making this weird enough as it is, so just pretend I never—”

Leon cuts you off with a low, amused hum, one hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck, fingers threading gently but firmly into your hair. He doesn’t let you look away. His blue eyes are darker now, the professional calm cracking to show the heat underneath — the quiet, controlled hunger of a man who’s very much into exactly what you just described. “Not dumb,” he murmurs, voice like gravel and velvet. “Not stupid. And yeah…I’m into that. A lot.”

His grip on your hair tightens just a fraction — not painful, but enough to make your breath catch and your soaked core clench around nothing. “So, here’s how this is gonna go,” he says, the shift in his tone immediate, smoother, more commanding. “You’re not getting a choice tonight. You’re gonna sit right here on my lap like a good girl and let me take care of you. No overthinking. No running. You tell me if it’s too much, but otherwise…you follow.” He leans in, mouth brushing the shell of your ear, voice dropping to a rough whisper. “Understood?”

He’s really going to do it. This stranger is going to take the lead exactly like I asked.

Your heart is thudding so violently you’re sure he can feel it against his chest. Terror and thrill twist together in your stomach until you can’t tell which is which — terrified because he’s older, experienced, dangerous in a way that makes your brain scream you don’t even know him, thrilled because every dominant syllable is making you wetter, making you want to hand over every last scrap of control and just feel.

But some mischievous, testing little part of you wants to see if he means it. So, you shift — playful, deliberate — bracing your hands on his shoulders and starting to climb off his lap as if you might leave. Your soft thighs slide back, your dress rides higher on your hips, and you make a half-hearted little scoot toward the edge of the couch, lips parted in a shy, breathless tease.

Leon’s reaction is instant. His hands clamp down on your hips — firm, unyielding — yanking you right back where you were with zero effort. The grip is strong enough to pin you flush against the heavy bulge in his slacks. “Nice try,” he murmurs, voice low and rough with dark amusement, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk that’s equal parts warning and promise. “You asked me to take the lead, honey. That means you don’t get to test me and wiggle away.”

He rolls his hips up once, grinding the rigid length of him right against your soaked clit through the thin, saturated fabric. The friction pulls a tiny, broken whimper out of you before you can stop it.

“You’re staying right here,” he continues, the words brushing warm against your ear as he holds you immobile on his lap. “Exactly where I want you. No running. No second-guessing. You’re mine tonight.”

Your thighs are trembling violently on either side of him. Your hand is still shoved under his shirt, palm glued to the warm, sculpted muscle of his abdomen. Your heart is hammering so loud it drowns out everything else. And the way he’s holding you — firm, decisive, completely in control — makes something deep inside you melt completely. The words are out before your brain even registers them. “Yes, Daddy.”

The second they leave your mouth, your eyes blow wide, horror flooding your face. Your hand jerks under his shirt, fingers curling against the rigid muscle of his abdomen as if you could somehow claw the words back in.

Oh my God. Oh, my fucking God.

“I—I do not have daddy issues!” you blurt, voice pitching higher with every frantic syllable. “I swear to God I don’t even know where that came from, I’ve never said that in my life, I don’t have some weird Freudian thing going on, I just—God, I’m so sorry, that was so weird and I don’t know why my mouth decided to betray me like that right now when you’re literally holding me down and being all dominant and hot and I’m already mortified enough without accidentally calling you Daddy like some kind of—”

Leon’s chuckle interrupts you, darker this time, richer, and the smirk that curves his mouth is slow. His grip on your hips tightens, fingers digging in to remind you exactly who’s in control, while the hand in your hair gives a gentle, possessive tug that tilts your head back, so you have no choice but to meet those sharp blue eyes.

“Easy, honey,” he murmurs, voice like gravel wrapped in velvet, amusement and heat threaded through every syllable. “You can call me whatever the hell you want. Daddy. Sir. Leon. Doesn’t matter.” His thumb strokes once along your hipbone. “Long as you keep saying it like that—breathless and desperate—I’m not complaining.”

He rolls his hips up again, grinding the thick length of his cock right against your soaked clit in one lazy, filthy drag that makes your breath hitch.

“And for the record?” His smirk deepens, eyes darkening as he watches you unravel. “I like the way ‘yes, Daddy’ sounds coming out of your mouth. A lot.”

Your thighs are shaking violently. Your underwear is absolutely ruined. And the way he’s looking at you — amused, turned on, completely unfazed by your accidental daddy slip — somehow makes the mortification burn even hotter, and the heat between your legs throb even harder.

He’s either really fucking good at his job…or he’s into this.

The realisation should be hot. It is hot — the way he’s holding you down, the dark amusement in his eyes, the low rumble in his voice. But right on its heels comes the colder one you can’t quite shove away: you’re paying this man. A small fortune. For all of it. The suite, the drinks, the patience, the way he’s currently gripping your hips. You’re literally handing over money so a stranger can ruin you, and for the briefest second, shame curdles thick and sour in your stomach, twisting around the heat.

God, what am I doing?

Then Leon rolls his hips up again — harder this time, dragging the thick, rigid length of his cock against your clit.

A loud, embarrassingly broken moan rips out of you before you can slap a hand over your mouth. It’s raw, needy, and way too loud for the quiet suite, echoing off the marble and glass. Your thighs clamp around his hips, your soaked underwear sliding wetly against the heavy bulge in his slacks, and the sound just keeps going — high, shaky, and mortifyingly desperate.

Your face ignites. Shame and pleasure crash together so hard your eyes squeeze shut, forehead dropping back against his chest as your hand fists tighter in the fabric under his shirt.

Leon’s low chuckle vibrates against your cheek, dark and satisfied, cradling the back of your head while the other keeps you pinned. “Don’t hold back on me,” he murmurs, voice rough with approval, lips brushing your temple. “I want to hear every single sound you make tonight.”

He doesn’t let you hide for long — fingers threading into your hair, tilting your head back so you meet those sharp blue eyes again. The shame is still there, flickering, but the way he’s looking at you (hungry, steady, completely unfazed) makes it harder to cling to. “Still with me, honey?” he asks, hips giving another slow, teasing roll that drags another whimper out of you. “Or do I need to remind you who’s in charge until you stop overthinking?”

You swallow hard, the words sticking in your throat for a second before they tumble out, shy and breathless. “Remind me who’s in charge.” You hesitate, cheeks burning hotter than ever, then force the rest out slowly. “…Daddy.”

You feel every inch of him: the solid pectorals flexing under your palm, the steady thump of his heart, the warm, smooth skin stretched over powerful muscle. He’s so solid, so unfairly perfect, and the privilege of touching him like this makes something sharp twist in your stomach.

How many other women have done this? The thought creeps in before you can stop it. How many have paid their small fortune for the same view, the same hands on their hips, the same low voice calling them honey while they sat exactly where I am right now? Shame flickers again, curdling with the heat, but you shove it down, fingers spreading wider across his chest.

Leon’s reaction is immediate. A low, satisfied growl rumbles under your palm, vibrating straight into your bones. One of his hands leaves your hip and catches your wandering wrist, pressing your palm firmer against his chest — right over his heart — while the other tightens on your waist, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.

“That’s my good girl,” he murmurs, voice dropping into something darker, rougher, pure command wrapped in velvet. “You want me in charge? Then you don’t get to think about anything else. Not the money. Not the other women. Not how many times I’ve done this before. Right now, the only thing that exists is you on my lap and my hands on you. Understood? Tell Daddy who’s in charge.”

You’re trembling so hard you can barely form the words, but you force them out anyway — shy, breathless, and cracking on the edge of desperate. “You’re in charge, Daddy.”

The praise is still echoing in your head. My good girl. Two little words from his low, rough voice and your body lights up like a struck match. Heat floods your face, your neck, your chest. Your soaked underwear clings even tighter to your folds, a fresh rush of wetness soaking through the thin cotton and making the heavy press of his cock against your clit feel obscenely slick. Your thighs shake violently on either side of his hips. Your stomach flips so hard it’s almost nauseating.

Oh God. Oh God. He called me a good girl. The thought spirals fast and viciously. How many other women has he said that to? Shame curdles hot in your belly for half a second — sharp, ugly, mortifying — but then it melts under the weight of how good it feels. How your pussy throbs and clenches around nothing every time the words replay in your head.

Leon’s smirk deepens, blue eyes darkening as he watches every flustered micro-reaction flicker across your face. His grip on your hip tightens possessively while the hand in your hair gives a gentle, controlling tug. “That’s right,” he murmurs, voice like gravel and smoke. “I’m in charge. And you’re being such a good girl for me already — sitting on my lap, soaking through your panties.”

He rolls his hips up in one slow, filthy grind, dragging the thick, rigid length of his cock right against your swollen clit again. The friction pulls another broken whimper out of you before you can bite it back.

“No more thinking about anything else,” he continues, calm and commanding. “Just feel. Just obey. Understand?”

You lean in before the last scrap of hesitation can stop you. “Yes, Daddy.”

Your mouth finds his again — slower this time, hungrier, lips parting as you chase the taste of him. The kiss is deeper, your tongue brushing shyly against his, and the low sound he makes into your mouth sends a fresh spark racing down your spine. At the same time, your hand under his shirt grows bolder, fingertips mapping the warm, sculpted contours of his chest with something close to reverence. You trace the firm swell of his pectorals, the subtle ridge where muscle meets bone, the way his skin heats under your palm. Every breath he takes makes the muscle shift and flex, and you can’t get enough of it — can’t stop touching.

Leon lets you explore for a long, indulgent moment, his mouth moving against yours with that same controlled heat. Then his hand slides up your back, fingers spreading wide between your shoulder blades, and he guides you gently but firmly backward until you’re leaning away from him, spine arching, breasts pushing forward under the soft black dress. “Let me get my shirt off,” he murmurs against your lips, the words rough and low.

He reaches between you with his free hand, grips the hem of his black dress shirt, and yanks it up and off in one smooth motion. The fabric whispers over his head and gets tossed somewhere toward the arm of the couch, leaving him bare from the waist up.

And God.

The sight of him hits like a physical force — broad shoulders, powerful arms, the hard, defined lines of his chest and abdomen on full display in the low golden light of the suite. A few faint scars trace across his skin that speak of years and stories you’ll probably never hear, but they only make him look more real, more dangerous. His dirty-blond hair is slightly mussed now, blue eyes locked on yours with that same dark, commanding patience.

Your hand is still hovering where it was, now pressed to bare, heated skin. The warmth of him is overwhelming, the hard muscle under your palm flexing as he settles back against the couch and pulls you forward again, guiding your hips until you’re flush against him once more.

“Keep touching,” he says, voice dropping into that gravel-rough register that makes your stomach tighten. One hand returns to your waist, the other cups the back of your neck, thumb stroking along your jaw. “No holding back on me.”

The permission, the low command in his voice, the way he’s looking at you — it all snaps something inside you. You rock your hips forward in a slow, experimental glide, then back, then forward again, letting your soaked core drag along the thick, rigid length of his cock through your dress and his slacks. The friction is immediate and devastating, your swollen clit catching perfectly against him with every roll, sending sharp sparks of pleasure shooting up your spine. A soft, shaky gasp slips out of you as you find a rhythm, grinding a little harder, a little faster, chasing the heat building low in your belly.

Both your hands are on him now, no longer hesitant. One palm slides across the firm plane of his chest, feeling the way his pectorals tense and release under your touch; the other drifts to his bicep, fingers digging into the hard, corded muscle there. His skin is hot, smooth over steel, and the sheer power you can feel beneath your fingertips makes your head spin. You lean in, mouth seeking his again, lips brushing his in a needy, open-mouthed kiss.

Leon takes over the instant your lips touch. One large hand fists in the back of your dress at your waist, yanking you down harder onto his lap so your grinding becomes deeper, more controlled by him. His other hand cups the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair as he tilts you and claims your mouth completely. The kiss turns filthy in a heartbeat — his tongue sliding against yours, deep and demanding, swallowing every little whimper you make while he guides your hips in a slow, relentless rhythm that has your clit dragging over the bulge in his slacks repeatedly.

“That’s it,” he growls against your mouth, the words vibrating through you. “Keep grinding on me like a good girl. Use my cock to get yourself off. Don’t you dare stop until I tell you to.”

His hand on your waist tightens, forcing another long, deliberate roll of your hips that drags a broken moan out of you. His bare chest flexes under your exploring palms, biceps bulging as he holds you exactly where he wants you.

You’re completely at his mercy now, rocking helplessly on his lap while he kisses you, and the only thing left in your head is the overwhelming feeling of being taken over. Every slow, deliberate roll of your hips drags your aching core along the hard, unyielding heat of his cock, and the friction is so intense it borders on painful — a sharp, throbbing pulse centred right at your clit that makes your abdomen clench tight and your breath stutter. You’ve never come from anything except your own fingers in the quiet dark of your bedroom, chasing release in careful, silent little circles. But this? Being told — ordered — not to stop, to use him like this, to grind until you fall apart on a man you’re literally paying to ruin you?

Jesus Christ.

The ache inside you is deeper now, a hollow, desperate clench that makes you want something thick and real filling you up, stretching you open. Your thighs shake violently on either side of his hips, but you don’t stop. You can’t. Not when his voice is still low and rough in your ear, commanding and calm.

Your hands leave the warm muscle of his chest and slide up, sinking into the short, soft strands of his dirty-blond hair. The texture is surprisingly silky under your fingers, and you grip it tight, anchoring yourself as another helpless roll of your hips pulls a broken, needy sound from your throat.

Leon’s grip on your waist doesn’t falter. He keeps guiding you, setting the pace he wants — firm, unhurried, relentless — while his mouth claims yours again in a deep, controlled kiss that leaves no room for overthinking. “Eyes on me,” he murmurs, blue eyes locked on yours, calm and commanding even as you tremble in his lap. “You’re close. I can feel it. Don’t fight it. Just keep using me as I told you.”

One of his hands slides down to cup your ass through the dress, a moan escaping from you, squeezing once as he forces your next grind harder, deeper, dragging you along the full length of him until the pressure on your swollen clit makes your vision spark white at the edges. “That’s it,” he says, low and even. “Let it happen. Come for me, honey.”

Your fingers tighten in his hair, abdomen wound so tight it almost hurts, clit pulsing painfully with every drag, and the aching emptiness inside you only grows sharper. You feel it snap without warning.

The tight coil in your abdomen suddenly unwinds, pleasure slamming into you so hard and fast it steals the air from your lungs. To your intense disbelief, you come — right there on his lap, fully clothed, just from the relentless grind of your soaked core against the thick heat of his cock. No fingers, no toys, no careful circling in the dark of your bedroom. Just him, commanding, solid, and it rips through you like lightning.

A loud, high-pitched cry tears out of you — stupidly loud, embarrassingly sharp and breathless, a sound you’ve never made in your life because you never expected pleasure to hit this suddenly or this hard. It echoes off the suite walls, raw, surprised, and completely natural, your thighs clamping down hard around his hips as your body jerks and shudders on top of him.

Leon loves it. You feel the low, satisfied rumble vibrate through his chest under your palms, his grip on your waist tightening possessively as he keeps you grinding through every pulsing wave. His blue eyes stay locked on your face, dark and steady, the faintest crooked smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Fuck, listen to you,” he murmurs, voice low and dry with that familiar calm edge, even as his hips roll up once more to drag the last helpless tremors out of you. “That’s the prettiest sound I’ve heard in a while.”

One hand slides up to cradle the back of your neck, thumb brushing along your jaw, while the other holds you flush against him, letting you ride out the aftershocks against the hard length of his cock. Your fingers are still tangled in his soft hair, chest heaving, face burning as the disbelief crashes in right behind the pleasure. You just came. On a stranger. From grinding. And the sound you made…

Leon leans in, lips brushing your temple, voice dropping into that gravel-rough register again. “Still with me, honey?” A faint, teasing hint of amusement threads through the words. “Or do I need to make you do that again before you start overthinking how loud you just got?”

“Yeah…” you manage, voice breathless and wrecked. “I’m still with you. I’ve never…never come that hard before. Not even close.” Your face burns hotter as you say it. “And I’ve never been that loud, either. At home, I always smother myself with a pillow, so the neighbours don’t hear. I didn’t even know I could sound like that.”

Leon’s blue eyes stay locked on yours, calm and steady, the faintest hint of that dry, crooked smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t look surprised or amused in a mocking way — just quietly satisfied. “Good,” he says, voice low and even, that familiar dry edge threading through it. “Means I’m doing my job right. And you’re not smothering anything tonight — not with a pillow, not with your hand, not with anything. I want every sound you make. Loud, quiet, embarrassing…all of it. You did well, honey,” he adds, voice dropping a notch. “Real well. I like listening to you.”

Before you can overthink the praise (or the way it makes your stomach flip all over again), he shifts under you. One arm bands around your back, the other slides under your thighs, and he stands up with you still wrapped around him as if you weigh nothing.

“Enough of the couch,” he says, already walking toward the open bedroom door at the far end of the suite. “I want you on your back for the next part.”

He carries you the short distance without breaking stride, the city lights from the floor-to-ceiling windows painting faint gold across his bare shoulders and chest. When he reaches the massive king bed, he lays you down in the centre of it with surprising care, the cool sheets a shock against your overheated skin. He follows right after, knees bracketing your hips as he settles over you, one hand braced beside your head. His gaze drags slowly down your body — the rumpled black dress still bunched around your thighs, the way your chest is still rising and falling too fast — and that dry little smirk returns.

You’re still trying to wrap your head around the fact that he just picked you up. Now you’re on your back in the middle of the massive bed, cool sheets against your overheated skin, and your brain is screaming.

Leon’s fingers are already hooked under the hem of your black sweater dress, sliding it slowly up your thighs. Higher. Higher. The fabric bunches and drags, exposing more of you with every inch, and your stomach drops as if you’re on a rollercoaster you never agreed to ride.

Oh God. Oh God.

He’s going to see it all. The cellulite dimpling the backs of your thighs. The soft, hated rolls at your belly that you can never quite suck in all the way. The plush, jiggly bits of your hips and stomach that spill over when you sit or lie down. The way your body looks nothing — nothing — like the sleek, toned, probably-perfected women he must usually get paid to fuck. And underneath it all, the plain, boring black cotton bra and panties you threw on this morning because you own exactly zero sexy lingerie. Practical. Unsexy.

He’s going to be disappointed. He’s going to have to fake the attraction. He’s going to compare me to every other client and realise he got the short end of the stick tonight. This was a mistake. I should have stayed home. I should have—

Leon pauses with the dress halfway up your stomach, the cool air hitting the soft curve of your belly, and those sharp blue eyes flick up to your face. His expression doesn’t change — still calm, still that same dry, unflappable focus — but his voice comes out low and even, the tiniest hint of that familiar deadpan edge underneath. “Easy,” he murmurs, one hand staying on your hip to keep you pinned gently in place while the other keeps sliding the dress higher. “I can hear you thinking. All that noise in your head? Turn it off.”

He tugs the dress the rest of the way up and over your head, leaving you in nothing but the plain black cotton set, then tosses the dress aside without a second glance. His gaze drags over you, taking in every soft inch, every roll, every dimple, and when it returns to your eyes, there’s no flicker of disappointment. Just heat, quiet and steady. “You’re beautiful,” he says, voice low and matter-of-fact, as if he’s stating something obvious. “Whether you believe it or not.”

Your heart is hammering. Your body is still buzzing from the orgasm on the couch. And the way he’s looking at you — calm, controlled, completely unfazed by every insecurity screaming in your head — makes it almost impossible to remember why you ever thought he’d be disappointed.

Almost.

You stare up at him like a deer caught in the brightest headlights on the planet. The cool air hits the soft, plush curve of your stomach and the dimpled skin of your thighs, and your brain short-circuits completely. He’s seeing everything. Every roll. Every bit I hate.

Belatedly, desperately, you try to hide. You twist hard, attempting to roll onto your stomach and wriggle out from under him, arms flailing as if you can somehow vanish into the mattress. It’s a valiant, mortifying effort — your hips lift, your belly jiggles with the motion, and you’re halfway turned when—

Leon’s hand clamps down on your waist, firm and effortless, pinning you right back where you were. His blue eyes stay steady on your face, that familiar dry smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as if he’s watching a mildly amusing sitcom. “Nice try,” he says, voice low and even, the tiniest hint of deadpan amusement threading through it. “But you’re not going anywhere until I say so.”

You yelp, the sound cracking out of you before you can stop it. “Daddy is intimidating, and it’s scarily arousing!” The words hang in the air between you, raw, ridiculous, and completely unfiltered. Your face ignites. Your hands fly up to cover it, as if that might rewind the last five seconds.

Leon lets out a quiet, rough chuckle — not mocking, just warm and satisfied — and leans down closer, his weight settling heavier between your thighs. He doesn’t let you hide behind your hands; instead, he gently pulls one wrist away, then the other, pinning them loosely above your head with one of his own. “Yeah?” he murmurs, the smirk deepening into something darker, more dangerous. “Good. That’s exactly how I want you feeling right now.”

His free hand slides down your side, palm gliding over the soft rolls and plush curves you just tried to hide. “No more running. No more hiding,” he adds, calm and commanding, thumb stroking once over the curve of your hip. “You’re staying right here on your back so I can look at you. And you’re going to let me, honey. Understood?”