Tristan adjusted the collar of his white polo shirt for the third time since stepping out of his car. The humid summer air clung to his skin beneath his tucked-in shirt, and his khakis felt stiff and awkward, as if his entire outfit was warning him not to go any farther.
But he had a job to do. This was for charity.
He stepped up to the door of the weathered, two-story house on Willow Creek Lane. The neighborhood had a strange stillness to it—lush trees, cracked sidewalks, and not a single sound except the occasional chirp of a bird overhead. Tristan raised his hand and knocked politely, holding his clipboard tight against his chest.
Inside, footsteps approached. Slow. Confident.
The door creaked open, revealing a man who looked to be in his mid-fifties. He wasn’t tall, but he filled the doorway with a presence that made Tristan’s spine straighten. A graying beard framed his tanned, rugged face, and a shadow of a smirk played on his lips, like he already knew something Tristan didn’t.
He wore a white tank top that clung to his chest and hugged a slight beer belly, the curve of it pressing gently against the cotton. Loose sweatpants rested low on his hips, the waistband slightly twisted. The faint smell of tobacco and musk drifted from the house behind him.
“Yes?” the man said, voice deep and slightly rough. “Can I help you?”
“Uh—yes, sorry,” Tristan said quickly, cheeks flushing as he extended his hand. “I’m Tristan. I’m from Saint Luke’s Youth Foundation. We’re raising funds for a summer program for kids and—uh—I’m just going door to door to see if anyone would be willing to make a small donation…”
He trailed off, his throat suddenly dry. The man hadn’t taken his hand. He just looked him up and down—slowly. Eyes sharp and curious, pausing for just a breath too long at Tristan’s chest, then again at the lines of his tucked-in shirt, as if peeling away the layers in his mind.
Then, finally, he smiled. Wide. Too wide.
“Well now,” he said, stepping back. “A good boy doing God’s work, huh? Come on in.”
Tristan blinked. “O-oh, no, I—I don’t want to intrude.”
“Nonsense,” the man said. “Can’t make a man open his wallet on the porch. It’s too hot out here anyway. You’ll melt.”
He turned without waiting for a reply and walked deeper into the house. For a moment, Tristan hesitated. The air felt heavier suddenly, thicker.
But he couldn’t go back to the car without trying. It would feel like failure.
So he stepped inside.
The door creaked shut behind him.
The door closed behind him with a deep, solid thud.
Tristan glanced back instinctively. No lock clicked… but it felt final all the same.
The house smelled faintly of something smoky—tobacco, maybe—and something more earthy beneath it. Not quite cologne, but something personal. Masculine. A ceiling fan creaked overhead, stirring the warm air as Tristan followed the man down a narrow hallway into a dim living room. The blinds were drawn, casting the space in a mix of golden dusk and shadow.
The man moved slowly, deliberately, barefoot on the hardwood floor.
“You can call me Vincent,” he said over his shoulder. “Most people do.”
Tristan nodded, his clipboard still pressed to his chest like a shield. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Vincent.”
The older man chuckled. “Just Vincent. No need for the ‘Mister.’ You’re not one of my students.” He turned around then, grinning slightly. “Unless you want to be.”
Tristan blinked. “Oh—uh—I don’t think—”
“Kidding,” Vincent interrupted smoothly, waving a hand. “Relax, son. You’re tense as a crossbeam.” He gestured toward the couch. “Sit down. I’ll get you something to drink. Water okay?”
“Sure,” Tristan said, cautiously lowering himself onto the edge of the couch. He sat upright, knees together, holding the clipboard on his lap like a student in confession. “It’s just—hot out there, you know?”
Vincent smiled and disappeared into the kitchen.
Tristan looked around. The room was cluttered, but not dirty—books, papers, a heavy leather recliner in one corner, old photo frames with the faces turned away from the room. One wall had a large, mounted deer head with glassy eyes that seemed to stare through him.
He didn’t notice the faint click of a plastic cap in the kitchen.
A minute later, Vincent returned, holding a sweating glass of water in one hand and a beer in the other. He handed the water to Tristan, who murmured a shy “Thank you” before taking a polite sip.
It tasted fine. A little metallic maybe, but the glass was cold, and the air in the house was so thick and warm that the coldness numbed his tongue anyway.
Vincent dropped into the recliner across from him, spreading his legs casually, beer resting on one thigh.
“So. Tristan, huh?” he asked, eyeing him. “You local?”
“Yes sir. Grew up in town.”
Vincent’s gaze wandered across Tristan’s face, pausing briefly on his lips. “And how old are you?”
“Twenty-one.”
“No kidding.” Vincent raised an eyebrow, letting his eyes fall slowly down to Tristan’s chest again. “You look younger. In a good way. Like you’ve been taken care of.”
Tristan flushed. “Um… thanks. I guess.”
“You still live at home?”
“Yeah. With my folks. Just until I finish my degree.”
Vincent took a long sip of his beer and leaned back. “Strict parents?”
Tristan hesitated, then smiled awkwardly. “Very.”
“I can tell,” Vincent murmured.
Tristan took another drink, more out of politeness than thirst. He was starting to feel… oddly warm. His limbs a little looser. The tight line of anxiety in his chest slowly unraveling like a pulled thread.
“You’re safe here, you know,” Vincent said, his voice lower now. “No judgments. No sermons. You can just… be.”
Tristan swallowed hard. “I—uh—I should probably show you the brochure.”
“Later.” Vincent’s voice was calm, almost soothing. “There’s time.”
The fan above them turned slower. Or maybe Tristan was just imagining that. His knees slowly parted on their own. He didn’t even realize it.
The clipboard slipped off his lap.
Vincent watched it fall. And smiled.
Vincent sipped his beer slowly, never taking his eyes off the boy across from him.
Look at him.
So polite. So goddamn clean. He sat there like a statue, trying so hard to hold himself properly. Chest puffed up from nerves, not arrogance. Knees together, hands folded over that little clipboard again now like a church usher.
Boy doesn’t even realize he’s already relaxing. That stuff’s gentle… subtle. Won’t knock him flat. Just enough to quiet the noise in his head.
Tristan blinked a little slower now. His lips were slightly parted. He’d undone the top button of his polo when he thought Vincent wasn’t looking.
Perfect.
“So, Tristan,” Vincent said, his tone soft and friendly. “Mind if I ask you something a little more personal?”
The boy glanced up. Still unsure, but polite. He shook his head faintly. “No, that’s okay.”
Vincent smiled. “You single?”
“Yeah…”
Vincent leaned forward a little. “Ever dated anyone before?”
Tristan hesitated. He gave a sheepish chuckle and looked down at his knees. “Not really.”
God, he’s adorable. Nervous, but not defensive. So used to people probing for purity instead of pleasure.
“No girlfriend?” Vincent pressed lightly.
“No.” A pause. “I’ve only ever had one girlfiend but she moved away a couple of years ago. ”
Vincent’s heart ticked. He kept his voice calm. “And, nothing ever happened? You’ve never thought about it? ”
Tristan flushed, but nodded. “I guess… I mean, I’ve thought about it. But I’ve never—never done anything.”
Vincent tilted his head. “Nothing at all?”
Tristan shook his head, as if ashamed. “I wasn’t allowed to… think like that growing up. And now I just… I don’t know. I’ve never even…” He trailed off, embarrassed.
Vincent let his voice drop an octave. “You’ve never even touched yourself, have you?”
There was a pause. Tristan looked at him, then away. “No.”
Jesus Christ.
He’s twenty-one and still doesn’t know what it’s like to feel his own body come alive. Untouched. Like a locked room with the lights off.
They made him ashamed of his own hands.
Vincent leaned back slowly, taking another drink just to keep his voice steady.
“That’s a lot to carry, Tristan,” he said, softer now. “A lot of pressure to be perfect.”
“I guess,” Tristan murmured, rubbing his arm like he was suddenly chilly. “I just… I don’t know. I want to be good.”
Vincent smiled kindly. “You are good.”
The boy looked up—almost startled by the affirmation.
“You’re good,” Vincent repeated, his voice like low velvet. “And you don’t have to prove it to anyone.”
Tristan didn’t reply. His pupils were slightly larger now. His breathing shallower.
Vincent stood and walked slowly to the couch, beer still in hand. He sat down beside Tristan—not too close, but close enough that the boy’s posture stiffened, then relaxed again.
“You feeling okay?” Vincent asked.
Tristan nodded slowly. “Just warm.”
“Want to take off your shoes? Get comfortable?”
Tristan hesitated, then nodded again. He leaned forward, a little clumsy now, and untied his sneakers. Vincent watched the way his shirt stretched over his back as he bent. He hadn’t even realized how snug it was, how it clung to a naturally sculpted body he clearly had no idea he possessed.
When Tristan leaned back, his socks curled on the rug and his knees had spread a little farther apart.
Vincent reached out gently, letting his fingertips graze Tristan’s shoulder.
“You’re okay,” he said softly. “You don’t have to be tense.”
Tristan looked at him with glassy eyes. “I don’t know what’s happening. I feel… weird.”
Vincent’s smile was slow and reassuring. “That’s okay. You’re just… letting go a little. You’ve earned that. You don’t always have to be in control.”
His hand trailed lightly down Tristan’s arm.
And Tristan didn’t flinch.
Vincent’s fingertips were rough. Not calloused like a laborer’s, but textured with age—skin that had touched and held and taken its time with many things in life. When he touched Tristan’s arm again, it was with intention. Just the barest pressure. A gentle drag along his forearm, then up toward the shoulder.
Tristan’s breath hitched.
He was still—his legs parted loosely now, eyes half-lidded, his body somewhere between tension and melting. Not fully relaxed. Not resisting either. Caught in the middle.
Vincent smiled quietly to himself.
This boy doesn’t even know what pleasure feels like. No one’s ever taken the time. Never let him know it was okay to feel something for his own sake.
They built a wall around him so high he never even looked over the top. But that wall’s already cracking.
“You’re holding your breath again,” Vincent said softly, his hand moving to Tristan’s bicep. “Let it go.”
Tristan exhaled, shaky and quiet.
Vincent moved behind the couch slightly, still close, his fingers pressing into the boy’s upper arms, kneading softly—massaging. Not sexual. Not yet. Just enough to coax the muscles to loosen. Tristan’s head tipped forward a bit.
“That’s it,” Vincent murmured. “You carry so much here.”
His thumbs circled slowly at the base of Tristan’s neck, pressing into spots no one had touched before. Tristan gave the faintest sound—a breath that caught in his throat, a little surprised by how good it felt.
“You’re okay,” Vincent said. “Just feel it. You don’t have to talk.”
Tristan nodded faintly, his eyes fluttering closed.
Vincent’s hands moved with care. From shoulders to arms, then down to the boy’s hands, tracing each finger like he was memorizing them. Tristan’s skin was warm, a little damp with nerves. Vincent turned one of the boy’s hands over and touched the center of his palm with a single fingertip.
Tristan twitched slightly. Vincent smiled.
“Sensitive,” he whispered. “Even your hands don’t know what they’re capable of.”
He circled that spot again, slow, teasing, before gently folding the hand closed.
Tristan sat there, unmoving, his chest rising and falling just a little quicker now. A soft pink flush had spread to his neck and cheeks. His lips looked dry. His shirt clung tighter than before.
Vincent leaned close, speaking low against his ear. “Tristan… would you let me show you something?”
The boy blinked, slowly turning his head just enough to meet his gaze. His voice was soft. “Like what?”
Vincent just smiled. “Something I think you deserve to feel. If you want.”
Tristan hesitated, then gave the faintest nod.
Vincent rose from the couch and extended a hand.
“Come with me.”
Tristan stared at the hand. Then reached out and took it.
His fingers were trembling.
He stood up slowly, bare feet on the hardwood, and followed Vincent down the dim hallway. The air in the house felt thicker now, quieter. Like something sacred—or dangerous—was waiting behind the next door.
They reached the end of the hall. Vincent opened the door slowly, then stepped inside.
Tristan followed.
And the door eased shut behind them.
The bedroom was warm, but not stifling. A small lamp on the dresser cast a golden glow that didn’t quite reach the corners of the room, leaving the shadows soft and deep. The bed was neatly made—navy sheets, dark wooden frame, the faintest impression of someone who slept alone but expected company someday.
Vincent led Tristan inside slowly, fingers still loosely wrapped around the boy’s hand.
Tristan said nothing. His breath came quieter now, but his chest moved a little faster. He looked around the room like it was a place he wasn’t meant to be—his eyes touching on the furniture, the mirror, the closed curtain—but always returning to Vincent. Still unsure. Still curious.
Still staying.
Vincent let go of his hand and stepped back slightly. He watched Tristan in the warm light, the way his white polo hugged his chest and arms, the way his slim waist tapered into khakis that hung just loose enough to hint at the hips underneath.
God, he has no idea what he looks like. That body’s a gift wrapped in shame.
Vincent reached for the hem of his own tank top. “It’s warm,” he said softly, by way of explanation. “I hope you don’t mind.”
Tristan didn’t respond. His lips parted slightly as Vincent peeled the shirt upward and over his head, exposing the salt-and-pepper hair on his chest, the slight swell of his belly, and the lean muscle beneath it all. He let the shirt drop to the floor behind him and stepped forward again, slow and steady.
Vincent didn’t reach for skin right away. He touched Tristan’s chest with both hands—over the shirt—his palms flat, his thumbs tracing faint circles against the fabric.
“Still tense,” he murmured. “But better than before.”
Tristan swallowed, throat bobbing slightly. “It feels strange.”
Vincent smiled. “Strange can be good. It means you’re waking up.”
He let one hand drift down—barely skimming—just tracing the shape of Tristan’s torso through the cloth. His voice dropped lower.
“You’ve been hiding this for a long time, haven’t you? All of this.”
His palm pressed lightly against Tristan’s chest again. “Strong… but still soft.”
He moved lower. “And here. Lean, tight.”
His hands rested briefly at Tristan’s sides. “And this curve right here… perfect.”
Tristan trembled faintly. His hands clenched at his sides, unsure what to do with them.
“You okay?” Vincent asked.
“I don’t know,” Tristan whispered.
Vincent leaned in, speaking against the side of his neck. “That’s alright. You don’t have to know.”
He dropped to one knee without warning, and Tristan flinched slightly. Vincent looked up at him, calm and composed.
“Easy,” he said. “Just want to get these off.”
He tapped lightly at Tristan’s ankle. Tristan shifted his weight and lifted his foot without thinking. Vincent peeled the white sock off slowly, revealing a pale, smooth foot. Slender toes. Arched gently. Soft soles untouched by anything harsh.
Vincent exhaled. Perfect.
He repeated the same with the other, slow and gentle. Now Tristan stood barefoot in the warm room, his chest rising and falling, his arms still stiff.
Vincent set the socks aside and sat back slightly on his heels, gazing up at him.
“You even keep your feet hidden, don’t you?” he said softly. “Like you’re afraid someone might see how beautiful you are all the way down.”
Tristan didn’t answer, but his face flushed deeper.
Vincent reached out and ran a fingertip across the arch of one foot—barely a brush. Tristan twitched, nearly startled by how sensitive it was. He gasped.
“See?” Vincent whispered. “You’re alive everywhere. They told you to be numb. But you’re not. You’re full of feeling… you just didn’t know yet.”
Tristan looked down at him. His lips trembled slightly. “Why… why are you doing this?”
Vincent rose slowly to his feet, standing close again. His eyes were calm. Focused. He touched Tristan’s chest through the shirt once more, reverently.
“Because someone should have.”
Tristan didn’t move.
Didn’t pull away.
And Vincent didn’t go further. Not yet.
He stepped back, just a little, letting the quiet settle again.
Vincent sat first.
The bed creaked slightly beneath his weight—solid, well-worn wood, soft navy sheets smooth under his bare back as he leaned in and patted the space beside him.
“Come sit,” he said softly, voice like velvet. “No pressure. Just be still for a minute.”
Tristan hesitated. His bare feet shifted on the floor. He was flushed, his chest rising quickly now, but his legs obeyed before his mind could argue. He sat down beside Vincent, stiff at first.
Then the dizziness hit.
A slow wave. Not overwhelming—but enough to make the room tilt softly. His shoulders slumped.
“I… I feel weird again,” Tristan murmured, blinking slowly.
Vincent placed a hand gently on his back. “Lie down for a minute,” he said. “It’s alright. Just let the feeling pass.”
Tristan hesitated.
Then he did.
He slowly shifted, laying back on the bed, his arms falling to his sides. The room spun for just a breath, then stilled. The sheets were soft. Too soft. He couldn’t remember the last time he lay on someone else’s bed. It felt… intimate in a way that made his stomach flutter.
Vincent leaned over him slowly, one knee on the mattress beside him. His fingers rested against Tristan’s chest again, pressing lightly through the shirt—just enough to feel the rhythm beneath.
“Still nervous?” he asked.
Tristan swallowed. “Yes.”
Vincent smiled. “Good. It means you’re feeling something.”
He slid his hand upward, grazing the side of Tristan’s neck. His fingers touched the boy’s collar, gently tugging it just enough to expose the base of his throat. Vincent leaned in slightly, his breath warm against the skin he’d uncovered.
“Do you know how beautiful you are like this?”
Tristan didn’t answer. His eyes were wide—glassy. His chest lifted higher as he breathed.
Vincent didn’t press. He worshipped with his eyes first, then his hands.
Slow. Deliberate.
He ran both hands along Tristan’s arms, from shoulder to wrist, fingers splayed. He kneaded gently, feeling the resistance in Tristan’s muscles fade with each motion. He trailed down to the boy’s hands, taking one in his own and spreading the fingers out like he was studying them.
“Soft,” Vincent murmured. “You don’t even have a single callous.”
His voice dropped. “Do you know how rare that is, Tristan? How untouched?”
He kissed the center of the palm once. Light. Reverent.
Tristan trembled.
Vincent set the hand gently back onto the bed, then turned his attention to the boy’s legs—still clothed, still pressed together. His gaze traveled slowly downward.
And finally—those bare feet.
Vincent leaned closer, settling beside Tristan now on the bed, his hand tracing one ankle and then the top of the foot. He lifted it slightly, just to admire it again.
“You don’t even know what parts of you deserve to be worshipped,” he whispered.
He kissed the arch of the foot softly, lingering there, lips grazing warm skin.
Tristan exhaled sharply. He twitched. Not from rejection—but from something too new, too intense to understand.
Vincent looked up at him again, eyes half-lidded, hungry—but composed.
“Your body’s never had permission,” he said quietly. “But it has it now. Every part of it.”
He watched the way Tristan breathed. How he swallowed. How his eyes fluttered with confusion, but he didn’t sit up. Didn’t ask him to stop.
Vincent laid beside him now—close, but not touching.
“Let yourself feel this,” he whispered. “You’re doing so well.”
The room was quiet.
Just the low hum of the fan above, the soft creak of sheets when Tristan shifted slightly on the bed. He lay still, his limbs uncertain, his breath uneven, while Vincent’s presence hovered beside him like something both dangerous and calming.
Vincent moved with care. One hand glided across Tristan’s torso—over the polo shirt—his palm tracing from ribs to waist and back again. His fingers spread, feeling the shape beneath the fabric.
“You have no idea what you feel like under here,” he murmured.
Tristan twitched slightly. His eyes fluttered open, meeting Vincent’s only for a second before looking away again.
“It’s okay,” Vincent whispered, his hand still moving slowly. “You’re not doing anything wrong.”
Tristan swallowed. “I just… I don’t understand what’s happening.”
“You’re reacting,” Vincent said gently. “Your body is waking up.”
His hand slid higher now, still slow, over Tristan’s chest. He cupped one side lightly—not squeezing, just holding it, thumb brushing faintly where his nipple was hidden beneath the cloth.
Tristan gasped softly. His hips shifted.
A shiver passed through him.
Vincent smiled. “There it is. Feel that?”
Tristan’s voice was barely audible. “Y-yeah… but…”
“But you don’t know why.”
Tristan nodded, cheeks red, chest rising and falling faster now.
Vincent’s touch became more rhythmic—his hand circling one side of Tristan’s chest, then the other, praising through motion. “It’s normal,” he said softly. “Completely normal.”
Tristan trembled under him. “We… we don’t talk about this. Not in my house.”
Vincent leaned closer, voice low in his ear. “I figured.”
He let his palm rest against the center of Tristan’s chest again. “That’s not your fault. They made you scared of your own skin. But there’s nothing dirty about you, Tristan.”
“I don’t know if I believe that,” the boy whispered.
Vincent traced a slow line down his sternum, through the fabric, until he reached the soft curve just above Tristan’s waistband. He stopped there. Hovering. Not pushing. Just letting his hand linger.
Tristan’s body arched faintly into the touch—almost involuntarily.
“You’re already proving it wrong,” Vincent said. “Your body wants to be known. It’s asking you to listen.”
“I never even…” Tristan paused, clearly embarrassed. “I’ve never touched myself.”
Vincent looked at him—calm, steady. “I know.”
“You told me earlier. I can’t believe it,” he said, fingers now lightly pressing again at Tristan’s chest, drawing small, lazy circles. “There’s something different in the way you move. The way you hold your breath. You don’t know your body. Not yet.”
Tristan blinked slowly, lips parted.
Vincent’s hand moved back down, resting at the space above the belt again. He didn’t go lower. Just stayed there, warm and steady.
“You don’t have to be ashamed for wanting to feel good.”
Tristan looked away.
Vincent reached up, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead.
Tristan closed his eyes, breathing uneven. His hands gripped the sheets now, knuckles pale. His thighs twitched, still clothed, but no longer still.
Vincent leaned down again. “You’re doing so well, Tristan. You don’t even know how beautiful this is.”
And Tristan stayed. Quiet. Trembling.
But he didn’t pull away.
Vincent could feel it—the shift.
It was in the way Tristan’s fingers clutched the sheets just a little less tightly now. The way his hips, though trembling, no longer flinched at the weight of a hand resting above them. His body had stopped resisting. It was listening now. Curious. Quiet.
Vincent leaned in close again, his bare chest warm against the fabric of Tristan’s shirt. “Come here,” he murmured.
He helped Tristan sit up gently, one hand behind his back, the other guiding his shoulder. The boy was pliant—dizzy, unsure, but responsive. His feet shifted slightly on the floor, toes curling against the wooden floorboards, bare and sensitive.
Vincent sat beside him, thigh against thigh, hand resting lightly between the boy’s shoulder blades.
“You’re doing so well,” he whispered. “I want you to try something.”
Tristan opened his mouth slightly to respond, but nothing came out.
Vincent reached for one of his hands and lifted it slowly. “I want you to touch here.” He guided Tristan’s palm flat against his own chest—over the shirt. “Just here. Hold it.”
Tristan blinked. His hand twitched beneath Vincent’s, but he didn’t pull away.
Vincent pressed gently, guiding the boy’s fingers to spread. “This is your body,” he said quietly. “You’ve been afraid of it. But it belongs to you. No one else. And it’s beautiful.”
Tristan just stared at his own hand.
Vincent smiled. “That’s a start.”
The boy’s fingers moved a little—barely—but Vincent noticed. A soft curl at the edge of his palm, pressing just slightly into the curve of his own chest.
Vincent nodded. “That’s you. Alive. Full of things no one ever taught you about”
A beat passed.
Tristan was still. He looked down again.
Tristan looked up slowly. His mouth opened, then closed again. He was quiet, but something shifted in his eyes. A little less fear. A little more… connection.
Vincent took Tristan’s hand again, lifting it this time to the center of his chest, just over his sternum. “Try here. Press lightly. Feel your body.”
Tristan obeyed. His fingers touched down again, and this time… they lingered. They didn’t move, but they didn’t retreat.
A breath passed. Then another.
And slowly—shyly—he let his other hand rise, mirroring the other.
Now both palms rested against his own chest, over the shirt, barely moving, but claiming something for the first time in his life.
Vincent watched him in silence, not needing to speak.
This moment was his.
And Tristan—trembling, dazed, confused, aroused without understanding—stayed.
Vincent could feel the shift as clearly as he felt the heat in the room.
Tristan wasn’t just pliant now—he was gone.
His glassy blue eyes stared forward, blinking slow, unfocused. His lips parted faintly, breath shallow and soft, but he didn’t speak anymore. He didn’t need to. His body said enough.
Vincent grinned.
Perfect. Goddamn perfect.
That little drop in the water, that gentle push, that quiet tone—I played every note. And now look at him.
Quiet. Trusting. Ripe.
Vincent watched him for a long moment, crouched in front of him, hands gently resting on his knees. The boy’s head lolled slightly to the side. He was still upright on the bed—but barely.
“Poor thing,” Vincent whispered, his voice dropping into something darker. “You really didn’t stand a chance, did you?”
He ran a slow hand up Tristan’s side. No response. No flinch.
“Your parents should be ashamed,” he added with a smirk. “Not for what you’re doing. But for what they never let you do.”
He stood and leaned over Tristan, placing one hand behind his back. “Lay down for me, sweetheart. That’s it.”
Tristan let himself be guided down. He didn’t resist. His arms slid weakly to his sides, his feet shifting slightly on the sheets as his back met the mattress again. His chest rose and fell, slow and shallow.
Vincent climbed beside him, eyes never leaving the boy’s face.
God, he’s beautiful.
He doesn’t even know how sinful he looks like this. That white polo stretched across his chest, the faint outline of something hard beneath. Arms just thick enough. That tight stomach underneath I haven’t even unwrapped yet.
Vincent leaned closer, voice low against Tristan’s cheek.
“You still with me?” he asked softly.
No response.
Just a slow blink.
Vincent grinned again. “Good.”
He straddled the bed beside Tristan and reached for the polo’s buttons. Just the top two. Slowly, patiently, he slipped one free… then the second. A sliver of a white tank top peeked out from underneath.
Vincent ran both hands down the sides of Tristan’s torso, then reached for the hem—where the polo was still neatly tucked into the waistband.
“That won’t do,” he murmured.
He untucked it with care, fingers grazing the boy’s hips in the process. Once the hem was loose, he began to peel it up—inch by inch. Over Tristan’s still chest, revealing the smooth ribbed white tank underneath.
Oh… yes.
Look at that.
Full arms. Round, tight shoulders. That tank clinging like it was painted on. His chest—God, the shape of it. Juicy. Heavy. Just waiting.
The tank left little to the imagination—firm pecs strained gently beneath it, but still hidden. No skin. Just suggestion. Just enough to make Vincent groan under his breath.
“You’ve been hiding this your whole life,” Vincent whispered, dragging his palms along Tristan’s bare biceps. “And you didn’t even know what you were hiding, did you?”
He leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to the top of one shoulder—just where the tank ended. Then the other.
Tristan didn’t move.
Vincent exhaled hotly against his skin.
His hands moved across those arms—feeling the tension, the strength beneath them—and then glided down to the base of his chest. He didn’t grab. He stroked. Worshipped.
Fingers explored the soft dip where his tank met the curve of his lower pecs, not daring to lift—yet. Then down to the subtle slope of his belly through the shirt.
Vincent’s voice dropped, more raw now.
“I bet you never stood in front of a mirror and touched yourself. Not once. Not even looked at your body the way I’m looking at it right now.”
His hands pressed lightly at Tristan’s waist.
“You’ve been denied so much, baby. And now? Now you’re mine to open.”
He leaned over Tristan’s stomach and kissed the fabric—slow, sensual—just above the waistband.
Tristan’s chest lifted slightly. His body, even silent, was reacting.
He’s feeling it. Even if he doesn’t understand it.
Vincent’s lips curled.
“And this is just the beginning.”
Vincent’s fingers moved with precision.
From the base of Tristan’s shirt, they glided downward—tracing the firm lines of his tank-covered belly. He pressed just lightly, enough to feel the shape beneath. The way the soft stretch of fabric dipped where muscle met bone. He followed that line… then went lower.
Tristan stirred.
It was subtle. A twitch in his thigh. A faint lift of his hips when Vincent’s hands reached the edge of his waistband. His breath had changed, too—shallow, soft, drawn in little, uncertain gasps. No words. Just feeling.
Good, Vincent thought. He’s slipping deeper. Not resisting. Just giving in.
He let both hands rest now—one on Tristan’s lower belly, the other hovering near his hipbone. The warmth of the boy’s body radiated up through the layers of fabric.
“You feel that?” Vincent whispered, voice smooth but firmer now. “The way your body listens to me even when your mind doesn’t know how to speak?”
Tristan blinked slowly, his lips parting, but no words came out. His eyes weren’t focused on anything now—just glowing with soft confusion, faint pleasure, and the haze of sensation.
Vincent leaned down and kissed the tank top just above his navel, letting his lips linger, letting the heat pass through.
“You don’t have to understand. Not right now. Just feel it. That’s all I want.”
His fingers traveled lower still—down to the tops of Tristan’s thighs. He stroked them slowly through the fabric of the khakis, feeling the tension there. Power, tightly coiled. He gave a light squeeze, and Tristan’s hips gave the faintest jerk.
Vincent grinned. There we go.
“So sensitive…” he murmured. “Even through all this cloth. Can you feel how hard your body’s trying to wake up for me?”
He moved inward, grazing the inside of each thigh now. Tristan tensed slightly, his breath catching. Vincent didn’t press further—just circled the edge of it. Deliberate. Teasing. His palm slid up to rest at the seam where leg met hip.
“You were meant to be worshipped,” he said lowly, his lips brushing against the boy’s abdomen through the shirt. “Not punished for wanting to be touched. Not buried in shame.”
Tristan’s thighs flexed beneath his hands. His body didn’t lie—there was no hiding what was happening anymore.
Vincent leaned up just enough to watch the boy’s face. Still dazed. Still breathing faster. His hands clenched faintly at his sides, unsure of what to do.
Vincent reached for his waistband now. Slowly. Calmly.
“Let me take something off for you.”
Tristan’s lashes fluttered.
No response.
But no protest either.
Vincent’s fingers found the belt buckle. He slid the leather free—slowly, deliberately—letting it slither through the loops. The quiet sound of it made Tristan’s stomach jump.
Vincent smiled.
He reached for the button of the khakis next. Held it in place between his thumbs.
“Breathe for me,” he said softly.
Tristan inhaled—shaky. Slow.
That’s it.
The button popped free with a small click.
Vincent’s hand moved to the zipper. He tugged it down—inch by inch—the sound delicate and sharp in the quiet room.
He didn’t open the flap.
He didn’t need to.
Not yet.
He sat back just slightly, eyes roving over the boy now—white tank clinging to his chest, khakis loose at the waist, lips parted, cheeks flushed.
Vincent grinned.
“You don’t even know how good you look like this, do you?”
Tristan’s chest lifted faintly.
Vincent let the silence settle before making his next move. The zipper undone, the waistband relaxed, and still… Tristan lay perfectly still—breathing quietly, lips parted, chest barely rising under the stretched white tank.
He was open now. Vulnerable. Waiting.
Vincent’s hand slipped into the loosened flap of the khakis—not to touch—just to part the fabric. Gently, reverently, he peeled it back just enough to reveal the top curve of white cotton briefs beneath.
And with them—the bulge.
Vincent froze for just a second, taking in the sight.
Well, well, he thought. That’s more than I expected.
The briefs stretched forward with a clear shape—not fully hard, no—but undeniably full, heavy, forming a soft upward curve against the fabric. The outline was visible. Thick at the base, swelling toward the tip. A quiet promise.
Vincent’s lips curled slowly into a grin.
And he doesn’t even know what he’s carrying between his legs.
Locked away by guilt. Suppressed by fear. And look at him now… lying here like a gift just starting to breathe.
“You’ve been hiding this?” Vincent whispered, brushing his knuckles lightly along the outside of one thigh. “All this time?”
No answer. Tristan’s head tilted slightly toward the voice, but he didn’t speak.
Vincent leaned in, letting his voice get firmer now—more commanding, but still warm.
“You were never meant to be locked away, Tristan. Not this body. Not this skin. And certainly not that cock.”
He let that hang in the air as his hands moved lower.
He grasped the khakis at the thighs and began to tug. Slowly. Carefully. Down over his knees, past his calves. Tristan shifted slightly to help—barely—but it was there.
Vincent peeled the pants off completely, folding them neatly and setting them aside like they were no longer part of who Tristan was.
Now, the boy lay in just a white ribbed tank and stretched white briefs. The light played along his exposed skin—thick calves, lean thighs, pale and hair-dusted in all the right places. His cock rested visibly against one hip, pushing outward, not quite fully erect… but getting there.
Vincent let out a quiet breath.
Fuck. This is perfect. He’s perfect.
He knelt again at the foot of the bed.
And this time, he took his time.
Vincent placed a hand gently on one foot. He lifted it, thumb grazing the arch.
“You’ve even been hiding these,” he murmured, brushing the heel with his lips.
He opened his mouth and drew two toes between them, suckling softly, tongue dragging across the sensitive pads. Tristan twitched.
Vincent grinned around the toes.
He likes that.
He moved to the other foot, worshipping the same way—pressing kisses up the curve, licking gently across the skin, his grip firm but cradling.
Then higher.
He kissed along the inner ankle, then slowly moved up to the calves—trailing his lips upward, letting them land in soft patterns against the tight muscle there. He alternated between both legs, taking his time, feeling the boy twitch again when he neared the knees.
So reactive. And he’s not even fully hard yet. This body’s starving for touch.
He reached the thighs now.
Vincent spread them gently, pushing them apart just a few inches wider, just enough to settle between them. He let his hands roam—palms flat, pressing in—feeling the warmth, the strength, the slight tremble under his touch.
The inner thighs were hotter.
Softer.
He kissed there slowly, inch by inch, always getting closer but never quite reaching the bulge. The fabric stretched tighter now. The briefs curved slightly higher.
Vincent’s hands reached the hips.
He rubbed circles there. Admiring. Possessive.
“You were built to be touched,” he whispered. “To be tasted. Worshipped.”
He kissed the hipbones through the briefs. Tristan shifted again. A tiny sound escaped him—a breathy sigh, almost involuntary.
Vincent pulled back just enough to see the shape again—the outline pulsing faintly now.
And he smiled.
“We’re just beginning,” he said softly. “But you’re already giving me everything.”
Vincent hadn’t moved from his spot between Tristan’s thighs for several minutes now. He alternated slow kisses across the boy’s calves and the sensitive, warm stretch of thigh above them—always lingering, never rushing. His hands roamed like they were memorizing a map, squeezing gently, pressing into muscle, then smoothing over the inner edges just until Tristan twitched again.
“You have no idea what your body does to me,” he murmured, voice low and rough now. “Every inch of it.”
He worshipped the skin with his mouth—closer to reverent than lustful. Not because he lacked desire, but because the desire was too strong to rush. He kissed higher, dragged his nose across the crease where thigh met groin. He breathed in.
Then, slowly, he moved up.
Vincent crawled over Tristan’s body, bracing himself above the boy’s chest. He leaned down and pressed a warm kiss to the edge of his right ear. Tristan inhaled softly at the touch—his body frozen beneath him, but not resisting.
“Good boy,” Vincent whispered into the shell of his ear. “You’re doing so good for me.”
He kissed down the side of Tristan’s neck, slow and hot, tasting his skin, his scent. The boy’s pulse fluttered beneath his lips.
Vincent’s hand slid across Tristan’s tank-covered chest, down over his sternum and across his belly, feeling the firmness beneath. He paused at the hem, where the white cotton was slightly bunched above his briefs.
His fingers toyed with it, teasing. “I want to see more of you,” he said. “All of you.”
Tristan blinked slowly. His lips moved faintly but no words came.
Vincent’s voice turned to silk. “Just relax. Let me see what they made you hide.”
He took the hem of the tank top in both hands and slowly—almost painfully slow—peeled it upward. Inch by inch, the skin revealed beneath was like marble brought to life: pale, warm, tight with tension. The tank slid over his chest, then up over his arms, and finally off.
Vincent sat back on his heels.
And froze.
His jaw slackened slightly.
Oh my God…
He had known Tristan was hiding something under all that cloth. But this?
This was divine.
Thick, rounded pecs—juicy, high, and full—quivered faintly as Tristan exhaled. His pink nipples sat softly at the center of each mound, untouched, still slightly puffy. His abs were tight, lined but not harsh—smooth ridges leading down into the V of his hips. A deep, oval bellybutton rested in the middle, and just beneath it, a soft trail of hair led down to the waistband of his briefs. A matching patch rested lightly in the center of his chest. Nowhere else. He felt his own cock, rock hard in his underwear, twitch.
Vincent licked his lips.
I’ve never wanted to kneel for anyone the way I want to kneel for this boy.
His hands went immediately to work.
First, he ran them over the thick biceps again, then over Tristan’s chest. He cupped one pec and gently squeezed. It responded with a soft bounce.
Vincent grinned. “Perfect.”
He kissed one ab. Then another. Then sank lower and kissed just beneath the bellybutton.
“Even this…” he whispered, pressing his lips to the center of it. “You have no idea how much I want to stay right here.”
His hands returned to the chest. He kneaded both pecs slowly, carefully, feeling the weight of them, the tension. Then his thumbs found the nipples.
Tristan stirred.
He gasped—a faint sound—and his back arched just slightly when Vincent pinched.
The nipples hardened.
Vincent groaned under his breath. “Sensitive, huh?”
He leaned down and kissed one, letting his tongue circle softly, then flick. The other nipple stiffened beneath his palm.
Vincent whispered against it, “You like that, don’t you? I can feel your body answering for you.”
Tristan’s chest rose again. His fingers curled against the sheets.
“You’re meant for this, baby. All of this.”
For a while, Vincent played.
He alternated between soft sucks, tongue flicks, and gentle pinching. He praised the boy under his breath.
“So good for me.”
“You were built for worship.”
“This is what you should’ve felt years ago.”
He worked over every inch of the exposed chest and stomach. Tristan lay beneath him—dazed, overwhelmed, flushed—but alive. Trembling. Quietly moaning now.
Then, Vincent glanced down.
And grinned.
The bulge in Tristan’s briefs had grown. No longer thick and half-hard—it was now fully hard. The fabric stretched tight across it, the outline unmistakable. No wetness yet… but the tension was there, the pressure.
Vincent let out a low, satisfied growl.
Beautiful. Thick. And completely untouched.
He placed a hand softly over the bulge. Just enough to feel the heat. The size.
He rubbed gently.
Just once. Then twice.
“Look at you,” he whispered. “You’re giving me everything. Just like that.”
Tristan twitched, hips shifting faintly under the touch.
Vincent let his hand linger… then returned to the chest. The nipples. The abs. The deep navel. His mouth and fingers worshipped every inch again, now knowing what pulsed beneath the briefs.
He’d keep it there.
For now.
Vincent hovered just above Tristan’s hips, his breath warm against the cotton-clad bulge beneath him. The briefs were stretched tight—no longer just hinting at arousal, but holding back a full, pulsing erection that curved along one hip. The fabric trembled with every subtle twitch of Tristan’s thighs.
Vincent exhaled softly, lips brushing over the outline without touching.
How are you this hard and still untouched?
How has no one seen this? Felt this?
How have you never explored this yourself?
He dipped lower, until his nose nuzzled against the waistband, just at the start of that faint trail of hair that vanished below. He breathed in. Musky. Faintly clean. Raw and real.
Vincent spoke low, his voice sliding over Tristan’s skin like smoke.
“No one’s ever touched this body?” he asked. “Not once?”
Tristan didn’t speak. Couldn’t. His lips parted. His eyes fluttered shut. His chest rose, bare and flushed, his nipples still faintly hard.
Vincent let his lips graze the waistband, teasing it with slow breath.
“You’ve never touched yourself?” he murmured again. “Never even wrapped your hand around this beautiful thing and felt what it could do?”
Tristan moaned.
Louder this time.
Vincent grinned.
“God, baby… no one’s ever done this to you. But your body—” he leaned up and pressed a kiss to the base of the trail, just above the briefs, “—it’s screaming to be known.”
He moved slowly up again, tongue tracing the faint patch of hair on Tristan’s chest. It was soft, just enough to tease his senses, just enough to make his worship feel even more intimate. He dragged his tongue lightly through it.
Then up to one nipple—still puffy, still pink—and flicked it again with the tip of his tongue.
Tristan moaned once more. Louder still.
“There it is,” Vincent whispered. “See? It’s not a sin to feel. Not wrong to want.”
He nipped gently at the nipple, then kissed his way across the chest, to the other one. He gave it the same attention—circling, flicking, grazing his teeth lightly—and felt Tristan shudder beneath him.
“Your body wants this,” he whispered against his skin. “It’s always wanted this.”
His hands slid down again, grazing the abs, pressing his palm to the taut plane of muscle before lowering again to the cotton-covered bulge.
Still not touching directly.
But his breath did.
He leaned over it, warm and steady, and whispered against it.
“You’ve kept this hidden. Locked away. Like it was something ugly. Like you were something ugly.”
He kissed the bulge—just once, slow and soft.
“But you’re not,” he said. “You were meant to be admired. Worshipped. Just like this.”
He kissed again, a little lower.
Tristan’s hips arched faintly.
Vincent returned to the thighs, trailing his tongue across the inside, then down the curve toward the knee. His mouth explored slowly, lips tasting every inch of skin. He kissed the calves again. Then down to the feet—licking across the arch, sucking on two toes, hearing the gasp it pulled from Tristan’s lips.
Then slowly, he made his way back up.
Abs. Chest. Nipples again.
Each time he returned, Tristan’s moans were louder, less restrained. The daze hadn’t faded—but now, his body was engaged.
Alive.
And then Vincent saw it.
A small, dark spot had bloomed at the front of the white briefs. Barely there… but visible.
He froze.
And grinned.
“Well, well,” he whispered, letting a single fingertip brush the wet patch gently.
Tristan whimpered.
Vincent leaned in, kissed the spot softly through the fabric, and whispered against it, “Nothing to be ashamed of, baby.”
He looked up, eyes burning, voice low and reverent.
“That just means your body’s finally getting what it’s needed… for a long, long time.”
Vincent’s mouth was warm against Tristan’s chest—his tongue now familiar with the soft give of his nipples, the way they reacted under pressure. He alternated between the two, licking, flicking, then pinching gently between his fingers until they responded in full.
They hardened, slowly at first, then completely—tight little buds, flushed pink atop the heavy swell of his pecs.
Vincent hummed in approval.
“There it is,” he whispered. “So responsive. Like they’ve been waiting their whole life to be touched.”
Tristan gave a quiet, shuddering moan in response—his head tilted back, lips parted, breath shaky but steady.
Vincent flicked one nipple again and watched the ripple of sensation shiver down Tristan’s torso.
“You like that, don’t you?”
Tristan’s sound was barely audible, but he moaned.
Vincent grinned. “Good boy.”
He moved down, trailing kisses along the abs—still hard, still warm—and back to the trail of hair beneath the bellybutton. The briefs stretched tight now. The full bulge strained visibly upward, throbbing beneath the thin cotton, the small wet patch from before now visibly darker.
Vincent hovered above it, watching it twitch slightly.
“Look at that,” he whispered, fingers brushing gently along the growing dampness. “You’ve barely been touched… and your body’s already dripping for me.”
Tristan whimpered.
Vincent cupped the bulge through the fabric—slowly, carefully. He began to stroke, light pressure at first, dragging his palm from base to tip. He could feel the full length now. Thick. Long. Hot.
He pressed his fingers to the underside, teasing along the shape of Tristan’s shaft. Then lower—he gently rolled the boy’s balls through the fabric.
His voice dropped to a low growl. “Mmm… so full…”
Tristan gasped—his back arched suddenly off the bed.
Vincent pressed his free hand to the boy’s chest, calming him with a firm stroke as he leaned in close.
“Yes, baby,” he murmured in his ear. “Let me hear it.”
Tristan moaned louder this time, hips rocking up into Vincent’s palm. His face was flushed, body shining faintly with heat and tension.
Vincent kept stroking. Slow, full motions from base to tip. The damp spot on the briefs grew.
A darker smear now.
He grinned against Tristan’s throat.
“See how good that feels? This isn’t wrong. This is you, baby. Finally free. Finally touched the way you were meant to be.”
He slid his hand up over the head through the soaked fabric and rubbed in slow, lazy circles. Tristan bucked again, thighs trembling.
Another moan—louder, desperate.
Vincent leaned back to watch.
The boy was gorgeous like this. Arching. Eyes glazed. Hands gripping the sheets. His briefs soaked darker now at the tip.
So close.
Vincent narrowed his eyes. He felt it—that edge.
And then—he stopped.
Completely.
His hand lifted away from the briefs. He leaned back.
Tristan cried out—a soft, broken noise as his hips twitched up into nothing.
Vincent grinned.
“Not yet.”
He let his eyes roam over the boy’s squirming body—muscles flexing, chest heaving, cock straining under damp cotton—and licked his lips slowly.
“Good boys don’t get to finish until they’re told.”
Tristan’s hips wouldn’t stop moving.
Even after Vincent’s hand had pulled away, the boy’s body kept lifting—searching, grinding gently into the air, into the bedsheets, desperate for friction that wasn’t there.
His soaked briefs clung to him now, the outline of his cock dark and prominent, the head pulsing beneath the fabric, glistening faintly at the tip.
Vincent just watched.
He knelt beside the boy’s waist, licking his bottom lip slowly as he stared down at what he’d built.
“Look at you,” he whispered. “You’re aching, aren’t you?”
Tristan moaned softly in reply. His head rolled to the side. He looked dazed. Wild in the softest, most helpless way.
Vincent’s hand slid down again—palm landing gently on the twitching bulge.
Tristan gasped.
Vincent began stroking him once more. Not fast. Not with enough pressure to finish. Just enough to stir everything up again.
The boy arched, moaning.
“God, you feel so good like this,” Vincent murmured, pressing his lips against Tristan’s stomach. “So hard. So full.”
He rolled his palm over the head, massaging the thick shaft through the cotton, spreading the wetness a little.
“You’ve never even felt this before, have you?” Vincent asked. “Not from yourself. Not from anyone.”
Tristan shook his head faintly. “N-no…”
Vincent grinned. “Of course not. And now look what just a few fingers can do to you.”
He gave another long, slow stroke—firm this time. Tristan’s entire body jerked.
Another moan escaped.
Vincent leaned over and kissed the bulge—open-mouthed, hot breath soaking into the cotton, lips teasing the soaked tip.
“You’re leaking for me,” he whispered. “And I haven’t even seen it yet.”
Tristan whimpered.
Then… the hand lifted again.
Gone.
Vincent sat back on his heels and smiled.
Tristan’s hands clenched in the sheets again. His thighs pressed together, then opened in desperation.
Tristan moaned, voice cracking.
Vincent leaned forward, tracing a fingertip up the center of the boy’s abs.
“No, baby,” he said softly. “Not yet.”
He moved up Tristan’s body again, sliding both hands across his chest—over those full, warm pecs, until his thumbs brushed the hard nipples once more.
Vincent watched them—stiff, begging for attention—and pinched.
Tristan moaned louder.
Vincent leaned close, kissing one, then suckling, then biting just hard enough to make the boy shiver.
“This,” he whispered against the swollen nipple, “is control.”
He moved to the other side, worshipping it the same way.
“This is what it means to feel. Not just release. Build.”
He kissed down the center of his chest, then back up to his throat, his cheek, his ear.
“I could make you cum in seconds if I wanted to,” he breathed. “But I’m not going to.”
Tristan moaned—frustrated, needy.
Vincent chuckled darkly.
“Because this is what I love,” he said. “The need. The way your body begs. You have no idea how beautiful that is to me.”
He licked softly at his neck.
“Let it build, baby. Let it grow. You’re learning now what it means to want something so bad it hurts.”
He kissed his way back down again. Over the chest. Past the abs.
He hovered just above the briefs—watching that cock throb under the cotton, swollen and angry.
Vincent’s voice lowered, husky, almost reverent.
“And I promise you… the longer you wait, the better it will feel.” Vincent grinned wickedly.
Tristan's skin burned.
He could barely think, barely breathe. His cock was a constant, aching throb—stuffed into briefs that now clung wetly to his length, the fabric dark with slick tension. Every inch of his body felt primed and tuned for touch. His nipples stood stiff atop his full pecs, his abs twitched under every breath, and his hands couldn’t stop gripping the sheets like they were the only thing tethering him to reality.
Vincent was between his thighs again, kneeling like a man in prayer.
And right now, Tristan was the altar.
“Your body,” Vincent murmured, dragging his fingers up the boy’s thighs, “was made for this.”
Tristan moaned—loud now, needy.
Vincent leaned in, pressing a long, slow kiss to the wet patch on his briefs. The heat of it bled into Tristan’s cock. His hips bucked.
“Still leaking,” Vincent whispered. “Still begging.”
He began grinding slowly—his palm pressed against Tristan’s bulge, rubbing it in slow, deliberate circles, his body now just close enough that the pressure became maddening. He let the weight of his own crotch settle near Tristan’s knee, just enough to add heat. Not contact. Not fully.
Tristan whimpered and squirmed. He moaned louder.
Vincent grinned.
“There’s my good boy. Make that noise for me.” He said darkly. “That’s what I want to hear.”
He stroked again—long, steady pressure from base to tip. Then back down. He cupped Tristan’s balls again through the briefs, rolling them softly.
“So full, baby. You need this, don’t you?”
Tristan gasped. Moaned louder.
Vincent leaned over him now, both hands on his thighs, grinding his palm directly against the cock again—slow, insistent pressure. Tristan arched, his legs lifting slightly, his whole body tight and shaking.
He was so close.
Vincent felt it. Heard it in his breath. Saw it in the way his body twitched.
He leaned down, mouth close to Tristan’s ear.
“Not yet.”
He pulled away.
Completely.
Tristan cried out, hips thrusting up into nothing—his whole body trembling, cock throbbing violently in his soaked briefs, the pressure unbearable.
Vincent kissed his chest again. Light now. Soft. Like nothing had happened.
He trailed fingers over the curve of a pec, then over a hard nipple. Kissed his way back to the abs. No more stroking. Just touch. Featherlight. Loving. Cruel.
“Such a good boy,” he murmured. “Learning what it means to need. To wait.”
Tristan moaned again—frustrated, ruined, still painfully hard.
Vincent smiled.
And then—two sharp knocks at the door.
Vincent froze.
Vincent’s head turned.
Another knock.
Then silence.
