Ambrose walked and paused in front of the man. His gaze sharp as he tried to studied him.
But Ambrose disliked wasting time. With a swift motion, he pulled the ribbon holding his shirt together.
That was when the man finally moved. He caught Ambrose's slender arm, his grip firm yet unhurried, and slowly brushed his thumb over the skin.
With a slight tug Ambrose found himself seated in his lap. No sooner had he settled when he felt something soft slowly brush against his neck.
"Aren't you afraid? I might bite hard," the man's voice dripped with honey and venom.
Ambrose tilted his chin, feigning indifference. "Then bite as hard as you like, Mr. Gloves. You promised to show me what I lack."
A hum. A smirk. "Did I?"
He barely had time to react before the man leaned in, catching his lips in a crushing kiss.
The kiss was everything and nothing like Ambrose expected. Wet, unfamiliar, strange, even, like the man himself. And yet, he absorbed it, piece by piece, sensation by sensation, as if committing a lesson to memory.
Then, suddenly, he gasped. A touch, fingers, deliberate and searching, pressed against his back.
Ambrose had never given much thought to his back before. It was just skin, just another part of him. Never had he imagined that the mere brush of fingers there could feel like this. Like heat curling at the base of his spine, like a whispered secret meant only for him.
It tickled at first, a shiver rising unbidden, his muscles tensing in response. He almost flinched, caught between the urge to escape and the strange, unfamiliar pull to stay. To chase that touch and see where it led.
But Mr. Gloves was in no hurry. His fingertips, light and teasing, drew slow patterns along Ambrose's spine, dragging sensation behind them like ink on paper. What started as a mere tickle sharpened into something deeper, something that burned in the best way.
Then, just like that, the touch changed.
A shift, fingers pressing more firmly, skimming lower. The warmth coiled, sparking at the base of his stomach before spreading like liquid fire down his legs, curling all the way to the tips of his toes.
Ambrose exhaled sharply, his fingers digging into Mr. Gloves's shoulders as a slow, aching realization settled in:
So this is what it's like.
"Focus." The man's voice was low, amused, testing.
Ambrose's hands tightened on his shoulders, his own restraint slipping faster than he liked.
"If this is supposed to be a lesson," the man murmured against his lips, "then prove to me you're learning."
Ambrose exhaled sharply, his fingers moving before his mind could catch up. He reached, tugging at Mr. Gloves's shirt, fumbling at first, then surer, steadier.
The fabric gave way, revealing broad muscles, the jagged white scar slashing across the man's chest. A remnant of something violent, something long past.
Ambrose dragged his fingers over the edge of it, slow, thoughtful.
For the first time, Ambrose blushed. He lifted his gaze against his patron.
"You really are a man, Mr. Gloves. I bet many envies you, and the rest wish to make you their lover," he said, meaning it.
The man watched him carefully. A flicker of something unreadable passed through those dark eyes before he lifted the corner of his lips, brief, fleeting.
"Is that all?"
Ambrose's stomach twisted.
A moment too late, he understood.
He had spoken too earnestly, let too much slip. Not as a bookkeeper, not as someone who had perfected the art of measured flattery, but as himself. And that was dangerous.
His fingers curled slightly, retreating from the scar he had traced just moments ago.
He thought fast, scrambling for control, before remembering his position. He was the one meant to provide entertainment, not the other way around.
And yet, as he tried to summon the easy charm he was known for, he found himself fumbling.
He knew how to play the game. He understood the rules.
Ambrose steadied himself, inhaled slow. Then tilted his chin upward, in offering.
His voice was smooth when he spoke, the deliberate kind of practiced, even as his pulse betrayed him.
"Please teach me how to kiss like that, Mr. Gloves."
A pause.
A long, considering pause.
Mr. Gloves let out a slow hum, eyes flickering with something amused, something knowing. He shifted his weight, and in a blink, Ambrose felt a firm hand at the curve of his jaw, tilting his face just so.
"Better," the man murmured, his lips barely a breath away. "You learn quickly."
Then, without another word, he kissed him again.
Ambrose had expected it. Anticipated it, even. He thought he was prepared.
But this, this was not like before.
The kiss was deeper, heavier, carrying the weight of something far beyond. It pulled at something in him. Unraveling, demanding, stealing breath before he could even catch it.
His stomach felt taut, heat curling in tight spirals beneath his ribs, sinking low, lower. Until his whole body tingled, as if every nerve had been set alight.
It was overwhelming. Too much. But not enough.
Mr. Gloves kissed like he knew exactly what Ambrose was feeling, like he was deliberately feeding it. Guiding him toward something Ambrose didn't fully understand yet, but was quickly coming to crave.
A shiver ripped through him when he felt it. The press of fingers against his waist, slow, purposeful, tracing the edge of fabric as if testing his limits.
Ambrose inhaled sharply, his grip tightening over broad shoulders. He was learning. He was learning.
But right now, he felt like the one being undone.
Ambrose didn't want to admit it.
Didn't want to admit how easily he was unraveling under Mr. Gloves's kiss. How his breath shuddered in his throat, how his fingers dug into broad shoulders just to ground himself.
So he moved. Fast.
His hand darted down, fingers clumsily brushing over fabric, pressing against the heat beneath. Bold. Reckless.
He barely knew what he was doing, only that he had to do something, anything, to take control back.
But he miscalculated.
The moment his palm pressed firm onto Mr. Gloves's bulge, the man exhaled, sharp, amused. Then came a chuckle, low and rich, vibrating through his chest like a quiet rumble of thunder.
Ambrose stiffened. His body knew what it wanted before his mind could catch up. But his mind… his mind was scrambling. Frantic.
Had he gone too fast? Was this too soon? Was this even how it was done?
His fingers twitched, uncertain. He had never handled their patrons like this.
Never touched. Never reached.
And for the first time since this began, Ambrose realized…
He was the one losing.
"You have to take them out. Both of them," the man suggested. He decided to take mercy on the poor boy.
Carefully, Ambrose tugged at the string fastening the man's pants before loosening his own.
It was a bit embarrassing, letting someone else see his private. It was nothing like Mr. Gloves's. Sturdier, colored darker and big even before fully erect.
How many times did he… until it turn into pretty plum shade?
So fascinating on how different they could be. The difference in experience spoke volumes, another reason for Ambrose to hide his inexperience.
"Here," the man said, guiding Ambrose's hand around their member together. He was deftly lathering the surface with fragrant oil provided in the room.
Coating them in slick oil, ensuring each stroke glided effortlessly, Mr. Gloves let Ambrose explore at his own pace.
So, he did. His hands wandering, testing, searching. Gauging where the man responded best while also discovering what felt right to him.
But Mr. Gloves remained maddeningly composed. Too calm. Too unaffected.
Ambrose didn't like it.
His brows furrowed as he adjusted his grip, changing the pace with deliberate intent. Faster. Tighter. Testing his control.
At times, the sensation was nearly too much. His own breath hitching as he fought to keep steady, closing his eyes when the heat coiled too tight in his stomach.
"This is how you handle it," Mr. Gloves whispered. Voice low, rough-edged with something unreadable.
Then, the motion.
Ambrose had expected a subtle shift, an adjustment in grip or pace. He hadn't braced for both.
The sudden, merciless combination sent his nerves reeling. His thighs trembling as white-hot pleasure streaked through his veins. His spine arched, breath choking on a sound that never fully formed. His body reduced to sensation, to heat, to the relentless press and pull of movement.
It was overwhelming.
Too much, too fast.
And yet, it wasn't enough.
The pleasure coiled, higher, sharper, curling tighter and tighter until it snapped.
His body shuddered, a ragged gasp tearing from his lips as he spilled between them, his mind dissolving into static.
White.
Blinding.
Absolute.
Before he could even begin to process it, a firm hand grasped his jaw, dragging him back in.
The kiss was different this time. Hungrier.
There was no patience, no testing the waters. Only raw, devastating demand.
It stole the air from his lungs.
It set his nerves on fire.
Ambrose's fingers tightened against muscle, a desperate hold on something solid, something real. But before he could melt into it completely, before he could chase it further,
It was gone.
The loss hit him like a shock of cold air.
His lips parted, breath uneven, eyes dazed with the aftershocks still singing through his body.
He blinked, struggling to clear the haze, and frustration curled in his chest like a smoldering ember.
No.
Not yet.
He wasn't done.
He wanted to know more…
"Have you prepared yourself down there?" The man's voice was lower now, edged with impatience. His hand moved, stroking along Ambrose's thighs, assessing, teasing.
Ambrose caught the movement, the subtle tension in Mr. Gloves's fingers, and felt an unexpected satisfaction at knowing he had unsettled him. Even if just a little. But a heavy drowsiness pulled at him, slowing his thoughts.
"I have," he answered, tilting his chin up lethargicly. "But I'm not sure if it'll be enough."
The man hummed, amusement flickering across his face. "Then we have to check."
Before Ambrose could react, the man shifted. Rising to his feet in one fluid motion, lifting Ambrose with him as if he weighed nothing.
The sudden change in position had Ambrose instinctively gripping the man's shoulders again, holding on as firm steps carried them toward the bed.
His pulse quickened, but whether from anticipation or something deeper, he couldn't tell.
All he knew was that he wanted to see how far this lesson would take him.
. . .
The mattress dipped beneath him as Mr. Gloves settled between his legs, his touch gliding lower, deliberate and assessing.
Ambrose barely had time to catch his breath before skilled fingers pressed against his back entrance. Testing, gauging.
His body tensed.
The unfamiliar sensation sent a jolt through him, something too uncertain.
Mr. Gloves noticed.
Of course, he did. His fingers stilled. A beat of silence stretched between them, weighted, expectant.
Then, just as quickly, the tension broke. A soft chuckle, warm lips brushing against Ambrose's temple.
"Not tonight," the man murmured, his voice edged with amusement as he pressed a lingering kiss to Ambrose's forehead. "We'll try later."
Then, without another word, he dressed and left, disappearing into the night.
Only when the door clicked shut did Ambrose let himself breathe. His body, still thrumming from the warmth of Mr. Gloves' hands, finally relaxed.
Sleep took him in an instant. Filled with dreams of lingering touches and a voice whispering promises he wasn't sure were real.
Since then, Ambrose took better care of himself. He told himself it was simply routine. Preparing for Mr. Gloves' next visit, ensuring that when the time came, he would be ready.
But instead of Mr. Gloves...
Someone else came.
A different man, bold, playful, and entirely too comfortable in his presence, leaned in close. Teasing him with sharp smiles and words that left his skin prickling. Flirtation dripped from his voice, a deliberate contrast to the quiet intensity Ambrose had grown used to.
And yet, Mr. Gloves was nowhere to be found.
With his heart quietly crumbling, he learned.
What it meant to be wanted.
What it meant to give… without ever truly giving.
How to surrender… without ever losing control.
He was never theirs.
Not really.
But they never had to know that.
.
.
.
.