Everyone has one.
The desperate ones just have more to choose from.
Finally, I drop the boxers and walk into the bathroom. The tiles are cold against my bare feet, a stark reminder of my nakedness. I flick on the light, squinting against the sudden brightness reflecting off the marble surfaces.
This bathroom, like everything else in the apartment, speaks of money without personality—all function and luxury, nothing that reveals who I am beyond what I can afford.
Black matte double sinks blend in with the soapstone counter like shadows merging with night. They’re sleek, understated luxury—the kind that doesn’t announce itself but expects to be noticed anyway. I run my fingertips along the smooth edge where sink meets stone, appreciating the seamless transition, the careful attention to detail that most people would never consciously register but would feel, nonetheless.
Then I stare at myself in the mirror. Wondering how the girl—Emmaleen—sees me. I’m not vain, but I know what I look like to most people: intimidating, controlled, a man who commands rooms without trying.
But what does she see? The careful suit, the practiced stillness, or something beneath that?
It’s strange to suddenly care what someone might think when they look at me—not what theyshouldthink, which I’ve always calculated precisely, but what they actually do.
People see what I allow them to see: the power, the control, the threat beneath the polished exterior. I’ve spent years perfecting that image, crafting it as meticulously as my tailored suits.
How would she see me if I allowed the facade to fall away?
If I revealed not the carefully constructed version I present to the world, but the man beneath—the one with scars deeper than this one Marco gave me, with thoughts I’ve never voiced aloud.
Will she glimpse the calculated precision with which I move through life, or sense the restlessness that keeps me awake when my mind slows down?
Or will she just see what everyone else does?
Giovanni Bavga.
Gangster from the day he was born. Poor kid never had a chance.
Power wrapped in expensive fabric, danger disguised as civility.
She’ll see you naked, Giovanni, the voice whispers in my head.That’s how she’ll see you because that’s what this job offer’s about.
You want to put her on her knees, watch her eyes trace over your broad shoulders, follow the cut muscles of your abs, and then land where attention belongs. On your dick.
You know that’s why you’re doing this.
You want her.
Not the blonde choking on Ricky’s cock. Not the redhead humping his leg. Not the brunette getting Dom’s ten-inch punishment.
Her.
I start the shower, thinking, thinking,thinking…
And by the time the steam is swirling up near the ceiling, I’ve got a plan.
It’s the perfect set up for a green-eyed girl with a chip on her shoulder.
It even came with a hint. Dropped innocently, but still. Looking back, she’ll see it.
Then she’ll know.
I jerk off thinking about her face when it hits her.
Leaning one hand flat against the marble tiled wall while the other one pumps my cock.
I come to the fantasy of her eyes locked on mine.