Chapter 1: The Penthouse Claim
The glass was cold against his cheek. Michael could feel the entire city humming beneath them, a grid of light and noise that meant nothing now. Nathan’s body was a solid wall of heat at his back, pinning him, one broad hand splayed against the window beside Michael’s head.
“Look at it,” Nathan’s voice was low, a gravelly whisper right against his ear. His breath smelled of expensive whiskey. “All those people down there. They think they know you.”
Michael’s eyes were unfocused, watching the red taillights bleed into streaks on the freeway. He was trembling, a fine, constant shake that started deep in his core. The sequined jacket, a relic from the ride over, felt ridiculous now, constricting. Nathan’s other hand came up, fingers threading harshly into his perm, fisting tight.
A sharp gasp escaped Michael’s lips. It wasn’t pain, not really. It was a signal.
“They’ve got your posters on their walls,” Nathan continued, conversational, as if they were discussing the weather. He tugged the head in his grip just enough to make the point. Michael’s spine arched, pressing himself back against the solid denim and muscle behind him. “They scream your name. They dream about you.” He leaned in, his mouth almost touching the shell of Michael’s ear. “They have no idea what you really are.”
“Nathan—” Michael’s voice was thin, wrecked already.
“What?” Nathan pulled back slightly, just to look at their reflection in the dark window. Michael’s face, flushed and wanton, his own expression cool and assessing. “You gonna tell me to stop? You gonna use that famous voice of yours and tell me no?”
Michael’s eyes slammed shut. He shook his head, a minute movement hindered by the grip in his hair.
“Didn’t think so.” Nathan released his hair abruptly. Michael whimpered at the loss of contact, but Nathan was already moving. His hands went to Michael’s hips, spinning him around roughly so his back hit the glass. The city sprawled behind him, a crown he wasn’t wearing now.
Nathan looked him up and down, a slow, deliberate scan that felt more invasive than any touch. He reached out and flicked open a button on the sequined jacket. Then another. “This is a costume,” he said, peeling it back from Michael’s shoulders. It slid down his arms and pooled on the floor with a sad, glittery rustle. “This is what they pay for.”
His knuckles brushed the thin cotton of the t-shirt underneath. Michael was breathing too fast, his chest rising and falling in shallow hitches.
“I’m not paying,” Nathan said flatly. His hand smoothed down Michael’s chest, over the flat plane of his stomach, coming to rest on the ornate belt buckle. “So I don’t want the costume. I want what’s underneath it. The thing that gets off on being watched but is terrified of being seen.” He leaned in, bracing his hands on the glass on either side of Michael’s head, caging him. “The filthy secret.”
The word filthy seemed to vibrate in the air between them. Michael’s lips parted, his head tipping back against the window with a soft thunk. He was hard, the pressure against his zipper urgent and undeniable.
“See?” Nathan murmured, a trace of a smile touching his mouth. It wasn’t kind. “You love it when I talk to you like that. King of Pop. You’re just king of nothing right now, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” The word was a rush of air, a confession.
Nathan’s hand came up, cupping his jaw, his thumb pressing against Michael’s bottom lip. “You’re mine tonight. Every part of you. That famous smile? Mine. Those dance moves? Mine. That voice?” His thumb pushed inward, and Michael’s mouth opened obediently. “Especially that voice. You’re going to use it to beg me for things you’d never say out loud.”
He stepped back, taking his heat with him. The sudden space felt like a vacuum. Michael swayed, his eyes wide and glued to Nathan, who just stood there watching him fall apart from three feet away.
“Come here,” Nathan said, his tone shifting into casual command. He walked toward the sprawling leather sofa, not checking to see if he was followed.
Michael pushed himself off the window, his legs unsteady. He followed, the plush carpet silent under his feet. Nathan sat down, spreading his arms along the back of the sofa, looking utterly at ease. He nodded at the space on the floor between his boots.
Understanding washed over Michael, hot and shameful. It coiled in his gut, tight and perfect. He sank down, his knees hitting the carpet. The position was obscenely low, putting his eye level with Nathan’s belt. The bass from some distant club thudded up through the building, a heartbeat.
Nathan didn’t touch him. He just looked down, studying him like a piece of complex, broken art. “You’re used to people touching you,” he observed. “Fans, dancers, stylists. All those hands. Must get noisy in that head of yours.”
Michael nodded, silent.
“I’m going to make it quiet,” Nathan said. He finally moved, one hand coming down to cradle the side of Michael’s face. The gesture was almost tender, until his fingers tightened, tilting his head back, forcing his gaze upward. “I’m going to give you one thing to think about. One thing to feel. Me. You understand?”
“I understand.” Michael’s voice was barely audible.
“Good.” Nathan’s other hand went to his own belt buckle. The click of it releasing was deafening in the hushed room. “Now show me how bad you want it. Show me what that pretty mouth is really for.”
The air left Michael’s lungs in a shaky rush. He didn’t hesitate. There was no performance here, no practiced grace. It was all clumsy, desperate hunger, a shedding of every pretense. As he leaned forward, the last coherent thought flickered and died. The city glittered, indifferent, behind the glass. Up here, in the silent penthouse, the only world that mattered was the space between this man’s hands, and Michael plunged into it willingly, eager to be ruined.