The tailor shop, Giovanni's, was tucked away in a quiet corner of the upscale shopping district. It was a place of hushed tones, dark wood paneling, and the scent of expensive wool and espresso. It was the kind of place where men like Damon Blackwood had been getting their suits made for decades.
Damon sat in a tufted leather armchair, a cup of black coffee in his hand, watching.
Leo stood on the low circular podium in the center of the room. He was surrounded by three mirrors, multiplying his image. He had stripped down to his dress shirt and slacks, standing with his arms slightly raised as the tailor—an elderly man named Mr. Giovanni with spectacles perched on his nose—circled him with a yellow tape measure.
"Thirty-six chest," Mr. Giovanni muttered, scribbling in a notebook. "Very slim. We will need to take the jacket in at the waist to avoid boxiness."
Leo caught Damon's eye in the center mirror. He winked.
Damon took a sip of coffee to hide his expression. He felt like a predator lying in wait. Seeing Leo on display like this—chin lifted, body still, being assessed and handled—was doing things to Damon's blood pressure that his doctor wouldn't approve of.
"Shoulders are narrow but straight," the tailor continued, moving the tape across Leo's back. "Stand still, please, Mr. Sterling."
"Sorry," Leo said, his voice light. "I'm just excited. I've never had a custom suit before."
"It is an investment," Giovanni said seriously. He moved around to the front. "Now, the inseam."
Damon's hand tightened around the ceramic cup.
The tailor knelt on one knee in front of Leo. He took the end of the tape measure and placed it against the inside of Leo's ankle. Slowly, methodically, he ran the tape up the inside of Leo's leg, moving higher toward the junction of his thighs.
Leo didn't move. He looked down at the man, then looked up at the mirror, locking eyes with Damon's reflection.
Leo's lips parted slightly. His gaze was heavy, hooded. He wasn't looking at the tailor; he was looking at Damon watching the tailor.
'He's enjoying this,' Damon realized, a dark flush heating his neck. 'He likes that I'm watching another man touch him.'
The tailor's hand moved higher, dangerously close to Leo's crotch to get the accurate measurement.
Damon stood up abruptly. The movement was sudden enough that the coffee in his cup sloshed over the rim.
"That's enough, Giovanni," Damon barked.
The tailor froze, looking back over his shoulder. "Signore Blackwood? I must ensure the break of the trouser is correct."
"I know how a suit fits," Damon said, walking over to the podium. He set his cup down on a side table with a sharp clack. "He prefers a modern cut. No break. Stop at the ankle. You don't need to go that high."
Giovanni blinked, sensing the sudden, aggressive shift in the room's atmosphere. He stood up quickly, dusting off his knees. "Of course. No break. Modern cut."
"Let me check the jacket," Damon commanded.
He grabbed a sample jacket—a midnight blue velvet that Helen had suggested—off the rack. He stepped up onto the podium, crowding Leo's space.
"Arms back," Damon murmured.
Leo complied, slipping his arms into the sleeves Damon held out. Damon pulled the jacket up, settling it onto Leo's shoulders. He moved around to the front, buttoning the single button.
He didn't step away.
He stood directly in front of Leo, his large frame blocking out the rest of the shop. He reached out, gripping the lapels of the jacket, giving them a sharp tug to straighten them.
"It's loose," Damon criticized, though the fit was actually quite good. "Here."
He slid his hands down from the lapels to Leo's waist. He gripped the fabric—and the boy beneath it—cinching it tight.
"It needs to be taken in here," Damon said, his voice dropping to a rumble. "It needs to fit him like a second skin."
Leo's breath hitched. He looked up at Damon, his eyes wide and dilated.
"Is that how you want it, Sir?" Leo whispered. "Tight?"
"Yes," Damon rasped.
In the mirror, the contrast was striking. Damon in his dark, imposing business suit, his large hands nearly spanning Leo's entire waist. Leo in the velvet jacket, looking small, pale, and thoroughly owned.
Damon's thumbs pressed into Leo's ribs, just hard enough to leave a phantom sensation.
"Do you like the blue, Leo?" Damon asked, staring at the boy's mouth.
"I love it," Leo breathed. "It feels... expensive."
"It is."
Damon finally released him, stepping down from the podium. He looked at the tailor, who was studiously looking at his notebook, pretending not to notice the thick, suffocating tension in the room.
"We'll take the midnight blue velvet," Damon said. "And I want it expedited. We need it for next Saturday."
"Of course, Mr. Blackwood. I will put a rush on it."
Leo slipped the jacket off, handing it to Giovanni. He began to button his shirt back up, his fingers fumbling slightly. He looked flushed, exhilarated.
They walked out of the shop ten minutes later, Damon's credit card significantly lighter. The fresh air did little to cool the heat between them.
"You were scary in there," Leo said as they walked toward the car. He sounded delighted.
"The man was taking too long," Damon muttered, putting his sunglasses on to hide his eyes.
"He was just doing his job," Leo teased. He bumped his shoulder against Damon's arm. "You didn't like his hands on me."
Damon stopped walking. He turned to Leo right there on the sidewalk.
"No," Damon admitted, his voice low and dangerous. "I didn't."
Leo shivered, a genuine tremor running through him. He took a step closer, lowering his voice so the passersby couldn't hear.
"Don't worry, Damon," Leo whispered. "I was imagining they were your hands the whole time."
Damon clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to drag the boy into the nearest alley.
"Get in the car, Leo," Damon ordered.
"Yes, Sir."
Leo hopped into the passenger seat, clutching the receipt for his new tuxedo like a love letter.