Nikolaus #2
His eyes flicker from my face, to the room, to his own body—where he’s sprawled out on the sheets, hoodie bunched under his chin, sweatpants halfway down his thighs, and those powder-blue briefs clinging so snugly across his hips I can see the faint outline of his cock straining against the soft fabric.
The flush that rises to his cheeks is nearly instantaneous.
He tries to curl his legs up, but I hold his ankle in place, gentle but immovable.
“Shh, shh. You’re safe, Charlie. You’re not in trouble.”
He goes rigid anyway, a tremor running through his entire body. “Wh—what are you…” His voice is so hoarse it sounds like it’s been left out in the rain. “Where…”
“The Ritz-Carlton, baby,” I tell him, keeping my voice soft and smooth, the way you would coax a baby bird down from a branch. “You fell asleep in the car, remember?”
He shakes his head, rapid and wild, eyes darting to the door, to the windows, to the expanse of bed beneath him.
“No,” he croaks, hands scrabbling for purchase on the sheets.
“No, no—I wanna go—” I grip his knee before he can flail off the mattress, and the look he gives me is so sharp and scared that I almost let him go out of sheer surprise.
The little boy from the club is still here, but he’s hiding behind a trembling, twenty-five-year-old mask.
“I want to go home,” he says, and this time the words are thick and wet, like he’s already halfway to crying.
I move as slowly and carefully as I can, so he can see my hands. “We’ll be home tomorrow. You don’t need to be scared, sweetheart.”
He backs himself flat against the headboard, his hoodie rucked up nearly to his armpits, his legs spread by my hands just enough that in any other context he would be blushing for a different reason. He’s blushing now, though his shame is drowned out by acute terror.
“I want to go home,” he whispers again, and his voice is so childlike and thin it nearly undoes me. “Please.”
I let go of his ankle—showing him that he’s free to move—but he doesn’t. Instead, he goes perfectly still, eyes locked onto my face.
“Charlie,” I say, even gentler now. I sit at the edge of the bed so my weight dips the mattress, but I keep both hands where he can see them.
“You’re safe. I know you’re scared, but nothing bad is going to happen.
I just… …I just want to clean you up a little before you go to sleep.
You’ll feel better in the morning, I promise. Okay?”
He doesn’t answer.
He’s squeezed himself so far into the headboard that his shoulders disappear into the pillows, hands balled into fists on either side.
For a second, I think he’ll fight, and I steel myself for it—I would welcome it, honestly, a little resistance, a little proof of life—but he says nothing.
The only sound is the rough, wet suck of his breathing as he tries to keep the fear inside his chest from leaking out.
I reach for him, and he tries to shrink away, but there’s nowhere to go.
I gather him up in my arms, careful but unyielding, and lift him from the bed.
He doesn’t scream. He barely even whimpers.
His whole body just tenses, rigid as a plank, and the silent tears start up again, streaming down his cheeks in thin, glittering lines.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think it hurt him more not to fight.
I hold him for a moment, his arms pinned between us, and wait for the shuddering to ease. When I’m sure he won’t try to claw my face off, I walk him into the bathroom.
It’s a proper king’s bath—marble, glass, chrome, and heated floors.
A freestanding tub the size of a baptismal font, rimmed by a pair of plush towels and every soap and lotion the hotel could imagine.
The lights are soft, indirect, casting everything in a golden haze.
I set him down on the small settee and crouch to his level, careful not to loom.
He will not look at me, so I focus on his hands.
I take them gently, one at a time, and check for tremors.
He’s shaking, but not out of anger. It’s fear, plain as day.
It makes me want to shush and soothe him, but I know if I crowd him now, it’ll only snap the last of his self-control.
Instead, I busy myself with the tub—turning the dial, testing the water, letting the space fill up with steam and the faintest whiff of honeysuckle bath oil.
Charlie sits where I placed him, gaze locked unblinking on the marble floor tiles.
His sweatpants have slipped to his ankles in our transit, showing off more of those pale, downy thighs, the blue briefs stretched tight across the curve of him.
His hands remain balled in his lap, white-knuckled, as if the only thing holding him together is the tension in his fingers.
I kneel in front of him and slowly reach for his sweatpants.
He jerks away. “Don’t—”
He kicks at me, a wild, instinctive rabbit thump that glances off my thigh before I clamp his legs together at the knee.
It’s the only fight he’s shown me yet, and it thrills me.
If I hadn’t been ready, he could have cracked my kneecap.
I let him struggle, let him hiss and try to twist away, even as his hands flutter up to block my progress.
His voice comes out raw, more animal than man, “Don’t touch me, you—!
” He bites down on the word, lips white and trembling.
He looks up, finally, and I see the hate in his eyes.
It’s a childish, panicked hate, the kind that can only last as long as his terror outweighs his exhaustion. I want to bottle it.
I catch his wrists easily in one hand, pinning them to his chest. With my other hand, I hook the waistband of his underwear and tug gently, not enough to rough the skin or leave a mark, but enough to show that it’s happening on my terms.
He twists his wrists, trying to break my grip, but he may as well be wrestling handcuffs. This only frustrates him further; the next kick is less focused and more desperate, heel scraping along my thigh.
“Let me go,” he snaps, his breath stuttering with each word.
I just shake my head, patient as a priest with a squirming penitent. “No, sweetheart. You’ll only end up hurting yourself. I promise, it’ll be easier if you let me do it.”
His jaw works, and I’m almost certain he’s going to try to bite.
Instead, his face crumples in a last-ditch effort to look mean and not terrified.
“You can’t just… just take my clothes off,” he chokes out.
“I am helping you,” I say. The words are simple, as if said to a child, and I wait for him to spit on me, to call me a monster, to do anything but sit there with his lips pressed tight, eyes squeezed shut.
But all the fight seems to leak out as the pants and briefs come away, leaving him naked except for his bunched-up hoodie, his pale thighs quivering from the cold air and the humiliation.
He yanks one hand free of my hold just long enough to try to cover himself, but his palm is too small, the gesture more gesture than shield.
I catch his wrist again and hold both arms together gently at his sternum.
“You’re cold,” I murmur, and I am only partly lying.
The bathroom’s radiant floor keeps the worst of it away, but I know how bare skin can feel under scrutiny, how exposing a body can conjure a chill even in a sauna.
I leave him shivering while I finish drawing the bath, swirling in enough oil to make the water shimmer back gold and blue under the lights.
I reach over and test the warmth with my own hand.
It is perfect, a little too hot for most, but not enough to sting.
When I stand, Charlie stays curled in on himself, hands clamped over his groin, gaze fixed on the side of the tub, spatially aware of me but refusing to make eye contact. The surrender would be touching if it weren’t so bitterly earned.
“Up,” I say, gentle but with a finality that is not to be tested.
He freezes, then uncurls his legs. The motion is unsteady and awkward, as if his limbs have only recently been attached.
He stands, clutching the hem of his hoodie down to cover what little it can, knees wobbling, face set in a blankness I find almost endearing.
The cheeks are still wet, tears tracing down to his jawline before dropping to the hollow of his throat, where they cling like pearls before dropping to the marble below.