The last customer stumbles out of the Horizon Bar, leaving that familiar post-closing quiet that’s become my favorite time of night. I wipe down the counter, stacking glasses while Marco tallies the register. My mind keeps drifting back to Adrian—his confidence, his touch, the way he seemed to read my body like a map he’d memorized years ago.

“You’re different tonight.” Marco’s voice breaks my trance. He leans against the bar, dark eyes studying me. “Three days ago you walked in here like a kid who found the key to the candy store. Now you look… thoughtful.”

I stack the last glass and sigh. “Is it that obvious?”

“To me? Yes.” Marco flips a tumbler in his hand with practiced ease. “So what’s on your mind, beautiful?”

The question hangs between us. I’ve been rehearsing this conversation all day, but now the words stick in my throat.

“I want to learn,” I finally say, meeting his gaze. “Not just how to be touched, but how to touch. How to make someone feel the way…” I trail off, remembering Adrian’s hands on my skin.

Marco’s eyebrow arches. “The way that businessman made you feel?”

Heat rushes to my face. Marco knows me too well. “I’m tired of just being the pretty boy who takes. I want to know how to give. How to drive someone crazy. How to be in control.”

Marco’s lips curl into a slow smile. He reaches across the bar and brushes a strand of hair from my eyes. “And you want me to teach you?”

“Who better?” I lean into his touch. “You know what you’re doing.”

“I do,” he agrees without a hint of modesty. He checks his watch. “We close in ten minutes. Stay after?”

My pulse quickens. “Yes.”

The final minutes of cleanup feel eternal. When Marco finally locks the main door and dims the lights, the bar transforms. No longer a workplace, but something intimate and secret.

Marco clears the remaining glasses from the bar top, creating an empty stage. “First lesson,” he says, voice dropping lower, “is understanding what you’re working with.”

“What do you mean?”

“Come here.” He gestures me behind the bar.

I slip through the service entrance, suddenly nervous in this familiar space made unfamiliar by context. Marco positions himself against the counter, our bodies close but not touching.

“Before you can please anyone else, you need to understand your instrument.” His fingers trace my collarbone, light as air. “Your hands, your mouth, your body. They’re tools.”

“I’ve never thought of it that way.”

“Most don’t.” His palm slides down my chest, stopping over my heart. “People think sex is instinct, and it is, but great lovers are students first.”

I swallow hard. “Then teach me.”

Marco turns me around so my back presses against his chest. He takes my hands in his, extending them outward. “Feel the weight of your hands. The strength in your fingers. The sensitivity in your fingertips.”

His breath warms my neck as he guides my hands back to my own body, showing me how to touch myself with purpose rather than urgency.

“Slow,” he murmurs. “Deliberate. When you touch someone, mean it.”

I close my eyes, following his guidance, learning the language of intention through touch. The bottles and glasses that normally surround us have vanished, replaced by this moment of discovery.

“That’s it,” Marco encourages as I begin to move with more confidence. “Now you’re learning. The difference between good sex and great sex,” Marco explains, sliding behind me, his breath warm against my neck, “is knowing how to make someone wait for what they want.”

His hands rest on my hips, not moving, just present. The weight of them burns through my clothes.

“Most guys rush,” he continues, lips close to my ear but not touching. “They go straight for what’s obvious. But the body is full of hidden spots that, when touched right, make everything else more intense.”

I feel myself leaning back into him, chasing contact he deliberately withholds.

“See what you’re doing?” His voice carries a smile. “You’re already wanting more. That’s human nature. But resisting that impulse—” he steps back slightly, maintaining only the lightest touch of fingertips on my waist, “—that’s where the power lives.”

The absence of his body heat makes me more aware of it. I turn to face him, curious.

“Show me.”

Marco’s eyes darken. “Take off your shirt.”

I comply, fingers fumbling slightly with the buttons. The air conditioning raises goosebumps across my chest.

“Now close your eyes.”

Darkness falls as my lids shut. Other senses immediately sharpen—the faint smell of citrus and liquor, the distant hum of the ship’s engines, the sound of Marco’s measured breathing.

“Don’t move,” he instructs.

I stand still, waiting. Nothing happens for long seconds that stretch into a full minute. Just as I’m about to peek, I feel it—a single fingertip tracing the shell of my ear.

“This,” Marco says softly, “is an erogenous zone most people ignore.”

The feather-light touch sends an unexpected shiver down my spine. His finger follows the curve, occasionally applying the slightest pressure that makes my breath catch.

“The ears connect to nerve endings throughout the body.” His finger trails down to my earlobe, pinching gently. “Feel that?”

I nod, surprised by how such a small touch radiates pleasure.

“Now, the neck.” His hand slides down, fingertips dancing along my hairline, tracing the tendons down to my collarbone. “Not just the sides, but here—” his thumb presses into the hollow at the base of my throat, “—and here.” His fingers find the depression behind my collarbone.

Each touch awakens nerve endings I never knew existed. My skin feels electric, hypersensitive.

“The inside of the wrist,” Marco continues, lifting my arm and turning it to expose the pale blue veins. His thumb strokes the sensitive skin there, making my fingers curl involuntarily. “The thin skin here makes every touch more intense.”

He brings my wrist to his mouth, breath hovering just above the skin. The anticipation is maddening. When his lips finally make contact, the kiss is barely there, yet it shoots straight through me.

“Words matter too,” he murmurs against my skin. “Tell them what you’re going to do. Make them imagine it before you deliver.”

His hands move to my chest, avoiding my nipples, instead tracing the contours of my pectoral muscles, the spaces between my ribs.

“The sides,” he says, hands sliding down my flanks, “are often forgotten. But the skin here—” his fingers dance along my ribs, making me squirm, “—is sensitive. Not ticklish if you use the right pressure.”

He demonstrates, firm enough to avoid tickling but light enough to send waves of pleasure across my skin.

“The lower back,” his hands slide around to the dip above my tailbone, “has a concentration of nerves.” His thumbs press in small circles, and my spine arches involuntarily.

“Open your eyes,” he commands.

I do, finding his face inches from mine, expression intense with concentration.

“The inside of the elbow,” he continues, lifting my arm and bending it, exposing the soft skin there. His finger traces the crease. “The back of the knee. The space between fingers and toes. The scalp.” His hand slides into my hair, nails scraping lightly against my scalp in a way that makes me shiver.

“When you touch someone, make a map of their responses. Remember what makes their breath catch—” his fingers find that spot behind my collarbone again, and sure enough, my breath hitches, “—what makes their eyes close—” his thumb presses into the hollow of my hip, and I feel my eyelids flutter, “—what makes them lean toward you without realizing.”

His hand hovers just above my belt buckle, not touching, just promising.

“The anticipation of touch,” Marco says, his eyes holding mine, “is sometimes more powerful than the touch itself. Make them want it. Make them ask for it.”

I swallow hard, understanding exactly what he means as my body aches for contact he deliberately withholds.

“That’s the first lesson,” he says, stepping back slightly. “Patience. Attention. Observation. Now show me what you’ve learned,” Marco challenges, leaning back against the bar, his eyes dark with desire.

My heart hammers against my ribs. For a moment, I’m frozen, the weight of his expectation heavy in the air between us. Then something shifts inside me—a quiet confidence taking root.

“Take off your shirt,” I say, surprised by the steadiness in my voice.

Marco’s eyebrow lifts, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. He complies, unbuttoning his black uniform shirt with deliberate slowness. The fabric parts to reveal smooth olive skin stretched over lean muscle. He shrugs it off, letting it drop to the floor.

I don’t rush toward him. Instead, I circle slowly, creating distance that makes him track me with his eyes. I remember his lesson—anticipation is power.

“Close your eyes,” I instruct.

He hesitates, unused to following rather than leading, then lets his lids fall shut. I study him—the rise and fall of his chest, the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers grip the edge of the bar.

I approach silently, stopping just short of touching him. I lean in close to his ear, letting my breath warm his skin but withholding contact.

“Don’t move,” I whisper.

His breath catches. I smile, recognizing the same reaction he drew from me earlier.

I reach out, hovering my palm near his chest without touching. I can feel the heat radiating from his skin. When I finally make contact, it’s with just my fingertips against his collarbone, tracing the ridge with feather-light pressure.

Marco’s lips part slightly. Encouraged, I explore the hollow at the base of his throat, pressing gently with my thumb the way he showed me. His pulse jumps beneath my touch.

“The body remembers what feels good,” I say, echoing his earlier words. “It keeps secrets even from itself.”

I slide my hand up to the nape of his neck, threading fingers through the short hair there. When I apply the slightest pressure with my nails against his scalp, he tilts his head back, offering more access.

“Good,” I murmur.

I trace the shell of his ear with a single fingertip, watching goosebumps rise on his arms. When I reach his earlobe, I pinch gently, then soothe the spot with my thumb.

“The ears connect to nerve endings throughout the body,” I repeat his lesson back to him. “Feel that?”

“Yes,” he breathes, the single word carrying weight.

I step closer, my chest nearly touching his back, but I maintain that crucial sliver of space between us. My hands slide down his sides, applying firm pressure to avoid tickling, memorizing the contours of his ribs.

“The sides are often forgotten,” I say, watching his stomach muscles tighten in response.

I circle to face him, studying his expression—eyes still closed, lips slightly parted. I lift his arm, turning it to expose his wrist. The blue veins beneath the thin skin pulse with life. I brush my thumb across them, feeling his fingers curl reflexively.

“The thin skin here makes every touch more intense,” I murmur, bringing his wrist to my lips. I hover there, letting him feel my breath for several heartbeats before pressing a kiss so light it’s barely there.

A small sound escapes him—not quite a moan, but close. Victory surges through me.

“Open your eyes,” I command.

His lids lift, revealing eyes darker than I’ve ever seen them. The power of holding his attention this way is intoxicating.

“Turn around,” I say.

He complies, facing the bar. I step close behind him, placing my hands on his lower back, finding that sensitive dip above his tailbone. My thumbs press in small circles, and his spine arches slightly, just as mine did earlier.

“The lower back has a concentration of nerves,” I remind him, feeling him respond to my touch.

I move my hands to his shoulders, massaging briefly before trailing fingertips down his spine. Each vertebra receives attention, a slow descent that has him gripping the bar tighter.

“When you touch someone,” I say, my voice dropping lower, “make a map of their responses.”

My hands find his hips, thumbs pressing into those sensitive hollows. His breath catches audibly.

“Remember what makes their breath catch,” I continue, pressing again to draw the same response.

I slide one hand around to his stomach, feeling the muscles jump beneath my touch. My other hand traces up his side to his chest, fingertips ghosting over a nipple. His eyes close involuntarily.

“What makes their eyes close,” I whisper, repeating the touch.

I press my chest against his back now, finally closing that distance. My lips hover near his neck, not touching, just promising. He leans back slightly, seeking contact.

“What makes them lean toward you without realizing.”

When my lips finally touch his neck, the kiss is deliberate—open-mouthed and warm. His head tilts, giving me better access. I work my way up to that spot behind his ear, remembering how it affected me. When my tongue traces the shell of his ear, he groans, the sound vibrating through both our bodies.

“Ethan,” he breathes, my name a plea.

“Patience,” I remind him, echoing his earlier lesson.

By the time I turn him to face me, his composure has cracked. His breathing is uneven, his eyes heavy-lidded. I’ve never seen Marco—always so controlled—look this affected.

“You’re a quick study,” he manages, voice rougher than usual.

“I have a good teacher,” I reply, finally closing the distance between us completely.

Our lips collide with electric intensity. I cradle his face between my palms, controlling the angle, the pressure. My tongue traces the seam of his lips before pushing inside, tasting the faint sweetness of the liqueur he sampled earlier. Marco yields to my lead, his hands resting lightly on my hips, neither pushing nor pulling.

I break the kiss to trace the line of his jaw with my lips, feeling the slight roughness of evening stubble against my sensitive skin. When I reach his ear, I whisper, “Tell me what you want.”

His fingers tighten on my hips, digging into the flesh. “Touch me,” he breathes, his voice husky with need.

“Where?” I ask, pulling back to meet his gaze. His pupils are dilated, leaving only a thin ring of brown around the black. “Be specific.”

A smile flickers across his face—pride mingled with raw desire. “My chest first,” he says. “Then lower. Much lower.”

I slide my hands down his neck to his shoulders, feeling the firm muscle beneath my palms. I trace the defined lines of his collarbone before spreading my fingers across the expanse of his chest. His skin burns beneath my touch, a light sheen of sweat making it glisten in the dim bar lighting. I trace the contours of his pectoral muscles with purpose, thumbs dragging across his nipples. They harden instantly beneath my touch, drawing a sharp intake of breath from Marco.

“Like this?” I circle them slowly, applying varying pressure, watching how his eyes flutter when I pinch them between thumb and forefinger.

“Yes,” he nods, eyelids growing heavy. “Harder.”

I increase the pressure, rolling the sensitive nubs between my fingers until his breathing becomes ragged. Then I lean forward, replacing one hand with my mouth. The salt of his skin mingles with the faint taste of cologne as I trace circles with my tongue before closing my lips around his nipple. I suck firmly, then graze it with my teeth, drawing a deep groan from Marco’s throat. His hand finds my hair, fingers tangling in the strands, not guiding, just anchoring himself as his chest heaves.

I switch to the other side, lavishing equal attention while my free hand slides down the ridges of his abdominal muscles, tracing each defined line. His skin jumps beneath my touch.

“Now lower,” he says, voice rough with arousal.

I sink to my knees, hands trailing down his ribs to his narrow waist. I look up at him as I unbuckle his belt, maintaining eye contact as the leather slides through the loops. The metal clinks as I pull it free, then work open the button of his pants. His erection strains against the fabric, creating an unmistakable outline.

“Slowly,” I remind myself aloud, drawing the zipper down tooth by tooth, the sound impossibly loud in the quiet bar.

Marco’s chest rises and falls rapidly now, his control visibly slipping. I hook my fingers into his waistband, tugging both pants and underwear down in one smooth motion. His cock springs free, fully erect and flushed dark with blood. He steps out of the pooled fabric, now completely naked before me.

I take him in my hand, feeling the velvety skin stretched taut over rigid hardness. Instead of rushing, I explore—tracing prominent veins with my fingertips, circling the sensitive ridge beneath the head, spreading the bead of moisture that forms at the tip. I vary my grip, learning what pressure draws which sounds from above.

“The anticipation of touch,” I echo his earlier lesson, letting my breath warm the glistening head without making contact, “is sometimes more powerful than the touch itself.”

His cock twitches in response, another drop of clear fluid emerging. When I finally take him into my mouth, it’s with deliberate slowness. The salty-sweet taste spreads across my tongue as I take him deeper, feeling the smooth head brush against the roof of my mouth. I apply the lessons from moments ago—attention, patience, observation—noting how his fingers tighten in my hair when I swirl my tongue around the crown, how his breath hitches when I hollow my cheeks and suck firmly.

“Ethan,” he groans, the sound of my name like a reward. His hips make small, aborted thrusts, fighting for control.