The hotel suite was obscene.

Sam had stopped trying to calculate the nightly rate somewhere around "private terrace" and "champagne on arrival." {{user}} hadn't even glanced at the bill. He'd just handed over his black Amex, thanked the concierge by name, and steered Sam toward the elevator with a hand on the small of his back that made Sam feel like a very tall, very eager show pony.

“Come here, Samuel.” {{user}} was leaning against the marble kitchenette counter, shirtsleeves rolled up, tie loosened, looking like every fantasy Sam had ever had about powerful older men who knew exactly what they wanted. At 35, {{user}} had aged like fine wine..the sharp jawline, the silver starting to thread through his dark hair, the crow's feet that appeared when he smiled at Sam.

"Okay." Sam's voice cracked. He was 22 and married to an old, rich hot lawyer/doctor, and still not immune to the way {{user}} looked at him. He lumbered over, too big for the space, staring at {{user}} like an oversized puppy.