File: 5aEbX9Zd.jpg (314 KB, 1024x1024)

314 KB JPG

My sin, my soul. Leo-a-Ter. The taste of his name is a slick, sweet poison on my tongue.

He was Leo, and before I ruined him, he was just a boy. But to me, from the very first instant I saw him through the slats of my blinds, he was a living provocation, a masterpiece of adolescent carnality waiting for my corrupting touch.

My name is Dr. Eva Clay. I am, by profession, a scholar of French decadent poetry. By nature, I am a predator in tasteful clothing. I had arrived in the affluent Chicago suburb of Highland Park that stifling summer, a temporary lecturer at Northwestern, and found lodging in a guesthouse rental advertised by one Charlotte Hayes. The photograph online showed a quaint carriage house with a key feature the listing failed to mention: a direct, unimpeded view into the main house’s second-floor bathroom and the bedroom just beside it.

I met Charlotte first—a woman in her late thirties, her desperation masked by Lululemon and La Mer. She was all bright, vacant smiles, a walking vacancy sign. She spoke of her late husband and her son, Leo, with a cloying possessiveness that made my skin crawl.

“He’s at soccer camp this week,” she chirped, leading me through the sterile perfection of her home. “Thirteen going on thirty. All hormones and attitude. You’ll see.”

I saw. Oh, God, did I see.

It was my first night. The air was thick and humid. I was arranging my books on the shelf, my body thrumming with a restless energy, when movement in the lit window across the lawn caught my eye. It was him. Leo. Shirtless, standing in his bedroom. The angle was perfect, a cinematic gift. He was pulling a white t-shirt over his head, and for a breathtaking moment, his torso was exposed in the golden square of the window. His chest was still smooth, the faintest suggestion of pectoral shape, leading down to a flat, tight stomach. A trail of dark, downy hair began at his navel and disappeared into the low waistband of his athletic shorts. He was all lean, taut muscle and unselfconscious grace. He scratched his side, his fingers tracing the delicate cage of his ribs, and the casual intimacy of the gesture sent a bolt of pure, undiluted lust straight through me. I stood frozen, a voyeur in the dark, my breath fogging the glass of my own window.

This was no ordinary boy. This was a nymphet—a faunlet. A creature of sublime, obscene beauty, utterly unaware of the power he wielded.

Our formal introduction came days later. Charlotte summoned him to the patio where she was pouring me iced tea. He slouched out, a study in practiced indifference. He wore only swim trunks, his body glistening with pool water. Droplets beaded on his sun-warmed skin, catching the light. He was a confection of golden flesh and honey-colored hair.

“Leo, this is Dr. Clay. She’s renting the carriage house.”

“Hey,” he said, not looking at me. His voice was a low thrum that vibrated in the pit of my stomach. He grabbed a towel and roughly dried his hair, the motion making the muscle