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I start filming as soon as I spy Carlos peeking through Froth’s windows. Mostly in hopes of pissing off Mr. Ito. Even if he thinks he wants to share my body, he won’t be able to stomach the intimacy and affection. He’ll cancel the entire thing. He has to.

Carlos is nervous as hell. His hair is combed something between a choppy sleek look and its usual wild puff. It gets messier as he fusses with it in the window. He wears a button-up t-shirt—black like everything else he owns—and a blue tie he probably got for a wedding and wore to all his first dates. Did he have a lot of first dates? Probably not. Judging by how fucking nervous he is. It’s only Froth. We come here all the time.

I wave at him from the line for coffee. He startles on the other side of the window. His eyes are enormous—Christ, he’s wearing a nice pair of glasses, transparent ones—and his eyes are big and round enough to swallow the world. He hurries around to the door and smiles when he enters.

It melts my heart. He’s so sweet, so pure. Worth so much more than this filthy little game. I’m tempted to smash the camera clipped to my chest pocket. My shirt is patterned like modern-art, so the tiny white box and its black eye don’t stand out.

“Hey.” He watches the people behind me in line as if they’ll attack him, then stuffs his hands awkwardly into his pockets.

“Hey, yourself.” I open my arms for the hug we usually exchange.

He corrects his stance at once and hugs me briefly, afraid to put his body in my hands.

I tease him by holding on and whispering in his ear. “Relax, Carlos. It’s just a date. You already know I like you.”

He stiffens in my arms and springs away. His tan cheeks blush a vibrant pink. I can’t help but notice those few little words “relax” “date” “I like you” combined with my nearness and my enticing purr stiffen him up a bit below the belt, too.

“You drink green tea, right?” I wave him away dismissively. “Grab us a seat. I’ll get it.”

“Sure. I’ll, um … Venmo you, the—”

“How ‘bout you get dinner if this goes well.” I wink at him.

He nods and staggers to the last empty table.

I hope Mr. Ito watching. I hope his jealousy kills him. I hope to God, he stops me.

Because, Carlos, poor lamb, doesn’t stand a chance.

****

The coffee date is not so much a seduction as a brutal assault on his shyness. If Carlos resists at all, the slightest touch of my hand on his arm breaks him. Within half an hour, he fearfully suggests we move the date to a restaurant. I agree wholeheartedly.

He chooses Italian. A nearby side-street place that makes its own dough, thrives off deliveries, and rarely has anyone inside because dirty bricks scare tourists. As we wait for the food, Carlos opens up in a way that makes me realize what a private person he is. I’ve known him for nearly a year, after all, but he’s never talked about himself except in the vaguest of terms. He blooms completely over a small bottle of wine—a beautiful sweet red that ought to be way out of our price range, but Carlos insists. He tells me about his family’s restaurant back in California, about putting himself through tech school on scholarships and delivery-boy tips, about his little sister who currently lives abroad with his grandparents—he doesn’t say where but I picture it as someplace sunny and South American. He strikes me as Brazilian. But since I really ought to know that by now, it’s awkward to ask the specifics.

****

Not an hour later, I’m trying to remember which key gets me inside my own apartment. I’m not drunk. In fact, I’m weirdly clear-headed, aware of every step, and every wrong choice. I ought to have told Carlos about the cameras, about Mr. Ito, about … me. But he’s so gentle and smiling, so open and trusting, I can’t break the spell I’ve cast.

I feel like a foreigner in my own apartment. It’s too clean. I’ve been renting it out on Airbnb, and it’s as tidy and unlived in as Ito’s minimalist hellhole. Not a book out of place. Even the pillows are neatly arranged on the bed. I only came back to place the tiny cameras. One on the picture-frame aimed at the chair and bed. The second on the shelf with a closer view of the bed. The one on my shirt will end up on the headboard if I can manage it.

Carlos enters and observes. “I didn’t take you for the tidy sort.”

“Shut up.” I slam the door by pushing him into it. I kiss him harder than I’ve dared yet—though I’ve been kissing him through the train ride. Carlos melts, gripping the door, afraid to touch me. I haven’t heard a peep out of Mr. Ito all night, so the plan now is to scare Carlos off. I grope his chest violently. “I don’t want to hear another word from you unless it’s to beg me to fuck you harder.”

“Whoa.” Carlos is stunned.

Yeah, run away, Sweetness. Get far away from this hot mess.

Instead, he laughs nervously. “No promises.”

I push him against the door again, kissing him hard. He lifts his hands to my back, hesitant, uncertain if he’s allowed to touch me while I fumble with his shirt. I want to slow down; I want to kiss him softer, to whisper we can go at his pace.

But Mr. Ito asked for aggressive. My patron wants a performance.

Carlos gasps again when I tug open his pants. He looks down as if he’s astonished to find his dick exists … and that it’s in my hand. When I stroke him, he drops his head back and moans. I kiss his neck and shoulder, sure to leave a mark.

God, he smells good. So strong—if he decides to fight me off, he’ll win easily. But he’s boneless in my hands. His hair is so soft and so dark. Consuming him will not be difficult; burning through his sweetness will be a pleasure. As I lick his neck, he pants and shudders.