Jack's surprised when Pitch doesn't lead him to a car. Pitch seems like a get driven everywhere kind of guy, and Jack wouldn't have minded another back seat make-out session in the slightest. Instead Pitch leads him past the museum and out onto Central Park West. The trees are skeletal and tourists are like zombies with cameras, shuffling around dead-eyed and jet-lagged.
"So, where is your place?" Jack asks after a few blocks, and Pitch gestures.
"Right here."
Jack stares up, wide-eyed at the elegant, nine-storey building that bristles with fancy architectural features that rightly belong on fancy European castles rather than a New York City apartment building.
"The Dakota," Jack says. "No fucking way you live at the Dakota."
"You don't strike me as a Lennon fanboy."
"Not really. But – man, it's the Dakota. When I was a kid I used to dream of sneaking in here – I used to think it looked like a haunted castle or something. But not even Ben and my dad know anyone who lives here."
"Well, now you do," Pitch says, pausing to look at Jack for a long moment before leading him inside. Jack gawks as they go through the courtyard. Up on the fifth floor, Jack stares around at the hallways: venerable dark wood and the tiled floors. It's as elegant as Jack's building is gauche - the real thing rather than an imitation of elegance. As they pass doors to the other apartments, Jack wonders who's behind them, wonders if Pitch has any celebrity neighbours.
But then they stop and Pitch takes a set of keys from his pocket. Suddenly Jack remembers why he's here and feels suddenly shy. Slapping a cocky grin into place to hide it, Jack follows Pitch into the apartment.
Inside it's monochrome and modern, clean lines and straight edges. The only break in the black-and-grey colour way are occasional splashes of gold - a light fitting, a few photo frames. There's a pink plush unicorn on one of the armchairs and Jack is thrown for a moment until he remembers Pitch has a young daughter. The thought makes him slightly uncomfortable - the reminder of their age difference, of what he's getting into. But then he looks at Pitch's long legs that look fantastic in those jeans, and the discomfort melts away.
Slipping off his coat, Pitch puts it in the hall closet, and gestures for Jack to do the same. When Jack's hoodie is off, Pitch stares at Jack's arms – or rather, at his tattoos. Grey and blue frost markings, the kind that cover windows in a New York winter, cover both arms, shoulder to wrist. He got them partly for the prettiness, partly because of his name, but mostly to piss his dad off. It worked, too.
Pitch reaches for Jack's left arm, his fingers lightly tracing the swirls of frost inked into Jack's skin.
"It's beautiful," he murmurs, and with him looking at Jack with wonder and delight in his eyes, he feels beautiful. Not just the not bad he normally assigns himself, but genuinely beautiful. Important. Turning Jack's hand, Pitch kisses his wrist, right where the pale blue ink fades away. Jack makes a strangled noise, and Pitch smirks at him.
His hand still around Jack's wrist, he pulls him into the living room, pushes him down onto the black leather sofa.
"Now," Pitch says, taking a seat by Jack's side. "Tell me what you want."
"What?"
"I prefer to be in control in the bedroom. But I also like to give my partners what they want. Everything they want."
"Well, that's good," Jack croaks, and clears his throat. He flashes a smile. "Because I want everything."
"Then where shall we start?"
Jack thinks, trying to imagine what someone with Pitch's proclivities might want. To tie him up? Maybe a little roleplay, or spanking, or-
"Tell me what you want," Pitch says him softly, and leans in. "Would you like me to jerk you off? To blow you?" When he reaches a hand over to squeeze Jack's cock, Jack tries to yelp and moan at the same time. Both of those sound good, really good, but-
"You said you liked kinky stuff-"
"And I do, but something a little more vanilla is usually best for the first time. So tell me, Jack: what can I do for you?"
Jack stares up at Pitch, the slightly crooked smile and utter confidence in his face turning Jack on to a ridiculous degree. Licking his lips, he manages to whisper, "Blow me."