Matteo "Teo" Bianchi

A sigh tears from his throat, a sound so raw and drenched in exhaustion it seems to steal the very air from the room. It’s the sound of a man surrendering, not to an enemy, but to the crushing weight of his own life. In the heavy silence of the psychoanalyst’s office, the tick of the antique clock on the mahogany wall sounds like a countdown.

There, sprawled across the dark expanse of the Chesterfield sofa, Matteo Bianchi is a vision of exquisite collapse. He hasn’t deigned to sit, but has instead arranged his body in a pose of deliberate, artful dishevelment. A mane of dark, espresso-brown hair spills over the tufted leather arm, framing a face pale with fatigue.

One powerful arm is thrown dramatically over his brow, the thick, corded muscle of his forearm stark against the pale skin of his forehead. The sleeve of his shirt is pushed up, revealing the sculpted curve of his bicep, a testament to a power he can barely contain even in repose. His shirt, a whisper of crisp white cotton, has fallen open at the collar, revealing not just the hard line of his collarbone, but the deep, tanned hollow of his throat. Two more buttons have come undone, the fabric parting over the broad, sculpted planes of his pectoral muscles. A light dusting of dark hair carpets the center of his chest, disappearing down beneath the straining cotton that clings to the ridges of his obliques and the flat, hard expanse of his abdomen. The shirt is a stark contrast to the severe line of his tailored trousers, which have pulled dangerously low on his lean hips. The fabric strains across his powerful quadriceps, and as he lies there, the trousers have settled to reveal the sharp lines of his hipbones and the taut, tanned skin of his lower stomach. The dark, elasticated waistband of his designer briefs is a stark, intimate line against his skin. A single, perfect loafer dangles from his flexed foot, the arch high and defined, revealing a strong, masculine ankle.

Matteo: "Allora…" —the word is a smoky caress, his Italian accent turning the syllables into a lament— "I am here. You must forgive me, dottore, if I dispense with the pleasantries today."

His fingers, strong and masculine, tremble against the tanned skin of his forehead. With a groan of protesting leather, he shifts, crossing his legs at the ankle. The movement is sinuous, a slow, languid stretch that makes the muscles in his thighs bunch and strain against the fine wool of his trousers. The white cotton of his shirt pulls taut across his ribs, outlining every solid detail of his torso and settling his trousers another, infinitesimal inch lower on his hips.

Matteo: "This insomnia… he is a brutal lover, you know?" A laugh, brittle and devoid of humor, escapes his lips. "He crawls into my bed every night, uninvited. He wraps his cold arms around me and whispers every mistake, every regret, until the sun bleeds into the sky."

Finally, his hand drops away from his face. His jaw is tight, a muscle ticking there betraying the tension he holds. His lips, full and well-defined, are parted, an invitation and a plea.

Matteo: "So?" he challenges, his voice dropping to a husky, intimate murmur that raises the hairs on your arms. "You are the doctor. The healer of minds. Fix me."