Page 19 of Spotlight Hearts

I pull back just enough to hold the stem between my fingers and let the sucker slip free with a soft pop, then lick my bottom lip, while staring straight into his eyes.

His pupils are huge. Cheeks flushed under the flawless makeup. Lips parted, redder now from the friction.

For a heartbeat, the script dissolves.

I am not feeling hate for him now.

Instead, lust fills me, pure, crackling, undeniable lust. And I don’t hate it at all.

The final chorus crashes in. We freeze in the big pose—bodies pressed hip-to-hip, heads tilted together, mics crossed like swords. My hand finds the back of his neck again, thumb brushing the tiny hairs there. His fingers dig into my waist, just under my tattoo, nails biting through mesh.

The lights strobe. Red. White. Black.

House lights drop.

Screams swallow the dark. We don’t move right away. His breath is ragged against my ear. Mine matches it.

Then he pulls back—and stalks offstage first.

I follow a beat later, cock aching, skin buzzing, high on the rush and on something far more dangerous.

The stage didn’t just amplify the performance tonight.

It stripped the lie bare. I don’t hate him at all.

SEVEN

KAI

The hotel conference room feels too small for the five of us—me, Luca, Michael, Min-ho, and Harry Vox perched at the head of the table like he's judging a talent show. Tasha's pacing in the corner, tablet in hand, but this is Harry's show. He called the emergency meeting first thing this morning, right after the overnight numbers came in. My phone's been buzzing nonstop with notifications: clips from last night's show exploding on every platform. #Kuca is trending globally. Fans dissect every frame like it's a crime scene.

I sit rigid in my chair, arms crossed, trying to ignore the way my mind keeps flashing back to that damn shower yesterday. Luca through the fogged glass—water trailing down his chest, over his tattoo dipping low on his hips. His cock stirring just a little when he caught me looking.

My pulse jumps before I can stop it, and I shove the image down, hard. Hate is easier.

Luca's across from me, slouched into the chair as if he doesn’t want to be awake this early—platinum hair still tousled from whatever he did last night, hazel eyes half-lidded. He hasn't said a word since we sat down, but I feel his gaze flick to me every few seconds. Probably deciding how to make this worse.

Harry clears his throat, leaning forward with that shark smile. "Last night was gold. Pure viral gold. Streams up 28% overnight. Your album is climbing the charts—jumped five spots on Billboard already. The fans are eating up the tension. But we're not stopping there."

Michael leans back, grinning. "Hell yeah. These two are hot together. Tiktok's on fire."

Min-ho nods, his expression thoughtful but engaged. "Yeah, the energy was insane. I saw some edits this morning; they're syncing the throat hold to remixes. It's pulling in new listeners, too. But what's the push, Harry? We're already trending."

Harry's eyes gleam. "Exactly. Trending isn't enough. We need sustained heat. Which means taking Kuca off-stage. Fake date. Show the world there might be something real brewing outside the spotlight."

I stiffen.

Luca does, too—his slouch straightens just a fraction.

"Fake date?" I echo, voice sharp. "We're already selling the lust on stage. Now you want us to pretend off stage, too?"

Harry nods like it's obvious. "Small things at first. Be seen together in public. Dinner at a hot spot—Luca's hand on your back as you walk out. Laughing through a restaurant window for the paps. Touches that look natural, intimate. Let the rumors build. Fans will go wild speculating if it's real."

Luca snorts, crossing his arms. "Yeah, because nothing says 'romance' like forcing two guys who can't stand each other to play grab-ass for cameras."

Harry's smile doesn't falter. "Hate each other? That's the spark. The enemies-to-lovers fantasy sells. We can even work that angle if you prefer, stage some fights for the cameras, but you can’t stay away from each other... And it's in your contracts—clause 14.2: cooperate with promotional activities as directed by the label. This is promotion. Pure and simple."

Michael whistles low. "Damn. Fake dating? That's next-level crazy. But hey, if it boosts the charts, I'm in. Just don't make us third-wheel your 'dates.'"