Page 32 of Spotlight Hearts

I swallow. My throat clicks. I want to deny his words. “Yeah.”

“I didn’t mean to snap,” he adds, softer. “I just…I don’t know how to do this. Any of this.”

The honesty in his voice cracks something in my chest.

I swing my leg over the bike, stand. We’re inches apart now—both breathing hard, both glistening with sweat, both pretending we’re not staring at each other like we’re starving.

“You don’t have to do anything,” I say, voice rough. “It’s fake. It’s work. You said it yourself.”

His eyes drop to my mouth for a fraction of a second—then back up.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Fake.”

But he doesn’t step back.

Neither do I, not that I can with the bike at my back. The gym is dead silent except for our breathing—ragged, uneven, syncing without meaning to.

I can see the pulse jumping in his throat. Can see the way his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows.

“Luca…” he starts—hesitant, almost a question.

I don’t let him finish.

I close the distance—one step—and my hand finds the side of his neck. Thumb brushing the vine tattoo, fingers curling gently into damp hair at his nape.

He doesn’t pull away. His eyes flutter half-shut. Breath catches. I lean in—deliberately, giving him every chance to stop me.

He doesn’t.

Our mouths meet—soft at first, tentative, like we’re both afraid it’ll break something. Then harder. Hungrier. His hands come up—fisting my tank at the waist, pulling me closer. I taste salt, sweat, the ghost of what might be the cherry sucker from earlier. His tongue brushes mine—tentative, then bold—and I groan into his mouth, low and desperate.

The kiss is messy. Urgent. All teeth and tongue and pent-up lust we’ve both been ignoring for too long.

My hands slide up his back, fingers digging into damp fabric over the hard lines of his spine. He presses closer—chest to chest, hips slotting against mine—and I feel him. Thick, hard, unmistakable against my thigh. My own cock throbs in response, aching where it’s trapped against his hip. The friction is maddening. Perfect. And not nearly enough.

When we break apart—gasping, foreheads pressed together—his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide.

“Fuck,” he whispers.

“Yeah,” I rasp back. “Fuck.”

His breathing is ragged against my mouth. His fingers are still clenched in my tank, knuckles white. I can feel the tremor in them—as if he’s fighting something bigger than both of us.

Then suddenly, he rips himself away.

It’s violent. Abrupt. One second, he’s pressed against me, the next, he’s stumbling back two steps, hands dropping as though I burned him. His chest heaves. Eyes wide. Lips swollen and red from my mouth.

“Kai—”

“No.” The word is sharp, almost panicked. He drags a hand over his face, smearing sweat and whatever’s left of my spit. “No. This—this isn’t⁠—”

He doesn’t finish. Just shakes his head, once, hard.

I reach for him. He flinches back. Not far, but out of my reach.

“Don’t,” he says, quieter now. “Just…don’t.”

The rejection feels like a punch to the solar plexus. My hand drops. My cock is still painfully hard, the compression shorts showing off my full length, no hiding it. His gaze flicks down—quick, guilty—then snaps back up to my face. His cheeks flush darker, but he doesn’t say anything else.