Page 50 of Spotlight Hearts

His eyes are dark. Lips swollen from biting them during the performance. Cheeks flushed. He looks wrecked. Beautiful. Mine.

“Then why—” My voice cracks. “Why do we keep pretending? Why do we keep saying it’s just professional when we both know it’s bullshit?”

He’s silent, and it makes me feel feral.

“It is bullshit, Kai.”

And I’ll prove it to you.

I don’t think. I just move.

I drop to my knees.

The concrete floor is cold through my leather pants, but I don’t care. My hands are already on his waistband—fingers fumbling with the button, then the zipper. He doesn’t stop me. His breath hitches, hips jerking forward as if his body is begging even if his mind is still catching up.

I tug the leather down just enough. His cock springs free—thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip. The scent hits me first—sweat from the show, musk and something uniquely him, intoxicating in a way that makes my mouth water. I lean in. Inhale deep against the base of him, nose brushing through the coarse hair and soft skin of his groin. My head spins. My own cock throbs painfully in my pants, still sticky from earlier, but this isn’t about me. Not yet.

I look up at him.

His eyes are blown black. Lips parted. Chest heaving. One hand braced on the wall above my head. The other hovers near my hair—like he wants to touch but isn’t sure he’s allowed.

I don’t wait for permission.

I catch the bead of precum on my tongue—salty, bitter, perfect. Then I flatten my tongue against the underside of his cock and drag it up from base to tip. He shudders. A low, broken sound rips out of him—half curse, half my name.

“Luca—”

I don’t answer with words.

I take him into my mouth.

Slow at first—lips stretching around the head, tongue swirling, savoring every inch as I slide down. He’s thick. Hot. Heavy on my tongue. I hollow my cheeks, suck gently, then deeper. My hand wraps around the base—stroking what I can’t fit yet. The other slides up his thigh, fingers digging into muscle to keep him steady.

He’s shaking.

His hand finally lands in my hair—fingers threading through the platinum strands, holding me in place. His hips twitch forward—small, helpless thrusts he tries to control.

I don’t let him.

I bob my head—slow, then faster. Tongue dragging along the underside every time I pull back, swirling around the head and into his slit on every downstroke. I take him deeper each time—until he hits the back of my throat. I swallow around him. He chokes on a groan.

“Fuck—Luca—fuck⁠—”

His voice is wrecked. Ruined. Exactly the way I wanted him.

I hum around him—vibration rumbling through his length. His hips jerk harder. Fingers tighten in my hair. I can feel him thickening, pulsing against my tongue. He’s close. So close.

I pull off just enough to speak—voice hoarse, lips swollen.

“Come for me.”

Then I take him deep again. Swallow. Suck. Stroke.

He breaks.

His hips snap forward—once, twice—and he comes with a choked, desperate sound. Hot pulses flood my mouth, thick and bitter and perfect. I swallow every drop. Keep sucking gently through the aftershocks until he’s whimpering, oversensitive, tugging weakly at my hair.

I pull off and then lick him clean. Press one last soft kiss to the head before tucking him back into his pants with careful hands.