Chapter 21
AUGUST
The beach was private, rented for the day, and the light was already going gold when I stepped out of the SUV.
Natalia handed me my call sheet, and I didn't look at it. I knew my marks. I knew my angles. I'd been doing this since I was seventeen.
"They're running behind," Natalia said. "The other talent's still in his solo shots."
Red was somewhere on this beach in swim briefs, trying to figure out what to do with his face while a photographer circled him. I'd known he was part of this campaign for weeks, had seen his name on the contract, and said nothing. Let him discover it on his own.
The talent tent was white canvas, open on one side to catch the breeze. From inside, the beach spread out in full view without requiring me to be obvious about watching it.
Red was maybe fifty yards away, standing in the shallow surf.
The water came up to his calves. He was wearing white briefs, the tie-side kind that sat low on his hips.
His skin had gone pink across his shoulders.
Freckles everywhere. His hair was dark with salt water, curling at his temples, and he stood with the particular stillness of someone who had no idea what to do with the photographer's instructions.
"Relax your jaw," she called. "You're clenching."
He was definitely clenching.
His shoulders tried to unknot, tried to find the ease she wanted. He looked like he was waiting for a hit, every line of his body braced for contact that wasn't coming. This wasn't hockey. The skills that made him extraordinary on ice were useless here.
The photographer, Diana, was patient with him. Good. The brand rep observed from a canvas chair, linen pants and tablet in hand, assessing Red like inventory. He had the look of someone who'd never been hit in his life and didn't know how easy it would be.
A makeup artist dusted something across my cheekbones and my collarbones.
I changed behind a partition and pulled on the black briefs, cut low and tight.
The tape was in my bag, where I always kept it.
It was medical grade, flesh-toned, the industry trick that nobody talked about on camera.
You taped yourself down so nothing moved, nothing showed, nothing betrayed you.
I did it quickly and efficiently. The discomfort was familiar.
Out on the beach, Diana was calling Red in for a break. He waded out of the water, and someone handed him a robe, and he pulled it on too fast, like he couldn't stand another second of exposure.
I dropped my robe on the chair and walked out of the tent.
Diana waved me toward the waterline. I walked across the sand without hurrying, letting the crew track my approach.
"Joel. You look incredible,” Diana beamed.
"I know."
She laughed. "I love working with you. Okay, let's start simple. Walk into the water, stop when it hits your thighs, turn back toward me."
The Pacific was cold enough to shock, but I didn't let it show. I walked until the water dragged at my legs, then turned slowly, finding the angle that worked best. Chin down, eyes up.
I gave her cold first, the Ice Prince, the version of me that magazine editors called "smoldering." I'd perfected this face in mirrors since I was fifteen.
"Beautiful. Now give me something else. Like you've got a secret."
I thought about Red watching from the tent. About what I was going to do to him later, after the cameras stopped.
My lips curved.
"There," Diana said. "Hold that."
She kept me in the water for another fifteen minutes. The camera loved me. It always had. That wasn't ego; it was just a fact. Some people photographed flat. I photographed hungry.
Diana called for a reset. "Let's get Robert back out here. I want them together while the light's still good."
I waded out and Red emerged from the tent. He'd lost the robe, and he was walking toward the waterline like a man approaching his own execution.
My eyes dropped. He hadn't taped.
The way he moved told me everything. The careful placement of his hands, the slight hunch in his shoulders. He was trying to think about anything except me standing here in wet black fabric, and it wasn't working.
Amateur.
Diana positioned us knee-deep in the surf, close enough that our shoulders nearly touched.
"Okay, I want contrasts. Joel, you're a predator. Robert, you're prey. Give me tension."
Red made a sound that might have been a laugh.
"Closer. Joel, put your hand on his shoulder."
I put my hand on his shoulder. His skin was sun-warm under my palm, smooth except for the faint raised line of a scar near his collarbone. He went very still.
"Perfect. Robert, look at the camera. Joel, look at Robert."
I looked at Red.
His profile was sharp against the gold light, his jaw clenched, his throat working as he swallowed. Water droplets caught in the copper hair on his chest. His pulse jumped in his neck, and I thought about pressing my mouth there, feeling it against my tongue.
The shutter clicked.
Red's hands were trembling. The vibration traveled through my palm, where it rested on his shoulder. He was barely keeping himself under control, and we'd been touching for maybe thirty seconds.
From somewhere behind the camera, the brand rep's voice carried across the water. "The size difference is really working. Very David and Goliath."
Red's shoulder tensed under my hand.
The brand rep kept talking to his tablet, dictating notes, and Red's jaw locked tighter with every word. He was being reduced to measurements and proportions while standing half-naked in the surf. I knew that feeling. The difference was that I'd learned to make it work for me.
Diana moved us through a dozen setups. Standing face to face with the water swirling around our knees. Back to back, arms crossed. Sitting in the shallows while waves broke around us.
Red was struggling.
He hid it well enough that Diana probably didn't notice, but his jaw kept locking up, and he kept himself turned slightly away from the camera. The flush creeping down his chest had nothing to do with the sun.
He was hard, or getting there, and he had no way to hide it.
"Diana." I waved her down. "Can we take five?"
She lowered the camera. "Sure. Let's reset for the water shots."
Red was out of the surf before she finished speaking. He grabbed his robe and wrapped it around himself, arms crossed tight over his chest, and headed for the tent without looking at anyone.
I followed.
The tent was dim after the brightness of the beach. Red was standing behind the partition, his back to me, the robe clutched around his shoulders. His breathing came hard and uneven.
"Go away," he said without turning around.
"It's me."
His shoulders dropped an inch. "Joel, I can't—" He sighed. "I need a minute."
"You need more than a minute." I moved closer, not touching him yet. "You didn't tape."
He turned his head just enough to show me his profile. "I didn't know I was supposed to."
"Your agent should have told you."
"Well, he didn't," he grumbled. "And now I'm—" He gestured vaguely at the obvious problem the robe was barely hiding. "I can't go back out there like this."
I reached into my bag and found the roll of tape. Then I looked at him and made a different calculation.
"That's not going to go away on its own."
Red laughed. "I'm aware."
"Even if I tape you down, you'll be fighting it the whole shoot. You'll be distracted. You'll be obvious." I stepped closer, into his space, close enough to smell the salt on his skin. "There's a faster solution."
His breath caught. "Joel, we can't—there are people right outside—"
"Then you'll have to be quiet." I put my hand on his chest and pushed him back, guiding him deeper behind the partition, into the shadows where the canvas blocked any view from outside. "Can you do that?"
Red's back hit the support pole. His eyes were wide, his chest heaving under my palm.
"Someone could come in."
"They won't. I told Diana I'd handle it." My hand slid down his stomach, over the taut muscle, down to the waistband of those white briefs. "Let me handle it."
He should have said no, but his hips were already pressing forward into my touch.
I dropped to my knees.
The sand was gritty under my shins. I didn't care. I pulled the briefs down just enough to free him, and he was hard, flushed dark and leaking, and the sight sent heat straight through my chest. Mine. This was what I did to him.
I looked up at him and pressed two fingers against his lips.
"Open."
His mouth opened. My fingers slid inside, pressing down on his tongue, and his eyes went hazy. His lips closed around my knuckles and his cheeks hollowed as he sucked without being told.
"Good. Bite down if you have to. But stay quiet."
I put my lips around his cock and started working up and down the shaft.
He was salty with sweat and the sea, the taste of him sharp on my tongue.
I didn't tease, didn't draw it out. This wasn't about savoring.
This was about claiming what was mine before anyone else could see it.
I worked him fast and efficiently, my free hand wrapped around the base, my mouth tight and wet around the rest.
His tongue slid against my knuckles and a muffled moan vibrated down my fingers. Red's hand found my hair. His grip was too tight, almost painful, and I liked it. I liked knowing he was barely holding on, that he was sucking on my fingers to keep from making sounds that would bring people running.
His hips tried to jerk forward, and I pinned them against the pole with my elbow, holding him still while I took him deeper. He made a noise around my fingers, his teeth pressing down hard enough to hurt, and his thighs started to shake.
It didn't take long. He was too keyed up, had been on edge for hours, and I knew exactly how to take him apart. I swallowed around him and pressed my tongue against the underside of his cock, and his whole body went rigid.