Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
LUCA
The Miami green room is chaos in the best way—music pumping through the speakers, crew rushing in and out, Michael already half-dressed and dancing like an idiot while he warms up his voice.
I’m sitting in front of the mirror, letting Crystal work her magic on my eyeliner, when my phone buzzes on the counter.
I glance down.
Whitney.
My stomach drops.
I’ve been ignoring her texts since the blow up we had, when I told her we needed a break, and she told me not to bother calling her again. But she’s persistent. Always has been.
The message preview glows on the screen:
hey. you’re on break after miami right? i’m in town. can we meet up? talk? miss you.
I stare at it. Crystal pauses with the brush, sensing the shift in my mood.
“You okay, babe?” she asks softly.
“Yeah,” I lie. “Just… give me a second.”
I pick up the phone. Typing fast before I can overthink it.
Hey. Yeah, break starts after tonight. But I’m not free. Label’s sending me and Kai to the Bahamas for “content.” Paps will be there. It’s work.
I hit send. Wait. The three dots appear almost immediately.
…with kai.
seriously?
you’re going on a romantic getaway with your fake boyfriend, and i’m supposed to just… what? wait?
this is bullshit, luca
you said break. not “break so i can go play house with him”
answer me.
are you fucking him?
is this real now?
hello?????
The messages keep coming—rapid-fire and angry in a way she really doesn’t get to feel. My thumb hovers over the keyboard. I don’t know what to say. I don’t even know what the truth is anymore. Besides Whit and I are over, we’ve been over. Only our history keeps me from blocking her number.
Crystal doesn’t say anything. She just gently takes the phone from my hand, sets it face-down on the counter, and keeps working. Her brush moves steadily across my eyelid, then the other. I try to concentrate on the soft bristles and the muffled bass from the opening act already on stage.
I let out a long breath. Close my eyes for the glitter she’s dusting on my cheekbones. The phone keeps vibrating against the wood—buzz, buzz, buzz—as if it’s trying to crawl toward me. I don’t look at it.
When she finishes, she steps back, tilts my chin up to check the symmetry, then nods once. “Done.”
“Thanks, Crys.”
She gives me a small, knowing smile and starts packing her kit.
I stand. Pull my hoodie off, reveal the mesh top underneath. I roll my shoulders, shake out the tension. Grab my phone just long enough to shove it deep into my bag—screen down, buried under my spare shirts.
“You ready, pretty boy? Opening act’s about to wrap.” Michael stretches and nods toward the door.
“Yeah.” I force a grin. “Let’s go.”
We head out together—down the hallway, past crew rushing with cables and water bottles, past the roar growing louder with every step.
The side stage is dark, lit only by the spill of house lights and the glow from the monitors.
Vector’s final chorus crashes through the arena—crowd screaming, lights strobing.
Michael leans against the wall beside me, arms crossed, watching the stage with that easy grin he always has before we go on. “You good?”
I nod. “Yeah. Just ready to get out there.”
He bumps my shoulder lightly. “We got this.”
The last note rings out. The crowd erupts. Vector takes their bows. Lights dim.
Tasha’s voice crackles through our in-ears: “Eclipse, places. Thirty seconds.”
Michael pushes off the wall, cracks his neck. “Showtime.”
I take a breath. Step toward the wings. And fall into the performance. The two hours rush by in what feels like seconds.
We are cheered back on stage for an encore and, as planned, we start an unreleased song, which makes the crowd go nuts. I love it.
The lights shift—deep indigo, slow strobes, the kind of atmosphere that makes every breath feel intimate.
The unreleased track is raw, hungry, lyrics dripping with want and restraint.
I’m already half-hard from the entire show—the adrenaline, the lights, the memory of Kai’s hand on me during “Starlight Ruin” still burning under my skin—but when the chorus hits, something changes.
I fall to my knees as I belt out my part, and before I can climb to my feet again, Kai is on his knees crawling across the stage toward me. My heart kicks up. Fuck, seeing him close the distance makes me plump up even more inside my pants.
This is not part of the choreography, but I am frozen in place, waiting to see what he has planned. My breath catches as he reaches me. He crowds me backward.
Slow. Intent. Hands planted on either side of my hips as he rises over me.
I let him.
I drop back—elbows hitting the stage, then flat on my back, legs splayed just enough for him to settle between them. The crowd roars louder—phones up, flashes blinding—but all I see is him.
Dark eyes locked on mine. Sweat shining on his pale skin. Lips parted, red from the stain and from breathing hard.
He dips close. Lips almost grazing mine. Our mics cross—metal brushing metal, breaths mingling in the space between. He picks up the chorus.
Holy fuck.
His voice pours over me—low, wrecked, every word sinking into my skin like teeth.
I feel it in my balls, in my cock, in the way my hips lift instinctively toward him.
He’s hard against my thigh—I can feel it through the leather—and I’m throbbing, aching, straining against my pants as though I’m going to come apart right here.
The lyrics are about ruin. About giving in. About wanting so badly it destroys you.
He sings them like a confession.
I can’t look away.
Can’t breathe.
Can’t think.
My hands come up—instinct and need filling me until it overflows—and grip his hips. Pull him down harder. Our cocks line up through fabric—hot and heavy friction—and I groan, low and broken, the sound bleeding into my mic. The crowd thinks it’s part of the song.
It isn’t.
It’s me breaking.
He keeps singing—voice cracking on the high note, hips rolling once, leisurely and filthy, grinding down against me. My head falls back against the stage. Eyes squeeze shut. Pleasure spikes sharp and bright behind my eyelids.
The final line.
He leans in—lips brushing the shell of my ear, voice dropping to a whisper only I can hear.
“Luca.”
My name on his tongue—rough, desperate, and real—tips me over the edge.
I come.
Hard.
Silent except for the choked gasp that slips out, muffled against his neck.
My hips jerk up against him, cock pulsing in my pants, wet heat spreading.
No one in the arena knows. The lights are too low, the angle too perfect.
But he knows. He feels it—the way my body locks up, shuddering under him, and my fingers digging into his hips hard enough to bruise.
He finishes the note. Holds the pose—bodies flush, foreheads pressed, breaths mingling.
The crowd screams as though the world is ending. Lights cut. We stay there for one heartbeat. Two. Then he pulls back slowly and stands, offering me a hand.
I take it.
He pulls me up. Our fingers linger—interlocked for a second longer than necessary. Then we turn to the crowd.
Bow.
Wave.
Walk offstage.
The roar follows us offstage like a living thing—twenty thousand voices refusing to let go.
I’m shaking. Legs unsteady, skin buzzing, the wet heat inside my leather pants a sticky, humiliating reminder of what just happened.
I came on stage. In front of everyone. Because Kai crawled to me, straddled me, ground down on me until I couldn’t hold it back.
And he knew.
He felt every pulse, every jerk of my hips, every broken sound I tried to swallow. He held the pose—foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling—while I spilled for him under the lights.
I don’t stop moving until we’re in the corridor.
Crew claps us on the back, shouts praise—“Fucking insane, you two!” “That was pornographic!” “Kuca forever!”—but the words slide right off me.
My full focus is on him. On the way he’s walking ahead, shoulders tense, leather pants clinging to every line of his thighs and ass, his tattoo stark against sweat-slick skin.
He doesn’t slow down or look back. Just keeps going—straight through the green room, past the couches and the makeup stations, all the way to the small side room we use for quick changes.
The door shuts behind us with a soft click.
I’m on him before it even latches.
I spin him around, press him hard against the door.
His breath punches out of him—sharp and surprised—but he doesn’t push me away.
My hands slam to either side of his head, caging him in.
I’m hard again. Achingly, embarrassingly hard.
I make sure he knows it—roll my hips forward, grinding the thick ridge of my cock against his hip through our pants.
He feels it. I see it in the way his pupils blow wide, the way his throat works on a hard swallow.
“You made me come on stage,” I rasp, voice wrecked, forehead dropping to his. “You crawled to me, straddled me, touched me. And you made me fucking come in front of twenty thousand people.”
His hands come up—fisting my mesh top, pulling me closer instead of pushing me away. His hips shift—just enough to press back against me. Friction. Heat. My dick throbs painfully.
“I know,” he whispers. Voice rough and shaky. “I felt it. Every pulse. Every shudder. I felt you spill for me.”
The words rip a groan out of me. I drop my head to his neck, breathe him in—sweat, leather, the faint cherry from the sucker. My hips rock forward again, grinding against him as though I can’t stop.
“You didn’t pull away,” I say against his skin. “You kept going. You held me there while I came apart under you.”
His fingers dig into my sides. “I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to.”
I lift my head. Look at him.
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.
When I look up, he’s wrecked—chest heaving, eyes glassy, lips bitten red. He’s staring down at me like I just changed his entire world.
I stand. My knees ache. My own cock is throbbing, untouched, leaking steadily into my pants.
He reaches for me—shaky fingers cupping my jaw, thumb brushing my swollen bottom lip.
“You—” His voice cracks. “You just—”
“Yeah,” I rasp. “I did.”
He pulls me in and kisses me. Hard and desperate. Tasting himself on my tongue.
When we break apart, foreheads pressed, breathing ragged, he whispers against my mouth, “No more professional.”
I nod.
“No more.”