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Chapter Sixteen

Nico

P etyr and Dimitri came in like two chaotic elves carrying the giant vinyl backdrop between them, shuffling backward so they wouldn’t knock over a ring light, or a fully naked man.

“Sakura Splendor,” the banner read in dramatic, swirling gold script, because nothing says money shot masterpiece like anime fonts and fake cherry blossoms from the craft store.

They unfurled it behind Bradley. Sorry, Blake, who was still perched on his little stool in the middle of the set, looking like a man seconds away from an out-of-body experience. His knees were bouncing and lips were parted. He clutched his robe like it was a life raft.

He looked terrified. And somehow, also stupidly hot.

I was standing off to the side with the rest of the cast, all of us lined up like horny contestants on a perverse game show. Everyone was in robes, technically, but you could tell some of these guys had never been told that patience was a virtue.

Evan, especially. Dude had a CrossFit chest, and the exact kind of overly gleeful face you’d expect from a guy who’d voluntarily gotten a cum-related quote tattooed on his ribcage. The front of his robe was already doing that aggressive tent thing, and Laura hadn’t even yelled “action” yet.

Honestly? A few of the other guys looked equally excited. One of them was doing stretches. Another was eating a protein bar like he was preparing for the Olympics.

Was I the only one here who wasn’t dying to be a part of this circle jerk baptism?

Laura clapped her hands once, hard, like she was calling class to order at Whore Hogwarts.

“Okay boys,” she said. “This is how it’s gonna go.”

She walked slowly in front of us, her heels clicking on the vinyl floor. Total dominatrix energy, even without the thigh-high boots today.

“You’ll be in a wide circle around Blake. I want noise. Movement. Eye contact if you can handle it. I don’t want statues, and I don’t want anyone zoning out or staring at the porn monitors like you’re on a treadmill. You’re here. Be here.”

A few guys nodded like they were in a TED Talk.

“And at the end,” Laura continued, “I want a visual crescendo. That means a wave. A storm. A collective release. But before that—before the chaos—I need one of you to sit behind Blake. I need someone to hold him. To ground him. To engage with him. You’ll be pleasuring him while the scene plays out.

And you’ll be the last to finish. You’re the exclamation point. ”

Evan’s hand shot up like he was answering a question in health class.

“Oh! Oh me! I volunteer! I’m so down.”

I saw red.

The hell he was.

Before I even knew what I was doing, I said it. Louder than I meant to.

“I’ll do it.”

The room turned toward me. Laura froze mid-stride. Her mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again.

She glanced at Liam, who raised both eyebrows like, don’t bring me into this.

“Nico,” she said, too sweet, too careful, “can I talk to you for a sec?”

I gritted my teeth. “Sure.”

I turned to Bradley—Blake—who looked up at me like I’d just agreed to walk him through a minefield instead of a cumstorm. His eyes were wide. Grateful.

“Be right back,” I said.

“Thanks,” he whispered, and his voice cracked just enough that I felt it all the way down.

Laura led me to the back corner of the room, away from the lights and the lingering eye contact of the cast.

She leaned in. “Nico, what are you doing?”

“Volunteering,” I said.

“You’re not just volunteering. You’re staking a claim.”

“So?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t you remember what I told you? Bradley’s an ex-con. A recent one. You don’t want to get involved with someone like that. It’s bad news.”

I crossed my arms. “I am involved.”

“Feelings are one thing,” she whispered. “But feelings that develop during a bukkake scene? That’s just trauma waiting to happen.”

I didn’t blink. “If you don’t pick me, I’m walking. Right now. I’ll leave and never come back.”

Her jaw tightened. Her eyes searched mine, probably looking for a crack, a moment of bluff.

But there wasn’t one.

She sighed like I’d just ruined her birthday and nodded once. “Fine.”

We walked back together, her heels clicking faster this time. She stopped in front of the circle of men and raised both arms.

“Okay, gentlemen. Let’s disrobe.”

Robes dropped like dominos. I kept mine on a second longer, not because I was shy, but because I only wanted one person looking at me.

Bradley.

And when I finally pulled mine off, I stared right at him. And he looked back. His robe was still on, clutched at the neck. His eyes trailed down my chest, then back up.

But he didn’t look away.

Laura turned to him and rolled her eyes.

“Jesus, Blake. Take off the robe. It’s not a quinceanera.”

He swallowed. Stood up.

The robe slipped off his shoulders.

And for a second, just a second, everything went quiet in my head.

Because yeah, the guy had been hot since day one. But this was different. This was real. Bradley wasn’t posing. He wasn’t acting. He was standing there, shaking slightly, chest rising and falling, every muscle tense. Every nerve on fire.

And he was staring at me.

“Get in position, Nico,” Laura snapped.

Bradley knelt on the floor, exhaling like someone had just punched him in the gut.

I walked over, slow, deliberate, and lowered myself behind him, wrapping my arms around his chest.

Bradley leaned back into me without resistance.

The room was quiet, heavy with anticipation and the soft rustling of robes being kicked aside. And then, like some deranged fairy godmother, Nessa burst through the door with a gallon-sized jug of lube clasped in both arms like she was bringing sacred wine to a Roman orgy.

“Showtime, boys!” she called, grinning like a lunatic. “Let’s make it glossy!”

She went from man to man like an oil-slicked Oprah. “You get lube, and YOU get lube…” Pumping generous dollops into every eager palm, giving the men little pep talks like a deranged soccer coach. “There ya go, sweetie. Don’t be shy with it. Pretend you’re icing a cake.”

Evan got extra. Of course.

The men formed a circle around us, stroking casually, confidently, like this was Tuesday at the office and we were just in the break room about to sing “Happy Birthday.”

I didn’t move. My arms stayed locked around Bradley’s chest, holding him tighter than necessary.

If anyone was going to enjoy him today—it was going to be me.

Laura raised her hand, then called toward the back: “Music, please!”

Liam, perched behind the camera, frowned. “We’re playing music for a cumshot circle?”

“It relaxes the talent,” she said. “We’ll be replacing it in post-production with the soundtrack the clients requested. Something about traditional flutes and ambient dripping water. It’s like Japanese Enya music.” Laura rolled her eyes.

I didn’t ask.

From a nearby speaker, the intro to a synthy J-pop song started playing. Something bubblegum and bouncy that did not match the scene that was about to happen.

“Quiet on set,” Laura called.

Silence dropped like a curtain. Only the sound of the music, lube squelching, and the faint buzz of nervous breathing remained.

“Action!”

The lights hit. The camera rolled. And suddenly I was hyperaware of everything.

Twenty guys slowly stroking. Breathing heavy. Looking at us. No, at him. Bradley sat still in front of me, stiff as a statue, his skin prickling under my hands. I could feel his heartbeat—rabbit-quick—under my palm.

I hated it.

I hated watching these guys stare at him like he was just some canvas. I hated the way Evan licked his lips every few seconds, like he was imagining this was an all-you-can-eat buffet and Bradley was dessert.

Laura’s voice cut through the air. “Nico! Hands!”

I glanced up.

She was staring at me, then down at where my hands rested, clutching Bradley’s chest like I was trying to keep him from floating away.

“You’re supposed to be pleasuring Blake,” she snapped.

My breath hitched.

Bradley’s breath hitched too.

And slowly, like someone defusing a bomb, I moved my right hand lower. Over his stomach. Past his waist. He let out a soft gasp the moment I curled my fingers around him. I didn’t know if the pill had kicked in, or if this was just him, but he was already hard. Thick. Warm in my palm.

And fuck me, I got dizzy.

I wrapped my fingers around him and stroked once, slow and deliberate.

He shivered. This wasn’t acting. Not for me.

I leaned in, kissed the side of his neck, and felt the tremble in his spine. He tilted his head toward me—unconsciously, instinctively.

I couldn’t help myself.

I whispered, “You know, I’ve never shared my toys before. Especially not with a bunch of discount Abercrombie extras.”

His chest rose hard against my arm.

I kept going, my hand working him, gentle but constant.

“Look at Evan,” I murmured in his ear. “He’s gripping his dick like he’s trying to twist open a jar of pickles.”

Bradley choked on a breath.

“Guy to your left,” I whispered. “Did he just moan ‘for Rome’? Because I swear I heard it.”

Bradley’s shoulders shook.

“And that one’s staring at the gay porn monitor like it owes him money.”

A snort escaped him.

“You okay?” I asked, still moving my hand.

His body curled back into mine like a vine reaching for sunlight.

“I—I think so,” he said, but it came out breathy. Borderline hysterical.

“Hey,” I added, mouth brushing his ear, “if you want me to describe what Evan’s orgasm face probably looks like, it’s just his regular face but smugger—”

Bradley burst out laughing.

Like full-bodied, belly-shaking laughter.

“CUT!” Laura yelled, slamming her clipboard down. “Nico! Stop telling jokes!”

I froze mid-stroke, trying not to laugh myself.

“Sorry!” I called out.

Laura glared. “He’s supposed to be moaning, not giggling like he’s at a slumber party!”

Bradley was still wheezing softly in my arms, chest rising and falling under my touch.

I couldn’t help smiling.

“Action!” she snapped again.

And just like that, we were back in it.

Only now, I was the one shaking.

Because holding him like this?

It didn’t feel like a performance anymore.

It felt like possession.

Like I’d kill anyone who got too close.

Like I didn’t want to let him go when the cameras stopped rolling.

One guy near the front suddenly lurched forward with a strangled gasp and blurted, “Shit, sorry! I’m not usually this fast, but…”

His cock twitched and spurt! The first blast hit Bradley dead center on the forehead like a perverse baptism.

Bradley flinched, blinking fast, and I swear to God, something primal uncoiled in my gut.

I tightened my arm around him.

If I hadn’t been holding him in place, I probably would’ve launched myself at the guy and tackled him into the lighting rig. Not because of the shot itself—this was the job—but because of the tone. The eagerness. The casual disrespect. Like Bradley was just a warm surface to aim at.

I leaned in, my lips brushing the shell of his ear.

“Don’t move,” I growled. “You’re mine.”

Then I turned his head gently, just enough so I could kiss him.

It wasn’t a quick peck. It was slow. Deep. Hungry.

He moaned into my mouth, his body arching into mine, and fuck, I felt him pulse in my hand. Still not done. Still so hard.

He started to reach up toward his forehead, instinctively.

“Don’t you fucking touch that!” Laura barked from behind the camera. “Hands down! No wiping it off—continuity!”

Bradley groaned in protest, but dropped his hand.

And then the real onslaught began.

One by one, the performers stepped forward, closing in like a slow-motion, glossy tidal wave. Their expressions ranged from serious to ecstatic to vaguely constipated. They jerked harder, faster, all aiming toward the same target—my target.

The second guy moaned and painted Bradley’s collarbone. The third sprayed across his chest in thick white ropes, leaving trails that glistened against his flushed skin. Another shot across his cheek. Another across his stomach.

And I just kept stroking him, my palm slick with pre-cum and lube, every touch dragging a whimper from his throat. His body jerked in my lap, trembling like a live wire.

I should’ve been disgusted. Or at least detached. But I was hard as fucking granite. My cock throbbed against Bradley’s back with every groan that left his lips.

Because he was falling apart in my arms. Surrounded by strangers, getting covered in all of them, but it was me who held him. Me who touched him. Me, who made him moan like this.

I whispered to him between shots.

“That one didn’t even aim.”

“He’s not even looking at you. What a waste.”

“Tell me when you want me to knock someone out. Just say the word.”

Bradley was gasping, panting, his head lolling back on my shoulder as the final few men stepped forward and let loose—thick, hot spurts coating his cheeks, his chest, the side of his neck.

He was drenched.

Glazed, actually. Like a very specific kind of donut.

And I was shaking with how much I wanted him.

The last guy—fucking Evan—took his sweet time. Stroked theatrically, huffed like he was lifting weights, and finally finished with an exaggerated groan and a dramatic arc that splattered across Bradley’s face like it was the Mona Lisa.

I saw red again.

But before I could move, before I could tear into him or spit some insult, Bradley whimpered, and suddenly, he was coming in my hand.

His whole body went rigid, chest heaving, and his cock throbbed against my fingers as he came, hot and messy, across his own stomach.

The sound he made—God. That soft, strangled moan. That tiny twitch of his thighs. That desperate clutch of his fingers against my wrist.

I almost lost it right there.

I wanted to kiss him again—hard, deep—but his face was a disaster. His lips, his cheeks, his forehead. All of it.

Not now. Not like this.

So I stood.

I peeled myself up from the floor, my dick aching, leaking, my entire body humming with the need to claim him, and I stepped forward.

Laura’s voice cracked through the air: “Nico. Finish strong.”

I stared down at Bradley. He was still on his knees, covered, flushed, panting. His eyes locked on mine like I was the only thing in the room that mattered.

And maybe I was.

I wrapped my hand around myself and stroked fast, with no hesitation, no shame. Just need. The need to mark this moment. The need to be part of what had just happened. To leave something of myself on him.

I came hard. Violently. Spilling across his shoulder and neck, chest heaving, my breath catching in my throat.

And somehow—somehow—it felt like the most intimate thing I’d ever done.

I stared down at him, wrecked and perfect, and I felt it again.

The ache. The fear.

The undeniable truth.

What the fuck was I supposed to do...

…if I was starting to fall in love with him?