The last month of filming straddled February and March. Mostly involved in retakes and voiceover work, Jeremy found his days taken up with activities that didn’t involve Kit. On the final day of production, Greg called everyone together—cast and crew—for a party on the only remaining set, rooms built to look like the interior of a New Orleans mansion.
Greg raised his glass and tapped his fork, the crystal chime resonating throughout the high-ceilinged warehouse structure.
“Do you think he’ll be long-winded?” Kit asked out of the side of his mouth.
Jeremy jumped, not realizing he’d arrived. Wearing a sapphire-blue Armani dress shirt and charcoal trousers, Kit projected a suave sophistication with only a hint of simmering rebellion in the silver neck chain he sported. Jeremy itched to pop every button free and explore the renewed golden tan beneath the expensive fabric. He gave Kit a languid toe-to-head sweep before replying, “Only if he thinks you have a problem with it.”
Two actors put their heads together and whispered, then suppressed a laugh.
“Watch it.” Kit stepped into the shadows near a scrim and surveyed the room as if he scouted for enemy combatants.
“Watch what?” Jeremy asked, feigning innocence.
He knew very well what, but something made him push. Arriving to the wrap party in separate cars even though they’d spent the early afternoon together set him on edge. And the date Kit had with Amber last night to keep up appearances hadn’t helped.
Shooting Jeremy a glare, Kit downed the rest of his champagne. “I need a refill.”
Jeremy took a gulp from his own glass and made a face at the way the bubbles burned his palate. He’d thought… He didn’t know what he’d thought, but whatever he’d envisioned on their return to LA hadn’t been sneaking around back alleys and sharing his lover with a woman who had a bra size larger than her IQ.
“Fuck.” He muttered the curse.
He didn’t want to fight. Not when he knew what Kit didn’t—that beginning the day after tomorrow, they’d likely spend more than four months apart. They’d fallen into a comfortable routine, with Jeremy renting his own apartment but spending most nights at Kit’s. He knew everything about him now, from the flavor toothpaste he liked—cinnamon—to the alarm codes to his condo and car.
Jeremy watched as Kit tilted his glass toward the meandering waiter. As the liquid arced into his flute—bubbling and golden—it reminded Jeremy of Kit’s energy and personality. Despite the closeted nature of their relationship, and Kit’s occasional dates with Amber, Jeremy cherished the intimacies that allowed him to see beyond the Hollywood persona he pulled about himself even now. Unconscious and reflexive in nature, Kit couldn’t help using the second skin to protect himself. Jeremy saw that now. Respected it.
“Jeremy?”
At the sound of his name, Jeremy refocused on his surroundings. Greg beckoned to him from across the room, and everyone turned to watch him make his way up front. Obviously, Greg intended to make some sort of statement at the end of the speech Jeremy’d zoned out on. Jeremy felt himself color at the knowledge that whatever Greg wanted to say concerned him.
Kit paused, glass partway to his lips. Jeremy took in his narrowed gaze as Greg pulled him close, the heavy weight of his arm circling Jeremy’s shoulders. The warm gesture surprised him—would have flattered him—had Kit not looked like he wanted to spit nails into Greg’s jugular from one hundred paces.
“As I was saying, making this film took a lot of bravery—from all of you—and I want to acknowledge the sacrifices everyone made, both politically and financially. Sometimes, however, the world still manages to surprise me. For instance, I never expected the news I had today from my friend Avery Levine.”
Jeremy froze, hearing his new director’s name. Closing his eyes, he tried to will Greg not to continue. Kit didn’t know Jeremy had gotten the part yet. Jeremy hadn’t had a chance to tell him—had only just found out himself.
“When Levine’s lead actor dropped out at the last minute, Jeremy here took an offer to play the part in his new action film, which starts shooting on location in Vietnam the day after tomorrow.”
Forty people whistled and cheered. Jeremy opened his eyes to search for Kit. Staring steadily, Kit put his hands together in a measured approximation of clapping. All stony sarcasm and swagger, the series of gestures didn’t bode well for good-bye sex.
“It seems you can find your way in Hollywood even if you don’t ride a motorcycle or date a string of starlets.” Greg raised his glass in Kit’s general direction. “Who knew? Enjoy the party.”
Greg dropped his arm and walked away to socialize with another producer—a last-minute backer who’d jumped on the bandwagon when No Apologies began to generate Oscar buzz on the press circuit. Why or how was anyone’s guess, because the NSA didn’t have anything on the security and gag orders for this film.
Jeremy found Kit talking with a couple of the actors and waited for him to finish. Though his back stiffened when Jeremy sidled up to the group, Kit didn’t make room for him and didn’t turn to acknowledge him during the fifteen-minute conversation. Shifting from foot to foot, Jeremy finally said, “I have to mosey.”
“Whatever,” Kit shot back. “Have a nice life.”
One actor coughed and turned away while everyone else shuffled their feet. Jeremy felt his face flame, and he tried not to let his anger and hurt choke him.
“Yeah.” That was his comeback? He wanted to smack himself. “See you around.”
He’d heard about on-set romances—how they often exploded to life with the beginning of filming and died a quick death the day of the wrap. After everything he and Kit shared, he hadn’t expected this to be it. Today to be it. They couldn’t exactly have it out here, though, and if Kit wanted to do this now, in this way, what choice did he really have?
“Hey.” Kit caught up to him in the parking lot. Face inscrutable, he said, “Tonight. The Viper. Let’s celebrate your new film.”
“What happened to have a nice life?” Jeremy asked, palming his car keys in a shaking hand. “Whiplash much?”
Kit shrugged and looked around. “Look, I’m not going to pretend I’m not pissed, ’kay?”
“Fair enough.” Leaning back against the car door, Jeremy folded his arms. “I found out right before the party. You weren’t here yet. I didn’t have time to tell you.”
Part of him wanted Kit to just be glad for him. He’d really made something of himself—had been noticed in a major way. While going halfway around the world to film in a humid jungle, doing things he had no experience doing, terrified him, it also occurred to him that if he rose higher than Kit, he might lose what mattered most—his relationship.
Brows drawing together above the curved line of his sunglasses, Kit clenched his jaw and looked away. “You had time to tell Greg.”
“No. I didn’t.” Annoyance with Greg cut an even more jagged line through Jeremy’s rapidly deteriorating mood. Sometimes he understood beyond a doubt what Aaron found so infuriating about the man. “Greg found out direct from Levine because he vouched for me.”
Kit gave him a look that said he didn’t believe a word Jeremy said.
“He did.” Jeremy’s voice rose. He understood Kit’s anger. His disbelief, he found insulting. “How else would someone as green as I am get a part like this?”
“Whatever.” Kit looked away. “You coming tonight or not? I’ll get the guys together.”
“Sure. Do you…” Jeremy started to ask if Kit wanted to spend the night together—likely their last night for months—but Kit’s guarded expression stopped him. “I’ll meet you there.”
“Eleven o’clock.” Snugging his helmet up under his arm, Kit walked away.
Jeremy watched him leave, a feeling of unreality lapping at his ankles in increasing waves with each step Kit took. Something told him the tide in their relationship turned as an unseen force as strong and relentless as gravity pulled them apart.
Five hours later, he identified that force.
“Amber?” Jeremy glared down at the bleach blonde, the pulsing club lights alternating the eerie white highlights in her hair from pink to green. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Eyes like slits, she glared up at him, and he waited for the hissing and spitting to begin. Kit intervened, standing before Amber could open her mouth.
“Good to see ya, bro.” He clapped Jeremy on the back in a manly gesture. “Congratulations on the part.”
The rest of the crew held out hands for fist bumps, and Jeremy made the rounds. He felt like a complete fraud as he stared at Kit and gave him an I’m-not-a-fairy handshake.
“Look, I can’t stay…” Jeremy started to say, his shoulder flexing toward the exit.
Shoving a glass at him, Kit shouted, “Drink! One drink!”
Darting a glance to Amber, he saw the way her eyes narrowed. She stood, her hand going possessively to Kit’s ass where she tucked her fingers into his back pocket. Kit draped his arm around her shoulder and stretched a tight grin over the canvas of his face.
Jeremy shook his head. The celebration… He’d thought maybe he and Kit might be able to talk after—to resolve some things. Obviously that couldn’t happen. Wouldn’t happen. Perhaps he couldn’t control his nightmares when he slept, but he didn’t have to stick around to watch this one wide-awake. Without explanation, Jeremy pivoted and walked out of the club.
Hand shaking, he found his key fob and pressed the unlock button. The car chirped. Sirens sounded in the distance. Moisture in the air promised rain. He looked at the rare clouds rolling above and wondered at the hollow feeling in his chest. He wondered if getting shot felt like this. Getting blown wide open by shrapnel couldn’t hurt as much. Could it? At least if you got shot, you stood a chance of dying—of escaping from the pain. From this kind of injury, his wounds might gape and bleed forever without respite.
Unlatching the car door, he paused at the sound of the club door opening—the din of voices and backbeat of the music pulsing outward in mini shockwaves. He looked over his shoulder, hoping. A renewed barrage of emotional fragments pelted his gut when he saw a couple of women weave unsteadily down the sidewalk as they left. He turned, opened the car door once more, and nearly jumped out of his skin when someone shoved it mostly closed from behind him and boxed him in—arms to either side of his shoulders.
“Don’t go,” Kit rasped in his ear.
“Fuck you,” Jeremy said with quiet sadness.
“I’m sorry Amber showed.”
Jeremy stiffened, the roadmap to his anger suddenly clear at the sound of the woman’s name. “Why’d you do it?”
“She’s always up in my business.” Kit stepped back. Jeremy turned to see him holding his palms up in a helpless gesture. “I invited the guys. She found out.”
The car alarm went off behind him, making both Kit and Jeremy jump. He hadn’t realized he’d been clenching the fob in his hand until it shattered, raining plastic pieces on the ground while more stuck in his hand. It hurt, but not as bad as the holes he knew existed in his middle even if he couldn’t see them.
“Fuck.” Jeremy tossed away the broken electronics and plucked slivers out of his palm before trying to open his door the rest of the way. “I think I have a spare in the glove box.”
“Here. Let me.” Kit moved him aside and leaned over the driver’s seat to rummage in the compartment.
Jeremy tried to ignore the tight fabric of Kit’s jeans—the way it stretched at the place where the seam disappeared between his ass cheeks, cupping each globe and showcasing the firm flesh beneath.
“Got it!”
Triumphant, Kit emerged with the fob held high as he thumbed the alarm button. The blaring cacophony abruptly cut off, and Kit let his arm fall slowly as he took in Jeremy’s expression.
“Get in the car,” Kit said, hoarse. “I’ll drive.”
Jeremy shook his head against the arousal drugging his brain. “Call her. Break it off.”
Nostrils flaring, Kit breathed deep as if cut. “Not yet.”
“Do it.” Jeremy stepped in, making Kit back into the car. “Do it now.”
Kit dropped into the bucket seat sideways, his legs sloping out. Staring down at him, Jeremy had the same perspective as Kit’s character in the graveyard scene. Godlike, he could bend Kit to his will in this moment. He tasted the power and possibility that lay within himself. Force could win out here where gentler patience failed over the past few months.
Tilting his head, he contemplated the possibilities as Kit stared up at him, looking helpless for all his rangy strength. But Jeremy didn’t want to force this. He wanted Kit to choose, to know whatever they had together mattered more than Amber. More than Kit’s career. More than anything. Deflating a little, Jeremy let his arms drop and walked to the passenger side. He slid into the car.
“You have until I get back from Vietnam,” Jeremy said as Kit folded himself into the vehicle and closed his door.
The sound of the engine purring to life accompanied Kit’s jerky nod. “My place or yours?”
“Yours.” Still feeling the thrum of power beneath his skin, Jeremy said, “I’m going to make you scream like a girl…if you can catch your breath.”
Kit’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel, making the vinyl squeak. Jaw jutting, Kit redirected the conversation. “Your car sucks.”
“Yeah.” Jeremy reached out a hand and squeezed Kit’s upper thigh close to the juncture of his legs. “I like things that suck.”
Jerking to a stop at a traffic light, Kit shifted his hips away from the seat to adjust the pressure of his too-tight jeans. Gaze trailing along the painful-looking bulge, Jeremy imagined all the things he could do to fulfill his promise—to make Kit scream. The light turned green, and Jeremy pressed the heel of his palm sideways along Kit’s cock. The car rocked forward in unsteady starts as Kit lost control of the clutch. Jeremy chortled at the mini “car-gasm.” In retribution, Kit took one hand from the steering wheel and grasped Jeremy’s balls none too gently.
“Shit.” Jeremy breathed the word as he rode the tide of pain to the crest of arousal.
“Who’s gonna scream?” Kit asked, throwing down the gauntlet.
Eyes sliding sideways to take him in, Jeremy saw the spark of Kit’s challenge shining in his gaze. They’d fight for the right to be on top this time.
It started in the elevator. Jeremy crashed into Kit without warning, sending him careening into the back wall so hard the elevator rocked. He gathered Kit’s wrists in his grasp, hauled his arms behind his back, and leaned toward the other man’s neck. Breath hot, he nipped and suckled. There’d be marks.
“This the way you want it to go down?” Kit ground out the words, fighting his arousal for control of his thoughts. He needed to plan.
Jeremy lifted his head. Dark eyes glittered with anger-laden passion. He nodded once. Sharp. “Yup.”
“Just making sure.” Kit let his body go limp, tugging Jeremy down—unsteadying him.
In an effort to stay upright, Jeremy released Kit’s wrists. The elevator door slid open. Kit seized the opportunity and shoved Jeremy hard enough the other man tumbled out and landed on his ass. Kit dove onto Jeremy and didn’t bother to withhold his weight as he landed. Jeremy gasped for breath, then rolled in a futile attempt to gain the upper hand. Kit kept the momentum going with a shove of his hips, and they rocketed across the floor toward his door. Seeking mouths found each other in more than a kiss. Lips locked violently. Fists clenched. Fingers ripped at clothing. Something tore.
Jeremy grabbed Kit’s hair and tugged backward until their kiss released. “Truce till you get the door open.”
Wordlessly, Kit stood. Hands shaking with adrenaline, vision tunneled, he barely remembered his own name, never mind his code. When he got it wrong twice in a row, Jeremy bumped him aside and entered it for him. Anxious, even eager, they held their passion until they were through the door.
Kit kicked it shut behind him with the heel of his boot and turned to Jeremy. “Truce. Over.”
Jeremy crashed into Kit, driving him against the door. Their lips met again, eager as ever, yet with a new urgency. Tongues tangled, hands everywhere, Kit couldn’t tell where he ended and Jeremy began.
“Give and I’ll go easy on you.” Jeremy rumbled against Kit’s lips.
Kit shivered, his cock pulling tight at the dominant threat. Shaking his head, he denied his pleasure for the thrill of the battle. He thrust his hips against Jeremy. “You’ll eat those words, among other things.”
The fight was on. No object safe, they crashed against walls, tilting photos and scuffing the paint. A jade lamp fell from the entry table. The floor vibrated under Kit’s boots, and he made the mistake of glancing down to see if the prized object survived the impact. Jeremy spun him around and chicken-winged his arm. Face shoved into the wall, cheekbone smarting from the impact, Kit drank in every ripple of muscles pressed against his back as he caught his breath.
“Give?” Jeremy asked, tugging upward on his arm.
Kit gritted his teeth. With a war cry, he bucked backward, sending Jeremy sailing into the opposite side of the entry. Jeremy hit hard, and his legs buckled a little. Kit backed across the room. Placing the couch between them, he stood with his back to the wall and waited. Vaguely, he heard the sound of rain pelting the windowpanes as the skies opened up outside.
“Strip,” Jeremy said, pausing to shed his shoes and socks.
A corner of Kit’s mouth kicked upward. “No.”
Hand stilling on his top button, Jeremy narrowed his eyes. Not bothering to go around the couch, he walked up the seat cushions, over the top, and hurtled himself downward. Heedless of injury, he used gravity and momentum to his advantage. Kit’s plan hadn’t taken such deviousness into account, and they both crashed to the ground. Not pausing to take in the injury to his hipbone and elbow as he landed, Kit caught hold of Jeremy’s shirt from the collar at the back and pulled. Buttons popped, and the shirt tore down his back with a satisfying schripp.
“Fuck!” Jeremy’s head shot up, and he glared at Kit.
“What? You got that rag at the secondhand store,” Kit said, knowing the label he’d felt under his hand cost about two hundred dollars without the hand tailoring he’d invested.
“Prick.” Jeremy growled the insult.
Then they were at it again in earnest. Hands tearing at one another’s clothes, they crashed their mouths together in bruising kisses. Teeth clacked, noses mashed, and tongues were nicked when they managed to invade past a sharp canine. Grunts and thuds, harsh breathing, and the sweet scent of sweat invaded the air. Palming the back of Jeremy’s head for leverage, Kit felt the damp tendrils of his hair curling under his fingers. His grip slipped, and he accidentally tugged Jeremy’s head forward so their foreheads crashed together. Still seeing stars, he blindly rolled Jeremy into a table. A vase teetered and crashed, shattering on the opposite side.
“Careful,” Kit gasped, lifting his head to assess where the danger lay.
Jeremy, again, used his distraction against him. Shoving Kit’s shirt half off his shoulders, Jeremy trapped Kit’s arms by his sides. Jerking his arms free cost him. Jeremy got hold of Kit’s jeans and tore at the button and zipper before he freed himself from the makeshift bondage of his shirt. Cool air hit Kit’s cock, and he grunted when Jeremy rolled him face-first into the floor.
“Bad day to go commando,” Jeremy said.
Kit froze until the sound of a zipper goaded him into action. Shoving his hips upward, he rolled. Jeremy flailed to the side, then stood. Kit scrambled to his feet and rushed in, head low. Grabbing him around the middle, he threw Jeremy over the back of the couch.
Forced to use all of his weight to pin a struggling Jeremy, Kit mentally grasped for options. Then he spotted a blue bottle on the side table out of the corner of his eye. Desperate, he grunted more than said, “Give and I’ll use the massage oil. Keep it up, I’ll go at you dry.”
Jeremy stilled beneath him. Seconds ticked by as Kit almost heard him weighing his decision. The pain would be too much for him to bear, and Kit would never do it, but it didn’t mean Jeremy had to know.
“Give.” Jeremy gritted the word after an unsuccessful attempt to thrust Kit off him.
Grinning, Kit bunched Jeremy’s underwear and trousers around his knees, hobbling him. He grabbed the blue bottle on the end table and popped open the cap. Slick, squelching sounds and the scent of almonds filled the air. Jeremy’s breath hitched audibly, and Kit’s smile stretched broader. He liked winning, and he hadn’t won much at anything of late.
“Ready to scream?” he asked, leaning into Jeremy’s ear.
The sound of his fists reflexively grasping leather his only answer, Jeremy remained mute. Head bowed. Kit fisted his own cock and entered him hard. The couch groaned across the floor, and Jeremy jerked his head upward. Heated flesh surrounded Kit. The pull of Jeremy’s muscle milked his cock. He squeezed his eyes shut. Willed his orgasm away. This had to last. It couldn’t end. Ever. With each push and withdrawal, Jeremy gasped beneath him. His teeth squeaked audibly, and Kit paused midstroke. He wasn’t enjoying this…?
“What’s wrong?”
Jeremy shook his head. “Don’t stop.”
“No, dude. I’m really hurting you. What is it?” Fuck his pain fetish. Kit got off on knowing he enjoyed it. Otherwise, what was the point?
“My cock is trapped between my pelvis and the couch frame.”
Kit paled at the thought and moved back a little. Jeremy adjusted his hips and sighed, his relief apparent.
“We need some kind of signal.” Kit shook his head, his cock flagging. “You have to tell me if something like that happens again.”
“Shut up and fuck me, Kit, or I’ll show you what an ass pounding really feels like.”
The dark dominance curling through Jeremy’s smooth, steady voice hurtled blood back to Kit’s cock. Vision hazy, he breathed deep through his nostrils and pushed forward. Slowly. Savored every inch of the stroke. In the back of his mind, he realized Jeremy really had control here. Directed the fucking when he jutted his hips, demanding harder. Faster.
Gripping lean hips, Kit complied and thrust balls-deep for a cushioned landing against Jeremy’s ass. The slap-slap of flesh and glistening drip of sweat down Jeremy’s spine painted a three-dimensional picture of his peaking lust. Layers of sensation built in Kit’s abdomen, each one thicker than the last. He slid one hand beneath Jeremy, found his cock and squeezed hard.
Jeremy jerked, then thrust forward, insistent. Kit felt their orgasms building. Together. He bit his lip and made a decision. Two sharp jerks of his hips bumped the head of his cock against Jeremy’s prostate. Jeremy moaned. Then gasped. Tightened already snug muscles. As his own orgasm spiked through him, Kit tightened the circle of his fingers around the base of Jeremy’s balls, cutting off his orgasm.
Sharp, guttural sounds of shock and pleasure-wrapped pain tore from Jeremy’s throat. Kit threw his head back and let the last waves of sensation pulse through him. He’d never known anything like this in someone else’s body—in someone else’s arms. Falling forward, he loosened his grip on Jeremy and slid against sweat-soaked skin. Harsh gasps tore from Jeremy’s chest as little shudders ran along his spine. Kit smiled, knowing he’d just given his lover the best mind fuck ever.
His lover.
“I need some water,” Jeremy said after a long while.
Kit pushed up, stiff muscles protesting, and Jeremy peeled himself from the couch. Sweat glistened on the leather, outlining the shape of Jeremy’s body—his broad chest and tapered waist.
“I’ll get it.” Kit smoothed Jeremy’s hair back and brushed a kiss against his forehead. “You sit.”
Returning, he pressed the cold glass into Jeremy’s hand and flicked a glance at his still-hard cock. A light purple with an underlay of angry red, it bobbed as Jeremy breathed into the glass with greedy gulps. Ice clinked when Jeremy set the glass down on the coffee table. He sat back and rested his head on the couch. Eyes closed—little lines marring their corners—his fists clenched at his sides, he in no way presented a picture of repose.
“What am I going to do with you?” Kit whispered.
Dark eyes flew open, and Jeremy’s breaths deepened as he caught Kit’s considering stare. So much fun to play with… Kit sat, one knee bent along the couch as he faced Jeremy, and placed a hand on his thigh. Cocking his head to one side, he smirked and felt deliciously evil as he said, “I could just leave you like this. Make you suffer.”
Arousal drugging his gaze, nostrils flaring on his inhale, Jeremy kept mute and searched Kit’s face. Kit dipped his eyes to Jeremy’s cock and tsk-tsked as a steady stream leaked from the tip. With one finger, he traced the fluid, pulling it from tip to base. Jeremy hissed air through his teeth, and Kit grinned.
“Do you like it?” he asked, swooping in to place a suckling kiss on parted, wine-red lips. “Do you like being denied?”
So much about Jeremy’s body fascinated him. They were so alike yet so different. From the shape of their cocks—Jeremy’s wavered ponderously, while Kit’s strutted and bobbed—to which sensations and nerve endings, kinks and pressures, got them off. He enjoyed learning these nuances and playing with them—using his mind as well as his body to increase their mutual pleasure.
“It burned.” Jeremy closed his eyes as a blush painted the ridges of his cheekbones. “It hurt like hell.”
Kit frowned until Jeremy licked his lips and rasped, “So good.”
“C’mere.” Kit stood and tugged Jeremy from the couch. “Watch the glass on the floor.”
Grasping Jeremy around the waist, Kit led him to the bedroom and pressed him on the bed. His lover lay back against the bronze silk—a long-limbed, muscled picture of pale-skinned perfection. Wanting to give him release but knowing Jeremy’d rather have the chemical high of being denied, Kit hovered in indecision. Just because he’d want the orgasm didn’t mean Jeremy did. Lying down, he pulled Jeremy to him and kissed the top of his head with a sigh.
“Sleep,” he said. And they did.