Chapter 1

KYRIE’S amazing day was about to get a cherry on top. He opened the apartment door to the rattle of keys on the other side.

Greg’s mouth dropped open, eyes widening comically, but he spared a nervous glance for the empty hallway behind him before stepping swiftly over the threshold.

He shut the door and locked it with a snap of the deadbolt.

“Is it my birthday already?” Easing his work computer to the floor, Greg allowed the suit jacket draped over one arm to follow unceremoniously. As he loosened his tie, yanking the knot from side to side, his mahogany gaze did a similar zigzag down Kyrie’s exposed body.

“This, my love, is just one of the outfits I was given today when I went for my Spectrum Spectacular callback.”

Greg took in the full extent of Kyrie’s ensemble, what little there was of it, and his auburn brows lowered. Kyrie spun around to give him the complete picture, peeking back over his shoulder with a salacious lick of the lips. The white micro trunks and matching fishnet tank were his favorite parts of the ample cache he’d received. He’d been beyond excited for Greg to get home and see them.

“Why would they…? You got the job?” A grin broke across Greg’s face, but the disapproval was still evident as he continued to eye Kyrie’s appearance.

“I got the job! I got the job!” He grabbed Greg’s hands and pumped them up and down. “I’m modeling with Anders Berglund! Anders. Berglund! The Swedish supermodel! We’re partners for the No Black, No White shoot!”

He clasped his hands together while the rest of his body vibrated with pent-up energy. Anders Berglund was gargantuan, his gorgeous face on nearly every magazine cover in the grocery store checkout aisle. Kyrie’s fairy godmother had waved a magic wand over him, and Greg just stood there with his forehead puckered.


Greg slid his arms around Kyrie, rubbing his back as if he were cold. “So…this is what you’re gonna be wearing?”

“Maybe. Who knows? They gave us a few outfits to try on for size.”

“This is not an outfit.” Greg rubbed the holey fabric between his fingers.

Kyrie canted his head, eyebrows lifting as he delivered his best You’re kidding, right? stare. “This is only a sample. There will be all kinds of clothes at the shoot. I’m sure they’ll pick the best of the best after we’re done.”

“Won’t posing half-naked hurt your acting career?”

Kyrie scoffed, rolling his eyes. “No! Watch how many doors this opens. Just you wait.”

“And this is for what? Gay rights or…something?”

Kyrie ramped up the baleful expression. “Have you been listening to anything I’ve said for the past month? It’s not just gay. It’s everything. A campaign to call attention to all shades of the sexual identity spectrum. We gays are pretty widely accepted these days, you might be surprised to know.”

Greg’s arms stiffened around him, and Kyrie bit down on a sigh. Yes, we gays. Including you. Or maybe bi sits better, but you’ve been sticking it to a dude for almost a year and a half now. Time to officially join the not-so-straight club.

Kyrie expelled a frustrated breath after all. “It’s a phenomenal thing to be part of, never mind the sweet paycheck I’ll be pullin’ in. Never mind that I’ll be working with Anders Fucking Berglund and how much visibility I’ll get out of it.” He squeaked, elation bubbling from him despite Greg’s muted response.

“And I thought his first name was bad,” Greg groused, even as his fingers tested the thin mesh over Kyrie’s back and traveled lower.

Kyrie freely admitted he was damned stunning in the getup. All the white clothing they’d given him popped against the brown skin he’d inherited from his mother. Conversely, Anders was the fairest lad in all the land. He had pale blond hair and porcelain skin, fractured only by startlingly dark eyebrows and a couple of highly fortuitous moles rumored to have launched his career. He’d be dressed in black and guaranteed to look amazing. Together…this was going to be fucking epic.

“I thought you’d be proud of me.” Kyrie pouted, simultaneously arching his ass into Greg’s touch like a cat begging for attention.

“Of course I’m proud of you. I just worry about…well—”

“Everything?” Kyrie reached up to stroke Greg’s cheek, loving the feel of his trimmed beard and mustache combo. It could be soft, skimming over Kyrie’s nipples while Greg flicked a tongue and lit them on fire, or it could be coarse, bordering on harsh, as Greg went savage licking Kyrie’s ass and balls. Sure, that sort of thing was usually reserved for the times Greg had a few drinks on board and abandoned his inhibitions fully. But, oh God, when it happened…

Kyrie’s dick swelled thinking about Greg’s tongue swirling over his asshole. “Want me to pour you a little whiskey to help you wind down after your hard—” he squeezed Greg’s cock through his suit pants, “—day, sexy?”

Greg grunted and rocked his hips into Kyrie’s hand. “I can always use a little tension release.” His eyes, hooded, stared at Kyrie’s lips.

He parted them slowly and dragged his tongue tip across his top teeth. “I think I have one of those stress balls around here somewhere.”

Firm and fast, Greg hauled him flush against his chest and stole Kyrie’s breath. His fingers explored Kyrie’s ass crack—crude, demanding, bunching the satiny material between his cheeks before dragging lower to feather behind his nuts.

“Think I found my two favorite stress balls right here.” Greg wore a wicked grin. “Trying to hide ’em on me?”

He gathered the back of Kyrie’s tiny tight boxers, taking the wedgie to another level. He gasped and lifted on his toes. His sac was trapped, kinked up on one side of the seam almost painfully tight. Greg cupped Kyrie’s slung nuts, the touch so gentle it reminded him of ice over fire. Cool, crisp sheets after a day from hell.

Kyrie loved being the seductive bottom, igniting Greg with his teasing and flirting, backing off while he simmered. Then Kyrie would stoke him higher, feeding the inferno until Greg eventually crumbled and became the domineering top. Usually they made the game last, pushing each other’s buttons in their own drawn-out version of foreplay.

The sliver of pain slicing down Kyrie’s crack paired succulently with the throbbing wood pressed against his lower belly. All signs told him they were going straight to sudden death—no warm-up, no scrimmage, just hot, fast action. Game on.

“What’re you gonna do to me?”

“I should make you beg.” Greg grabbed Kyrie’s hard-on with his other hand. “Make you drop on your knees and suck me off. Then get me hard again for your turn.” Kyrie whimpered, his mouth filling with saliva. “Get my cock nice and wet before I feed it to that greedy ass of yours.”

“Yes.” It was a husky, wanton word, more moan than speech. Kyrie closed his eyes. In the darkness, Greg’s lips covered his, and the scruff he adored grazed his chin and cheeks. His tongue split Kyrie’s mouth open, not as if he didn’t want it, but the coy act was a tough one to break. Well, Greg broke it—butchered it—tenderized Kyrie’s tongue with his own until his thighs quivered and the strip of spandex jammed up his ass became another lover he wanted to hump when his pelvic thrusts pitched him away from the hard slab of man rutting against his front.

Greg cupped Kyrie’s balls again. “Whose are these?”

“Yours.” Kyrie’s breath stuttered while Greg dragged fingers over his cock, a bit hard, a bit rough. Absolutely perfect.

“Whose dick is this, Kyr?” Greg milked precome from Kyrie like a seasoned farmhand, leaning in to bite his lower lip nearly hard enough to draw blood. Kyrie groaned.

“Yours, Greg.”

“Turn around.” In case Kyrie wasn’t about to follow orders, Greg spun him so his palms slapped the wall; his face flattened against cool paint. Greg slid warm hands up and under Kyrie’s mesh top. He pinched his erect nipples, eliciting a gasp, and then stroked his Lycra-covered dick before heading back toward his waistband. Kyrie braced for another tug upward, but Greg surprised him by yanking his underwear down. The burn on his crack flared and abated, and then Greg’s fingers, slick with spit, skated along his cleft, massaging his hole like a balm.

“Whose tight ass is this, Kyr?”

Jealous, horny Greg had to be Kyrie’s favorite sex toy. “It can be yours.”

Greg punished, or maybe rewarded, him with a thick pointer finger piercing him fully, no warning. Kyrie sobbed, cheek hitting the wall. Greg’s mouth found his earlobe, biting and then licking, his finger fucking Kyrie slowly while the hard cock caged in fine wool mimicked the action against Kyrie’s lower back.

“Just mine.” Greg growled against his ear, nipping at the delicate skin below before sucking it into his mouth for a second. “You don’t want me marking you for your photo shoot. You better give me the right answer.”

Greg jammed a second damp finger inside Kyrie, and he yelped before grinding his ass back, swiveling his hips so Greg skimmed his prostate and made his dick jump.

“You need me to fuck you so you remember whose this is?”

“Yeah. Fuck, yeah, I do.”

“Blow my load in this sweet hole to prove it’s mine. You want that?”

Kyrie panted in time with Greg’s thrusts, legs shaking and belly trembling. “Oh God, yes. Make this ass yours.”

Greg’s fingers pulled free, and Kyrie exhaled, feeling vacant and needy, but so on edge he might come from the slightest touch.

“Get the underwear off, but don’t turn around. You can leave your slutty top on.”

An unzipping sound came from behind as Kyrie shimmied out of the bottoms. Greg spit noisily once, twice. And then wet fingers found his heat again, greasing him up before they gave way to the enticing nudge of stiff cockhead brushing his barrier.

“Mine.” Greg drove inside, length and girth overwhelming, stuffing Kyrie completely.

He let loose a guttural cry.

“Fuck, that’s tight. So. Fuckin’. Tight.” Greg punctuated each word with a snap of his hips.

Breath scorched Kyrie’s neck, and he worked a hand toward his own cock. He didn’t care if his head got thumped on the wall once Greg got going—he needed to marry this superb fullness and Greg’s deliciously dirty mouth with the zing of friction on his dick.

“Uh-uh.” Greg caught him in the act and forced his palm back against the wall. “That’s mine, too.”

Kyrie made a pitiful sound, and then one of Greg’s big hands shifted from Kyrie’s hip and wrapped around his leaking prick. He thumbed a droplet over Kyrie’s tip before leisurely jerking his foreskin over and back, over and back, while he loved him from behind, hips rolling slow and sensuous, beard and lips nuzzling Kyrie’s shoulder.

“Hot little hole you got for me, Kyr. You like this cock inside you?”

It was bad enough waiting hours for Greg to get home, all the while imagining what he’d do. It was bad enough having an exquisitely sensitive intact dick thanks to his traditional Korean father. Okay, Greg always told him how lucky he was on that count, but right now, when his nuts were drawn up higher than a whore’s skirt and he was only a stroke or two away from bursting all over Greg’s hand, he didn’t feel so lucky. When Greg switched to dirty-talk mode, all bets were off. Kyrie never stood a chance.

Greg thought he enjoyed dressing up for the fun of it. In a sense; most of the time, the sluttier the outfit, the more worked up Greg got. And the more worked up Greg got…

“Fuck. I…” Kyrie managed to hold back for two more flicks of Greg’s wrist. Two more thrusts of Greg’s hard dick against raw skin. Two more scrapes of fat cockhead against his gland. And then, he blew.

“Yeah. Yeah.” Greg fucked him through the orgasm.

Kyrie’s muscles seized and grabbed, fighting to keep Greg inside forever, but he pulled out on their mutual gasp.

“Turn around.”

Kyrie’s legs struggled to obey. He managed to face Greg, back resting against the wall, his breath choppy. Greg’s button-down shirt was hopelessly rumpled, and a suspicious dark spot marred the front of his fine gray slacks. Damn, the dry cleaners were gonna have a field day with that come-crusted Versace tomorrow.

Greg leered at his spunk-covered fingers. “This is mine, too.” He licked the tip of his middle finger before closing his wet hand over his dick. It jutted, red and ready, through his gaping fly. He rubbed himself a few times, gaze locked with Kyrie’s in a spine-tingling promise. Then he was lifting Kyrie’s orgasm-weak legs, demanding Kyrie wrap them around his hips as he plowed back inside, wetter and harder than before.

Greg slammed into him—brutal, fast, again and again—fingers dimpling Kyrie’s ass cheeks while his tailbone hammered the wall. The neighbors would probably call the cops if it went on too long.

And then Greg grunted, jerking as his rhythm disintegrated under the force of climax. He sighed and burrowed his head against Kyrie’s mesh-clad chest, huffing and shuddering as Kyrie slowly slid down the wall. Back to solid ground.

Someone from 14 D drummed their ceiling under Kyrie’s feet.

He chastised Greg with a reproachful look before hollering, “Just hanging something up! We’re done now!” He stomped once for fun.

“Hanging something up, huh?” Greg peered at his trousers as if just realizing what he’d done.

“You’re an animal.”

“I am what you made me.” He tucked his junk back in his boxers, mouth twisted in a wry grin.

“Mmm.” Kyrie snuggled into Greg’s embrace and gave him a long, closed-mouth kiss. “Damn, I’m good.”

“No argument there.” Greg squeezed his ass. “Hope we didn’t ruin your getup.” He didn’t sound sincere.

“If you did, I’ll be sure to tell them exactly what happened to it when I ask for a new one.”

“Don’t you dare.” Greg gave him a warning pinch.

“I think you know I most certainly would.”

“Yeah. That’s the scary part.”

“You love my big mouth.” Kyrie purred; the sound usually made Greg laugh.

His mouth twitched at the corners before he planted a wet one on Kyrie’s lips. “In more ways than one. Now, what about your other outfits? I think I get first right of refusal.”

Kyrie narrowed his eyes. Damn, his best-friend-turned-boyfriend was smokin’ hot. Red-brown hair matched the full beard Kyrie had wheedled him into growing. Brown eyes with a hint of flame mirrored his fiery mane. Pale as Kyrie was dark, Greg was big all over, again in total contrast to Kyrie’s five-nine, toned-but-slim build. Okay, probably closer to five-eight, but all my head shot bios round up.

Everything about Greg wound Kyrie up, which made it so damn hard to say no right now.

“I’ll hold them up, but the fashion show is over, pal. I’m not putting on another piece of wardrobe with come dripping out of my ass.”

“Oh, no? What will you do with come dripping out of your ass, then?”

Kyrie grinned. “Order Thai delivery.”

Greg snorted.

“Sit on your lap and feed it to you.”

“Hmm. Interesting.”

“Well, I won’t spoil any of my surprises—” Kyrie shook his head, “—but suffice it to say, you shouldn’t be disappointed.”

Greg plucked a cell phone from his pants pocket and held it out between two pinched fingers. “I’m going to change. No answering the door naked.”

Kyrie saluted and clicked his heels together, still bare from the waist down. “Aye aye, captain.”

“And light a candle.” Greg shuffled to the bathroom. “Smells like a porno shoot in here.”