Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
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CILLIAN WOKE TO THE MORNING sun baking into his skin—hotter on one side, where something smooth and hard and sleek pressed into him, trapping his body heat until he was nearly sweating half to death. He opened one eye, blinking in muzzy confusion.
And found himself face to face with the taut curves of Brendan Lau’s half-naked arse.
Cillian stiffened, blinking himself awake rapidly with a little jolt shooting through him. He. Uh. Oh. Oh, fuck. He’d…come over to Brendan’s last night, they’d rehearsed a little, tried the thing, and then…then…
He’d fallen apart and turned into a shaking wreck, and apparently fallen asleep in Brendan’s arms. How he got from Brendan’s sofa to Brendan’s bed with Brendan in it, he didn’t know, but it was almost worth the embarrassment to wake up to one hell of a view.
Brendan had changed, wearing nothing but a pair of loose black cotton pants that had lost the battle against surface friction to drag down over his hips, exposing the tightly rounded, hard-muscled upper curves of his ass, the cleft of his spine leading down between his buttocks. Soft morning light flowed over his skin to soften hard edges into glowing liquid honey, creating a pool of molten gold as illumination gathered between his hard, pronounced shoulder blades; Brendan slept on his stomach against a tangle of white sheets, a pillow hugged under his chin.
And his entire body completely upside down, feet against the headboard, one toned, brick-muscled arm draped over the foot of the bed to dangle to the floor.
While Cillian had somehow contorted himself into a knot on his side of the bed, sleeping in a ball somewhere between head and foot and in the perfect position to wake up to a half-moon at sunrise.
He just…blinked groggily for a few minutes, then touched his aching, sore face. Had Brendan wiped his makeup off and put him to bed? Cillian groaned, pushing himself up and scrubbing a hand over his face with a yawn. He could blame the white wine for this entire situation, but one glass wasn’t even enough to get him buzzed, and it had been out of his system before they even fully finished dinner.
No, this was all him.
Turning into a hot wreck around Brendan, fumbling and needy and…
What am I doing?
What am I getting mixed up in my head, that I’m already getting so messy over this?
This whole thing was just a matter of convenience, no matter that it hadn’t felt like convenience when Cillian had panicked last night and Brendan had just…held him and let him calm down. It didn’t mean anything. Two strangers fucking around. So Cillian might as well just…
Have a little fun and fuck around.
He fished inside his shirt for his phone; a miracle it hadn’t fallen from his breast pocket and vanished into the sheets overnight. Propping himself on his free hand, he swiped past a dozen new texts from his mother without reading them and angled the front-facing camera toward himself—twisting it to get a good landscape shot of himself, Brendan’s gluteus display, and the golden-glimmering view of the sunrise over Los Angeles beyond the windows. Set the timer, stick his tongue out, wink, peace sign, and…
There.
Smiling to himself, he dragged the photo into a new Insta post, catching his tongue between his teeth and muttering as he tapped over the screen. “Loving the view…hash…tag…rehearsal…and…chill.”
A drowsy growl rose at his back. “…if you’re sending my naked ass over the internet, I’ll kill you.”
“…c’mon. Are we for real fake boyfriends without at least one shameless selfie?” Cillian grinned over his shoulder. “It’s only half your naked arse. Please? It’ll make the story more believable.”
Brendan turned his head, one dark eye watching him over a curving bicep in disgust. “You’re just enjoying getting to brag that you’re dating me.”
“Maybe a little.”
“Nnf.” Brendan buried his face in the pillow, his hair sticking up in black, bedheaded tufts. “Fine. Send it. I don’t want to read the comments.”
“Thank you,” Cillian sang, then tapped the button and sent the image flying.
He wasn’t expecting nearly two dozen notifications to pop up instantly, nearly vibrating his phone out of his hand—and more pouring in by the second.
Oh my god, that’s Brendan Lau’s apartment, isn’t it?
forget the apartment is that brendan lau’s ASS
No seriously didn’t they do that one shoot for Vanity Fair at his place?
Cillian’s in Brendan’s apartment! IN HIS BED!!!
We stan not one but TWO kings MY KINGS DID THAT your faves COULD NEVER
omg im getting too emotional im gonna cry i bet their so in love
ITS TRUE ITS TRUE OMFG ITS TRUE
Movie star husbands living the dream
Hahaha lskjklfjslk sksksksks lucky bitch getting to wake up to dat ass
“Apparently,” Cillian said, “your arse has made me one ‘lucky bitch.’”
“…I didn’t want you to read the comments to me, either,” Brendan grunted, before rolling onto his back with an expansive yawn, baring the long, sculpted stretch of a torso crafted in sinuous lines, flexible and elastic muscle making him a thing of coiling flows and sensuously winding twists drawing tighter and tighter in the hard planes of his chest and the narrow, inviting dip of his waist. Brendan folded an arm underneath his head, looking up at Cillian with sleepy eyes. “I take it that means they believe it.”