The first practice after the Sharks won passage to the finals was brutal. Nick hadn’t thought Coach Hendricks would go easy on them, that wasn’t even what he wanted, but if anyone on the team had secretly hoped for a gentle victory lap, they were proven wrong not even fifteen minutes in.
They’d started at seven sharp, the California sun already climbing high and merciless, turning the pitch into a furnace. Two hours later they were still going strong, lungs burning, legs like lead, but no one dared slack off. Coach Hendricks stalked the sideline like a general who’d just watched his army get humiliated, not the one that had pulled off a stunning last-second try to clinch the semifinal.
“Again! From the top!” he roared, voice carrying over the thump of boots on grass and the sharp crack of bodies colliding. “That lineout was sloppy as a Sunday league hangover! Whittaker, get your fucking head in the game! Jenkins, that pass was wank, put some zip on it or we’re doing suicides till you puke!”
The lads reset without complaint, forwards packing down for another scrum, backs fanning out for the strike move. Nick, at outside centre, felt the sun hammering down on his neck, sweat pouring off him in rivers, soaking the navy training jersey until it clung to his chest and back like a second skin. The pitch was a mess already,mud churned up from the early dew, grass stains smeared across his thighs and arms, every sprint leaving him caked in it. His muscles screamed with the good kind of strain: calves tight from explosive bursts, shoulders aching from driving tackles, core burning as he powered through contact drills again and again. They ran set plays till Nick’s vision blurred at the edges, lineouts crashing down, mauls grinding forward, backs slicing through gaps that Coach immediately shut with a bark of criticism. “Nelson! You call that a step? My nan could’ve read that! Commit or get off my pitch!”
Nick just gritted his teeth, wiped the sweat from his eyes with the hem of his jersey, and reset. The sun beat down relentless, turning the air thick and shimmery, the faint salt breeze from the coast doing bugger all to cool them. His body glistened, golden skin slick, and every breath tasted of grass and effort and that bitter edge of exhaustion that meant they were pushing proper limits.
Coach didn’t let up. Because finals were waiting in Houston, and a semifinal win meant nothing if they turned up soft. That’s exactly what they needed, and in a way Nick was grateful for Coach never going easy on them, never settling for “just enough.” Hendricks believed they could be the best in the country, proper believed it, with that fierce, quiet trust that made you want to run through walls for him, and Nick was determined to prove him right, to show he was worthy of it.
So despite the exhaustion dragging at his limbs, he felt exhilarated too, the kind of elated rush only competitive sport could give you, endorphins pumping like lightning through his veins. The knowledge that they were the best damn club side on the West Coast had him almost soaring across the pitch, every tackle landing sweeter, every sprint feeling like he could go forever. The sun beat down merciless, sweat flying off him with every burst, mud splattering up his calves, but Nick thrived on it. This was what he lived for: the burn, the roar of the lads, the certainty that together they were unstoppable.
That was until he saw him.
Beto.
Nick didn’t notice the prick at first. It wasn’t unusual for them to share the field with others: there were always a few joggers pounding circles on the track round the pitch, some taking it dead serious with their fancy watches and proper kits, others more interested in pausing for selfies or flexing for their stories. The stands had their share too: a handful actually watching the practice, more than a few birds and blokes who’d wandered over for the free show of sweaty lads smashing into each other, but plenty just reading books, headphones clamped on blasting tunes, or lounging about enjoying the spring day and the faint breeze off the bay.
Nick didn’t pay any of it a blind bit of notice… until he felt it, right in his gut, like a jolt straight to the core: someone watching him. Proper watching, not the casual glance of a passer-by, but that intense, lingering stare that made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. Nick tried to ignore the feeling at first. He’d never truly believed in that sixth-sense rubbish, the kind that caught things the other five couldn’t. It was always bollocks to him, the sort of thing people said to sound mysterious… but the feeling remained, stubborn as anything, only getting stronger, as if his whole body was attuned to something his consciousness hadn’t caught up to yet.
When it got too strong, too insistent to shove down, he stopped dead in the middle of a play, wiping sweat from his brow with the hem of his soaked jersey, hands gripping the oval ball tight against his chest, breath coming hard. The lads shouted around him, Coach’s whistle piercing the air, but Nick barely heard it. He scanned the sidelines, eyes flicking through the faces of joggers pounding the track, groupies clustered in little knots with their phones out, readers sprawled on the grass with books open, until his gaze landed on him.
Beto was leaning against the railing up in the lower stands, arms crossed over his chest, dark eyes fixed on Nick like he was the only thing on the pitch worth seeing. Even from the distance Nick could see the familiar, infuriating smirk playing on his full lips, casual as you like, but there was no mistaking the heat in it. Beto wasn’t even pretending to watch the whole team, he was zeroed in on Nick, unblinking, like he owned the view.
They locked eyes, blue on brown, and for a fraction of a second the world stood still, the roar of practice fading to nothing. Nick swore the smirk on Beto’s face grew even larger, lazy and knowing, like he’d caught Nick out proper. He took one single step toward the stands, drawn like a moth to a flame that would kill him…
And only saw Mallory charging at him like a bull when it was too late. The bloody prop forward crashed into him like a freight train, and Nick wasn’t sure that was an exaggeration. He was a big, strapping lad, easily 250 pounds of pure muscle, but Mallory was a behemoth. Nick went flying to the ground like a ragdoll tossed by a toddler, his world suddenly nothing but churning grass and mud, the impact jarring every bone in his body. His instincts kicked in: he curled to protect himself, arms tucking the ball safe, but the force ripped it loose anyway, the oval tumbling free into the dirt.
“What the fuck, Mallory?” Nick growled, voice barely there as he tried to suck in air that wouldn’t come.
Pain exploded through him, wind completely knocked out, head spinning as the blue sky tilted above. Coach was close to having a heart attack, bellowing a string of obscenities that would’ve made a sailor blush, shouting at Nick like he’d personally murdered his entire family. When Nick finally pried his eyes open, blinking through the daze, all he saw was Mallory’s shit-eating grin looming above him, the massive prop offering a hand up with far too much amusement in his eyes.
“Head in the game, buddy,” Mallory said, extending a meaty hand down to Nick, that same shit-eating grin still plastered across his face.
Nick wanted to bat the hand away. In fact, he wanted to tackle the big lump to the ground and punch him square in the face for that blindside hit. But Nick was nothing if not a sportsman. He clasped his own hand round Mallory’s forearm instead, letting the giant haul him up like he weighed nothing, before Mallory jogged off laughing to commit attempted murder on some other poor Shark. Coach, who’d apparently run out of creative ways to curse Nick’s entire bloodline, barked a sharp “Take five, Nelson!” from the sideline, voice still thick with irritation and Nick, Nick, half-furious and half-grateful for the breather, stalked toward the bench at the edge of the field, ribs throbbing with every step.
He made a point of not looking at the stands on his way there as the last thing he wanted was to see how much larger Beto’s smirk had gotten after that spectacle. He could still feel those dark eyes on him, though, burning into his skin like the California sun never quite managed, and that only made him angrier, a hot knot twisting in his gut.
He collapsed onto the bench, sprawling himself out with a heavy sigh, spreading his muscular legs wide as he dropped down next to Harrington, who tapped Nick’s knee in silent commiseration. The water boy, Terry Nielsen, one of the assistant coach’s sons, a skinny little Rugby fanatic who never missed a practice and blushed like mad every time Nick so much as glanced his way, shuffled over, lugging the cooler that probably weighed more than he did. “You okay, Nick?” he asked, trying to sound cool but his voice laced with obvious anxiety, eyes wide behind his glasses.
Nick managed a smile, sitting up a bit. “Sure, mate. Cheers!” he said, accepting the bottle of water and Gatorade the lad offered with trembling hands. And just for the hell of it, Nick winked. He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing as, right on cue, the poor lad’s face went as red as a tomato, ears practically glowing as he stammered something incoherent and scurried off. Bloody adorable.
Nick shook his head, unscrewing the Gatorade and taking a long swig, the cold liquid cutting through the dust in his throat. Harrington snorted beside him. “You almost gave the poor guy a heart attack.”
Nick smirked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Could’ve fancy a chess player, couldn’t he.”
Harrington barked a laugh, shaking his head. “You sure you good? That was an ugly tackle. Mallory’s a piece of shit,” he said, but judging by the way he was grinning, Nick had a hunch he didn’t really feel that way about their fellow Shark.
“He sure is,” Nick agreed, but if he was honest, he wasn’t that mad with Mallory’s tackle. No, Nick was mad with himself. And, even more, he was mad at the fucking Beto Montenegro.
Nick disliked Beto from the moment he met him. It was unusual, really, for Nick to dislike someone that badly, that easily. He was usually the popular sort. At Truham, he’d had mates in every clique, from the rugby lads to the weird stoners who hung about behind the science block, and it wasn’t that different at Westbridge. People gravitated to him, drawn to his easy grin and the way he made everyone feel like they belonged. When Charlie had started raving about the Brazilian bloke he’d met, Nick had been genuinely excited to meet him. They’d first properly met at the icebreaker event in the Seaview Hall common lounge, a casual mixer with pizza, music, and those awkward get-to-know-you games organised by the RAs. Nick, who’d arrived at Westbridge and been courted by every frat house on campus eager for a charming British lad in their ranks, had been heading off to some fraternity party that night. Charlie hadn’t fancied it at all, he really had no interest in Greek life, so Nick had done his best to convince his boyfriend to at least attend the dorm event, figuring it would be easygoing with just pizza and a bit of chat, and a chance to meet some decent people. Charlie had grumbled but gone anyway, and by the end of the night he’d come back nattering on about this funny, crazy lad named Beto who’d made him laugh the whole time.
Nick had been chuffed for him. It was only their second week at Westbridge, but Nick was already a bit worried about Charlie. He knew Charlie wasn’t like him, extroverted and easy-going, the type of bloke who’d make friends in a bank queue. No, Charlie had always been quieter, more shy. Nick was worried that, without Elle and Tao and Isaac and all their mates from Truham, Charlie’s only real bond in California would be with Nick. Nick didn’t want that. He wanted Charlie to thrive on his own, to shine in his own light, not to stay locked away in their dorm room while Nick lived his life.
Nick met Beto the very next day. He and Charlie had agreed to grab a coffee, and Charlie had dragged Nick along, insisting he should meet his new mate. Before they arrived at Wave Brew, the hip on-campus coffee house tucked behind the arts building, Nick had this image of Beto built entirely on the stereotypes he’d heard about Brazilians: funny, easy-going, and sexy, terribly sexy. Well, he was right about that last part. Beto was sex incarnate, a walking temptation that could make saints sin and atheists pray for mercy, lean muscle wrapped in golden skin, dark eyes that pulled you in like quicksand, and that arse that defied gravity, perfectly rounded and begging for a second (or third) glance. Nick was sure he’d been blushing like a virgin when Beto’s smaller, warm hand wrapped around his own in a firm shake, that sexy, annoying accent rasping low and smooth: “Nice to meet ya, irmão.”
Irmão. Fucking irmão. Beto said that all the bloody time, called everyone from the baristas at Wave Brew to the janitors in the dorm halls his fucking irmão. Nick knew enough Portuguese from Google Translate to know it meant “brother,” which just made Beto out to be a glorified crypto dude calling everyone bro. Nick wanted to grit his teeth every time he heard it.
And that was only one of the absolutely insufferable things Beto did. Sure, he seemed nice enough. He was polite to the coffee house workers, making sure to tip generously, even slipping an extra fiver because the queue was long and they looked knackered. When he asked how Nick and Charlie had met, he listened with genuine interest, making aws and pouting (a sexy, annoying pout that made his full lips look even fuller) all the time, like he was reading a romance novel and rooting for the leads.
But it was the harmless stuff that grated on Nick’s nerves most: the way Beto always laughed too loud at his own jokes, filling the room like he owned it; how he’d casually touch people’s arms or shoulders mid-conversation, like personal space was optional; the constant shirtless selfies on his Insta stories, captioned with winky emojis that screamed for attention; how he’d blast Brazilian funk music in the dorm lounge without headphones, swaying his hips like no one was watching, but knowing damn well they were; and worst, the way he’d compliment Charlie on everything from his curls to his latest essay, always with that warm, lingering gaze that felt just a touch too intimate for mates.
Even with all that, though, Nick kept his dislike of Beto to himself. He was being absolutely honest with himself, he knew he was being harsh on the bloke. And, more than that, he was happy Charlie had made a mate who seemed genuinely interested in him, someone to chat with about books and films and all the stuff Nick didn’t always get. Nick would look like a proper wanker if he shat on the first real connection Charlie had made at Westbridge just because the guy laughed too loud or took too many selfies. So, whenever Beto’s name came up in conversation, Charlie telling him about Beto’s latest shenanigan, like the time he’d convinced a group of international students to try a “Brazilian beach party” in the dorm lounge with plastic palm trees and caipirinhas made from smuggled cachaça, Nick just forced a smile and said nothing, keeping his dislike bottled up tight. He didn’t even care when Charlie and Beto started hanging out all the time, from study sessions in the library to late-night parties off-campus, especially because Charlie always made sure Nick knew he was welcome to come along if he wanted to. “You’d like it, Nicky,” Charlie would say, eyes bright. “Beto’s got this way of making everything fun.” Nick would nod, mutter something like “Maybe next time,” and let it go. he told himself it was fine. Charlie was thriving, making friends, living the uni life their parents had banged on about. And Beto… well, as long as he kept his distance from Nick, what harm could it do?
Everything changed at the gym incident.
It happened on Tuesday, January 6, Nick would never forget that. There’d been a broadcast all day about snow expected that evening, the first time Los Angeles was bracing for a proper dusting in more than fifty years. In the end, it was only a couple of flurries that melted as soon as they hit the ground, turning the streets into a slushy disappointment, but everyone loved it anyway, people out with their phones, screaming like kids at the first flake, building sad-looking snowmen from the scraps that stuck. The Lift District, the on-campus gym, was almost deserted, the usual goers ditching the place to stand outside and wait for the white stuff like it was the second coming. Even Harp, Nick’s usual gym bro, had bailed on their session, blabbering something twinks that would need proper warming and Nick, gym aficionado that he was (he didn’t get those arms from being a casual bodybuilder, thank you very much), had been delighted to have the place almost to himself, only a couple of blokes grunting through shoulder presses there with him, the clang of weights echoing in the empty space like it was his own private domain.
It was chest day, which was like Christmas morning to every self-respecting gym-rat.Nick remembered loading up the bar for bench press, settling onto the bench with a grunt, the cool leather sticking slightly to his back. He gripped the knurled metal, took a deep breath, and powered through his first set, chest burning proper, arms pumping like pistons, the familiar rhythm pulling him in. The gym smelled like sweat and rubber mats, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, and for a moment it was perfect: no distractions, no one taking the piss, just him and the iron.
Then Beto walked in.
As it always happened whenever the Brazilian was in proximity, Nick immediately felt his presence, as if his body had its own compass, always pointing towards him. Beto was wearing ridiculously short shorts, absolutely inappropriate for the weather, but damn if they didn’t make his arse look spectacular, the fabric hugging every curve like it was painted on. Annoyed with himself for even noticing how good the bloke looked, Nick returned to his training, focusing on dumbbells and fly machines rather than annoying blokes with golden skin. Beto was working his glutes, far away from the chest machines, and Nick was very proud of himself for not sneaking even a tiny peek at the way his arse perched in the air when he squatted on the hack machine. It could have ended there, Nick and Beto on opposite sides of the gym, each minding their own business.
But of course it didn’t.
Nick, who’d decided last minute to throw in a few triceps exercises too, was resting after finishing a brutal set of skullcrushers. He was catching his breath, K-pop blasting in his headphone (his guilty pleasure, one that Harp always made sure to tease him about ), when he noticed Beto approaching the bench he was on. That easy swagger turned heads even in the near-empty gym, shorts riding up with every step, and Nick felt his stomach drop. Shit. He fixed his posture, straightening his spine as if preparing for a fight, that easy grin Beto had on his lips nothing short of a declaration of war. Beto stopped right in front of him, leaning casually against the rack like he owned the place.
“Hey, Nick. Spot me on squats? Need someone to keep me honest.”
Nick yanked out one earbud, the tinny beat of Twice spilling into the air for a second before he paused it. He wanted to say no, tell him to sod off and find someone else, but he knew the rudeness would get back to Charlie and knew his boyfriend would be mad. He had already noticed Nick wasn’t Beto’s biggest fan, had even plead to Nick about him once, saying how sound Beto was and asking Nick to give him a chance. So he nodded, short and tight, standing up with a grunt. “Yeah, alright. Make it quick.”
Beto’s grin widened, his brown almond eyes glinting under the fluorescents as he loaded the bar heavy, stacking more than 160 pounds of plates on either side, clanging like a challenge that made Nick begrudgingly respect the bloke’s strength, even if he hated admitting it. He stepped under it, shoulders rolling back, and Nick positioned himself behind, hands hovering ready, eyes fixed firmly on the bar and not the way Beto’s shorts stretched tight over that arse, keeping as much space as possible between his crotch and Beto’s bum, like he was handling a live wire.
The first time it happened, Nick chalked it up to accident, nothing more. Beto lowered slow, controlled, thighs flexing under the weight, and his arse pushed back just enough to brush Nick’s crotch, a quick graze, easy to dismiss as bad form or misjudged space. Nick shifted his stance, cleared his throat, and kept his hands steady on the bar, pretending it was nothing. When it happened again on the next rep, Nick did the same, wrote it off as coincidence, the gym being what it was, bodies close and sweaty in the heat of the lift. But on the third time, as Beto’s arse pressed back further than necessary, the curve of him grinding deliberate against Nick’s heavy bulge, heat flooded Nick instantly, his traitorous cock twitching despite himself, thickening in his jockstrap like it had a mind of its own.
Flustered, face burning proper scarlet, Nick shoved the bar back into the rack without warning and took a sharp step back, nearly tripping over his own trainers. “Um,” he said, terribly aware of how his cheeks must look like ripe tomatoes.
Beto straightened up, rolling his shoulders as he turned, a confused look on his face, eyebrows raised. “What’s wrong, man?”
Nick forced a laugh, trying to sound light as air, not wanting to make things even more awkward than they already were. “Maybe give it a bit of space, mate. Bit crowded here.”
Beto just shrugged, wiping sweat from his brow with the hem of his tank, the motion pulling the fabric up to flash a strip of golden abs. “Sure,” he said, casual as you like, that Brazilian accent rolling smooth and unbothered.
They got in position again. Nick put as much space as he could between his half-hard cock and Beto’s arse, probably looking ridiculous to anyone staring, like he was spotting from halfway across the gym. The first two reps, nothing happened: Beto getting up and down in front of Nick without getting one centimetre closer than he should, the bar rising steady, plates clanking like normal. Nick’s relief lasted only for a second, because immediately after that, Beto rubbed his arse against Nick’s crotch with so much force there was no way it was an accident, the deliberate grind sending a shockwave straight through him, stupid cock jumping to full attention in his shorts like it had been waiting for the cue.
Nick didn’t even bother putting the bar back in the rack this time. He just stepped back as if shocked, heart pumping quick in his chest, and watched, furious, as Beto finished the set easily. The bloody wanker probably didn’t even need a spotter in the first place.
“What the fuck, mate?” Nick snarled, voice low but sharp enough to cut through the hum of the empty gym.
Beto straightened up, rolling his shoulders like it was nothing. “What?” he asked, with an innocence that didn’t fool anyone.
“The fuck you’re playing at? You doing that on purpose?”
Beto laughed, and the easy way he did that, lit it was no big deal, made Nick’s blood boil even hotter. “Yeah, sorry. The first time was an honest mistake, but you got so flustered I couldn’t resist.”
“You couldn’t resist?” Nick repeated, incredulous. “What the fuck, is this a joke to you?”
“I mean, kinda…” Beto shrugged, wiping sweat from his brow again, that strip of golden abs flashing once more like he was doing it on purpose. “Come on, Nick. Look at you, all red and flustered. It’s too easy!”
Nick stared at him, fists clenched so tight his knuckles went white. He couldn’t believe Beto’s boldness, the sheer cheek of it. “I have a boyfriend, you prick. Charlie, remember him?”
Beto’s smirk softened just a fraction, but the heat in his eyes didn’t fade one bit. “Well, if I know Charlie, I think he’d be laughing right now and saying how cute you look all red.”
Nick’s mouth opened, then closed again. He didn’t even know what to say, rage like he’d never felt before shooting through his veins, hot and blinding, distantly aware of the fact that his cock was still painfully hard How the fuck did he dare? That bloody fucking wanker, acting like he knew Charlie better than Nick did, Nick, his bloody boyfriend, who’d been with him through his lowest lows and his highest highs, who knew every scar and every smile like his own skin.
In a second, Nick was in Beto’s face, close enough to feel the heat coming off him, close enough to see the flecks of gold in those dark eyes. His whole body shook with the effort of not slamming his fist straight into the bloke’s smug face. “Don’t you fucking talk about Charlie like you know him,” Nick hissed, voice trembling with fury. “You don’t know shit.”
Then, for the first time, Beto looked troubled, the fun in his eyes traded for something that looked a lot like fear. Generally, that would be when Nick backed off. He wasn’t that guy. He didn’t take advantage of his sheer size to intimidate smaller blokes. Yet this time, there was a vindictive joy in seeing Beto’s regret, a dark satisfaction curling in his gut.
Yes, Nick thought, be scared of me, be scared of me like I am of you.
“Hey, look, my bad,” Beto said, in a much more serious tone, the cocky drawl gone. He took a step back and raised his hands in a placating gesture, palms out. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d mind, okay?”
Nick didn’t move, didn’t speak, just stared him down, chest heaving, the rage and humiliation churning together like a storm. His cock was still hard, straining against his jocks, and the shame of that only made him angrier. Beto’s apology hung in the air between them, thin and late, and Nick wanted to believe it, wanted to let it go, but all he could hear was that dismissive laugh from before, all he could feel was the deliberate grind that had lit him up like a fuse.
The new voice startled Nick so badly he actually cringed. He whipped round, heart still hammering.
“Everything ok here?”
The two lads who’d been doing shoulders on the far side of the gym had wandered over, looking concerned. Nick did a quick scan and spotted two girls on the ellipticals staring as well, phones half-raised like they were ready to film whatever drama was about to kick off. Shit. He needed to calm the fuck down. The last thing he wanted was for this bloody mess to get back to Charlie’s ears. What would he even say? Sorry, love, your new mate got me so hard I lost my rag and nearly started a fight in the gym?
“We’re fine,” Nick snapped, annoyed at himself more than anyone.
“Wasn’t talking to you, hothead,” the taller one said, giving Nick a look like he was something stuck to the bottom of his trainer. He turned to Beto instead. “You okay, Beto? This guy bothering you?”
Nick bristled. He was taller and bigger than both of them put together and, if it came to it, he reckoned he could take them easy, maybe eat a few punches but come out on top. But in that moment, with his face still burning and his shorts still traitorously tight, Nick thought it wouldn’t be so undeserved if he got his arse kicked right then.
Beto, for his part, had gone still, that cocky mask slipped and replaced for something real. Regret, maybe, or caution. He shot a forced smile at them. “Nah, we’re good. Just a misunderstanding.”
The lads exchanged a look, clearly not convinced, but they backed off a step when Beto gave them a quick nod. “Seriously, all cool. Thanks for checking, though.”
They muttered something and wandered back to their corner, throwing suspicious glances over their shoulders. The girls on the ellipticals lost interest and went back to their podcasts. Nick stood there, breathing hard, fists still clenched. He couldn’t look at Beto, didn’t trust himself to.
“Hey, Nick, seriously, irmão, I’m sorry, ok?” Beto called after him, for once, sounding almost genuine. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just fucking around, being dumb. It won’t happen again, ok? I promise.”
Nick just grabbed his towel from the bench, slung it round his neck, and stormed toward the lockers without another word, the humiliation burning hotter than the rage now. His face was on fire, his cock still throbbing traitorously, and every step felt like it broadcast what had just happened to the whole bloody gym. Before he could get far, though, he stopped dead, shoulders rigid. Without turning, he snarled over his shoulder, “Don’t you fucking say a word to Charlie about this, you hear me?”
He didn’t wait for Beto’s answer and pushed through the locker room door, the slam echoing behind him. The place was empty, thank Christ, and Nick headed straight for the showers, cranking the cold tap all the way. The icy water hit him like a slap, shocking the breath from his lungs, but he stood under it anyway, head bowed, letting it pound over his shoulders and back until the heat in his skin, and lower, finally started to fade. He stayed there a long time, long after the shiver set in, trying to wash away the feel of Beto’s body, the memory of that grind, the shame of how much he’d wanted more.
It didn’t work. Not really.
That Tuesday had changed everything. And no matter how many cold showers he took, Nick couldn’t scrub it away.
As he knew it would happen, Beto didn’t utter a word of what had gone on to Charlie. The next time the three of them were together, some casual coffee meet-up Charlie had arranged, all smiles and easy chat, Beto acted perfectly normal, as if nothing had happened, greeting Nick with that same lazy “Hey, irmão” and a clap on the shoulder like they were mates. Nick followed his cue, forcing a tight smile and coming up with some excuse about a lecture running late so he couldn’t stay long. Charlie hadn’t suspected a thing, just looked a bit disappointed but shrugged it off with a kiss goodbye.
Nick never told him anything either, of course. He justified it to himself the next day, when his head was clearer and his cock wasn’t ruling the show: maybe Beto had been telling the truth. Maybe he hadn’t meant anything by it, was just messing about, trying to wind Nick up and see him squirm. Blokes did stupid shit like that in gyms all the time, locker-room banter gone too far. There was no need to ruin their friendship over it, to mess up the only real connection Charlie had made in America so far. All Nick needed to do was keep his distance from Beto. If Charlie asked why, he’d just say they didn’t hit it off, their personalities didn’t mesh. It happened.
The ugly, buried truth, was that Nick was scared. Scared of what it meant that one deliberate grind had lit him up like that, harder and faster than anything he’d felt in ages. Scared that if he told Charlie, it would force him to admit the attraction out loud, make it real instead of something he could shove down and ignore. So he kept quiet. Kept smiling. Kept pretending Beto Montenegro was just an annoying bloke he could avoid.
Months later, sprawled on the bench with his ribs throbbing and sweat cooling on his skin, Nick felt that same pull again, the one that had started in the gym that cold January day and never quite let go. He risked a glance toward the stands, and there Beto was, still leaning against the railing, dark eyes fixed on him like nothing had changed. The smirk was there, faint but unmistakable, and Nick’s stomach twisted with the same mix of fury and unwanted heat that had haunted him ever since. Bloody hell. Some things, it seemed, you couldn’t outrun forever.
As soon as Coach blew the whistle one last time, signalling the end of practice, Nick was off, bolting for the locker room like his life depended on it. Usually, the final whistle was only the beginning of the proper mess: the Sharks would pile in, still buzzing from the session, fucking around and creating an absolute ruckus: towel snaps, stupid chants, someone inevitably starting a foam fight with the body wash. With the semifinal victory still fresh, Nick suspected today’s would be even more chaotic than ever, the lads riding the high for all it was worth. This time, though, Nick didn’t participate. He showered in the speed of light, stripping off his muddy kit and standing under the scalding water just long enough to rinse the sweat and grass away. He noticed the ugly big bruise blooming above his ribs where Mallory had tackled him, purple and angry already, spreading like ink on paper, and started rehearsing his usual “it’s fine, looks worse than it is” speech for when Charlie inevitably spotted the bloody thing and fretted.
Nick was out of there before most of the other Sharks even got in, dodging Whittaker’s attempt to sling a sweaty arm round his neck and drag him into a victory chant, dismissing Mallory too when the big prop lumbered over, looking sheepish and mumbling apologies; Nick just shook his head, said “Forget it, mate” and kept moving, bag slung over his shoulder as he pushed out the door into the cooling afternoon air.
Nick had another gig in just a couple of minutes. He did a lot of those. Aunt Estelle’s inheritance bankrolled his tuition in full, and the job at Roosters paid good enough, but Nick liked to think of himself as an old-fashioned bloke, which meant he liked to spoil his boyfriend rotten. Whatever they went, to the movies, to concerts, restaurants from cheap to the most expensive, Nick always made sure he picked the tab. Had been like that ever since they began dating, when Nick’s money came from his job at the local market back in Whitstable and his mum’s allowance. He never let Charlie spend a bloody penny when they were together, thank you very much. But Los Angeles was bloody expensive, which meant that Nick spent a large part of his time coming up with some new ways to make extra cash.
Most were simple, hard work, like helping freshers move into dorms by hauling massive fridges and wardrobes up three flights of stairs when the lifts were knackered, or short shifts with a local moving company lugging sofas and boxes for folks shifting flats, stuff only a strong lad like him could manage without breaking his back. But Nick wasn’t above using his good looks either. He knew how he looked. Knew how people, girls and blokes alike, reacted to the few Instagram pics he posted flexing his biceps at the gym or sweaty after a game, comments flooding in with fire emojis and thirsty messages he mostly ignored. He knew the only reason he worked as a Cock was because he looked damn fine in those red trunks. Hell, half his mates in LA thought he’d moved here to kickstart an acting career (his dreams of being a teacher the last thing on their minds), and the other half could swear they’d seen him starring in some show they’d caught on telly the other day. Once, Nick had even been paid to work as an extra in some movie they were shooting on campus. All he had to do was stand in the back, shirtless, looking very muscular while pretending to throw a frisbee with some other equally jacked lad, the two of them tossing it back and forth like proper mates on a sunny day. In the foreground, two actresses Nick had never heard of delivered their lines to the camera, some rom-com banter he didn’t catch a word of because he was too busy trying not to stare at the lens, which Nick was pretty sure he did at least a couple of times. He’d laughed about it later with Charlie and Harp, both teasing him mercilessly about his “big Hollywood debut,” but the money had paid for drinks to the three of them that weekend, so Nick wasn’t complaining.
The figure drawing class had been Luna’s idea. She, like pretty much all of Nick’s mates at Westbridge, was always on the lookout for ways he could earn a bit of extra cash, and one afternoon she’d cornered him in the common lounge, eyes sparkling with mischief as she told him her roommate’s Advanced Body Studies class was desperate for live nude models. Nick knew exactly what she was on about, he’d seen it in films, blokes standing bare-arsed in a room full of weird artist types scribbling away, so his first reaction was a loud “fuck no.” There was no way he’d be bollocks naked in front of a bunch of pervs.
But even his initial reaction wasn’t that strong. After almost two years working as a Cock, Nick was more than used to people staring at his body, and he didn’t think that the lack of his “uniform” would make that much difference. Luna had made sure to hammer home that it wasn’t like that at all: everyone would be totally professional, respectful, no funny business, that he’d pocket two hundred dollars for forty minutes of just standing there, and even went on about how Nick would be doing a great service to the Arts, and Nick agree. He didn’t even need to hear the bit about the Arts, he was already on board the moment she mentioned the cash. No way he was turning down two hundred bucks that easy.
When he arrived at the Eaton Arts Building, a handsome red-brick edifice with ivy climbing the walls, arched windows, and a touch of Romanesque charm that made it one of the older, more traditional structures on Westbridge’s campus, Nick went straight to the second floor where the Advanced Body Studies class was held. The classroom was a spacious studio with high ceilings and massive north-facing windows that flooded the room with soft, even natural light, the kind that made beautiful things happen for any artist, casting gentle shadows, highlighting contours without harsh glare, turning skin into something almost luminous. Easels were arranged in a loose circle around a low central platform draped in white cloth, shelves lined with charcoal, pastels, and sketchpads, the air smelling faintly of turpentine and paper.
There was only a woman there, sitting at the instructor’s desk, tapping something on a tablet. She raised her eyes when Nick knocked twice at the open door.
“Can I help you, young man?” she asked, voice crisp with a faint East Coast edge.
“Uh, yeah, I guess? I’m Nick Nelson? I’m here for the… naked stuff?” Nick said, slightly embarrassed, rubbing the back of his neck.
The professor looked Nick up and down, clearly judging what she saw, taking in the broad shoulders, the easy athletic build, and then stood with a small, approving nod. “Yes, Mr Nelson, please come in.” She extended a hand. “I’m Professor Miriam Hale. I believe you arranged the details with my T.A., Sofia Chen?”
Professor Hale looked exactly as Nick had pictured her: short and thin, no more than five foot two, with wild red curly hair scraped back into a tight bun that still managed to escape in frizzy tendrils round her face. She had those kitten-eye glasses perched on the end of her nose, thin gold frames that made her look like she could peer right through you, and about a million necklaces dangling from her neck, among them a chunky silver pendant shaped like an abstract tree of life, and a delicate chain with a small amethyst crystal that caught the light every time she moved. Her demeanor, however, was nothing like Nick had expected. He’d braced for some airy, dreamy type, the sort who’d float about spouting bollocks about “energy flows” and “capturing the aura”, but Professor Hale looked proper no-nonsense, sharp and efficient, like a headmistress who’d seen it all and wasn’t impressed by much. Even better, she didn’t come across as some pervy old lady using the class as a chance to ogle young lads; and that straightforward professionalism eased Nick a bit about the whole situation, making the knot in his gut loosen just a fraction.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Nick answered, shaking her hand firmly after following her into the classroom, the platform waiting like it already knew what was coming.
“You ever done this before, Mr Nelson?” Professor Hale asked.
“Just Nick, please,” he said, shifting his weight a bit awkwardly. “And no, never. But my mate told me it’s pretty straightforward, right? I just… stand there, uh, naked?”
“Yes, Nick, your friend would be correct,” she replied, a small, professional smile tugging at her lips. “There’s really no mystery to it. You have the paperwork Sofia sent you?”
“Yup, right here,” Nick said, fishing in his rucksack for the stack of forms he’d been emailed, consent agreements, model release stuff, all the official bits. He handed them over, watching as she took out a beautiful ink pen, all sleek and old-fashioned, and signed with a flourish.
“So, as it says here,” she continued, tapping the page, “every material depicting your body will not be saved, shared, or archived in any way. The students will hand them in to me, and after grading, I’ll destroy them myself. I’ve done this dozens of times before and never had any problems with our models, so you don’t have to worry about it, okay, Nick?”
“That’s great, thanks,” Nick answered. Truth be told, he had no idea the papers said any of that. He’d barely skimmed the first page before getting bored and scribbling his name in all the right places, figuring it was standard stuff.
Professor Hale went to a cupboard in the corner and pulled out a neatly folded robe. “Oh, Nick, one last thing. Physical responses are not considered an issue. They can occur involuntarily, particularly with male models, and they carry no judgment here. This is a professional environment, and we approach the human body with respect in all its natural states.”
“Physical res... Oh, god, no” Nick forced a laugh, his cheeks heating up already at the thought. “No, that won’t be a problem, don’t worry.”
Professor Hale just shrugged, unfazed, handing the robe to him. “As you say. But if it does, we carry on. No big deal. Here, you can change into this and wear the robe until the students arrive. Class will begin any moment, so you won’t have to wait long.”
Nick took the package, but Professor Hale kept standing there, staring expectantly at him like he was supposed to strip off right then and there.
“Uh, right here?” Nick asked, feeling himself go red as a beetroot.
Professor Hale raised an eyebrow, clearly fighting a smile. “Well, if you’re a shy man then I’m afraid this isn’t going to work, Nick.”
He got even redder, ears burning proper. “No, that’s fine,” he muttered. “I’ll just go… over there.” He nodded toward the screen in the corner, clutching the robe like a lifeline.
Standing behind it, with Professor Hale out of his direct line of sight, he could almost pretend he was alone, despite being terribly aware of his bum in the air when he bent to tug off his undies. He stripped in record time, folding his clothes into a quick pile, and wrapped the soft robe around himself, tying the belt tight like it might actually shield him from what was coming. But he knew she was right. In just a few minutes there’d be nothing between him and a room full of strangers with charcoal in their hands. He’d might as well get used to it.
Nick took a deep breath, rolled his shoulders like he was prepping for a match, and stepped back out into the studio light.
He had just finished sending his bank details to Professor Hale, the mobile in his hand buzzing with the notification signalling the successful money transfer and making him two hundred quid richer already, a proper incentive if there ever was one, when the first students started trickling in. Some came alone, sketchbooks tucked under arms, others in groups of three or four, chatting low about assignments or last night’s party. They were exactly as Nick had expected, pretty much all of them screaming “art student” in their looks: gothic girls with heavy make-up that made their eyes look like black holes, artist blokes with bright colourful hair dyed in shades that clashed on purpose, one kid with so many piercings in his face that Nick thought he’d jingle like a set of keys if he shook his head too hard.]
A couple of them eyed Nick with obvious appraisal. Nick didn’t miss the way a chubby lad in a Pokémon shirt kept staring him up and down, again and again, like he was sizing up a prime cut at the butcher’s. But most of them barely glanced his way twice, too busy setting up easels or flipping through charcoal pencils. He recognised a few from campus: there was the girl who was always at Wave Brew, nursing a latte with her nose in a sketchpad, and he was pretty sure the other one, the tall lass with the asymmetrical haircut, was Luna’s mate, the one who’d started all this by mentioning the gig to her. He was relieved none of them were proper friends or even acquaintances; he couldn’t imagine looking a mate in the eye after standing bollock naked in front of them.
Professor Hale stood at the front of the studio with a poised, commanding presence, her red curls neatly pinned and her paint-flecked smock draped over a simple blouse and trousers that spoke of practicality over flair. She began by acknowledging the end of the term, reflecting on the class’s progress in capturing the human form through various mediums and challenges, and noting how far they’d come under her guidance as the department’s lead in figure studies. She emphasized the importance of carrying forward the principles of anatomical accuracy, emotional expression in posture, and ethical respect for models into their final portfolios, reminding everyone that today’s session would explore dynamic poses to refine their rendering of muscle tension and shadow play as a fitting capstone to the semester. Nick attempted a wave to the class when she gestured toward him as the model for the day, trying to look cool but rather feeling like a proper wanker, his hand half-raised in an awkward salute that probably came off more like a drowning man’s plea.
And then, all of a sudden, it was time to get bloody naked. He decided he’d just do it, not giving himself time to think about it and getting tangled up in knots in his head, and he simply stood, untied the robe, and let it drop to the platform, the cool air prickling his skin as he faced the room starkers. In his talks with the T.A., when she’d asked if Nick had ever modeled professionally (”Really, never? You look like you’d do great in it, Nick,” was her reply when he denied), Nick had suggested he could do some bodybuilding poses, like the ones he’d seen in physique competitions he sometimes watched with Harp back at Alpha Gamma Rho house. He half-expected Sofia to turn the idea down, but she actually thought it was a good one, saying it would add variety to the session. So Nick, trying really hard not to make eye contact with anyone in the room, struck his first pose: the classic double biceps, arms curled up and out with fists clenched, chest puffed and abs flexed tight, every muscle popping under the studio light as he held it steady, the class’s pencils and charcoals already scratching away.
Nick held the double biceps pose steady. Every muscle popped: biceps peaking, lats flared, the sheen of sweat on his chest catching the glow like it was highlighting the ridges for the artists. He tried to keep his breathing even, staring fixed at a spot on the far wall, pretending he was anywhere else: the rugby pitch, the Roosters floor, even the bloody chippy back home. Anything but here, bollock naked in front of a room full of strangers scratching away with charcoal like he was a bowl of fruit. The class was quiet, focused. To their credit, all of them, even the Pokemon shirt lad, seemed to be taking the task seriously: no giggling, no whispering, no sleazy looks. Every time they glanced up at Nick, it was with concentration, foreheads crinkled and eyes squinted as if trying to commit every detail to memory before putting it onto the paper. The scratch of pencils and pastels was the only sound, Professor Hale murmuring soft instructions from the side: “Note the tension in the deltoids… the shadow play across the abdominals… capture the strength without losing the vulnerability.”
After what felt like maybe ten minutes, though Nick had lost all track of time under the lights, a chime rang through the room, its clear, limpid sound cutting the quiet and making Nick shift for the first time since he’d struck the pose. He blinked, looking round, and spotted Professor Hale holding a small golden bell in one hand, giving it a gentle shake.
“Another pose, Nick, please,” she said.
Slightly weirded out by the bell, like he was some bloody circus act, Nick nodded anyway, easing out of the double biceps with a quiet exhale. He arranged himself into the side chest pose, one of his favourites: arm bent across his torso, pecs flexed hard on one side, lats flared, the other arm pulling back to show off the triceps and shoulder. He twisted just enough to give the class the profile, abs tight, thighs tensed, holding it steady as the class flipped to clean sheets, pencils sharpening, pastels swapping colours, all of them diving back in without a word. Nick tried to settle into it, focusing on the burn in his muscles, the way the pose made his chest pop proper.
It wasn’t as bad as he’d feared. He could do this. Easy money. He was even kind of enjoying it, perfectly aware of the way his muscles popped with the strain. He thanked the stars for all the hours he’d put in at the Lift District, because, without those sessions, Nick’d look like a lanky sixth-former up here, not the jacked bloke he was now. After what felt like maybe five minutes in the second pose, Nick started to relax. He thought that if he took the gig with the same sense of absurdity he brought to his shifts as a Cock, it was easier. Who the hell makes money posing naked for an art class, just like who the hell makes money serving burgers half-naked in a thong? Both were daft as brushes, but they paid the bills. Just another mad story for Nick to tell their grandkids one day about his crazy uni days in California: Yeah, your granddad once stood bollock naked while a room full of strangers drew his knob for two hundred quid.” He shifted his weight just a touch, settling deeper into the pose, a small smirk tugging at his lips despite himself. The class was still scribbling away, Professor Hale circling with quiet nods, and for a moment Nick felt almost… proud. Look at me, he thought. Proper adult, earning his keep in the weirdest ways.
Professor Hale rang the bell again, the clear note cutting through the quiet scratch of charcoal, and this time Nick moved without hesitation. He turned his back to the class: Rear Lat Spread now. Let them have a good look at his bum. He was proud of it, actually. Nick was a strict top, through and through, no funny business at his backdoor… but he wasn’t one to skip leg day. He did it all, Bulgarian splits, hip thrusts, cable kickbacks, and the result was a big, round rugby bum, hard and perky, covered in that same sparse golden hair that trailed down his thighs and legs. Charlie bloody loved it, always pinching him playfully or running his hands over it when they were alone, using it as leverage when Nick fucked him missionary, fingers digging in deep as Charlie gasped beneath him. He wasn’t the only one. Harp constantly took the piss, joking how Nick’s bum was enough to make any straight lad question his lifestyle. His mates on the Sharks were relentless, “Nelson’s packing front and back,” they’d chant in the locker room, slapping his arse on the way to the showers until Nick threatened to deck the next one who tried. Once, a lanky freshman in the Lift District had approached him, red as a beetroot, stammering to ask about his glutes routine and Nick had laughed it off but secretly felt chuffed.
Then the door at the back creaked open, late footsteps soft on the wood, and Nick felt that familiar prickle crawl up his spine before he even looked. Shit, he thought. No, no way, not here. He squeezed his eyes shut tight, sending a desperate prayer to whatever god might be listening. Please, he begged silently, not him, not while I’m balls out for the whole bloody room.
His prayers weren’t answered.
“Oh, nice of you to join us, young man,” Professor Hale said, her voice calm but with that edge of mild disapproval.
“Sorry, professor,” came that fucking voice, charming, smooth, the sexy Brazilian accent rolling through the room like it owned the place, making Nick’s insides freeze solid. “Can I still do the exercise?”
“Well, you won’t be graded for the poses you missed, Beto,” Professor Hale replied, “but since you’ve already passed this class, it won’t really make a difference for you.”
The bell rang again, clear and sharp.
“Nick will be with us for another thirty minutes,” she added, “so you’ll have plenty of material.”
Nick’s stomach dropped like a stone. He opened his eyes, forcing himself to hold the rear lat spread steady, but every nerve in his body screamed awareness. Beto was there. In this room. Watching him. Naked. He didn’t dare turn around. Didn’t dare look. But he could feel those dark eyes on him already, burning hotter than the studio lights ever could.
“Nick?” Beto asked.
“Yes, Nick Nelson, our model for today,” Professor Hale answered, matter-of-fact, already moving to ring the little golden bell again. “Nick, another pose, darling, please.”
With the same disposition of a man walking to the gallows, Nick turned round, and sure enough, Beto Montenegro was there, leaning casual against an easel at the back.. Nick tried really hard not to make eye contact, but like on the pitch that morning, it was hopeless, his gaze pulled straight to him, like two magnets snapping together. Nick felt his entire body burn, heat flooding his face, his chest, lower. The smile that spread across Beto’s pretty face was nothing but predatory, slow, knowing, like he’d just found his favourite toy, and damn if it didn’t make Nick feel things he had absolutely no business feeling, a traitorous spark igniting low in his gut despite every ounce of hate he could muster.
“Oh, hi, Nick,” Beto said, voice smooth as anything, running his eyes unapologetically over Nick’s naked body, slow, deliberate, lingering on chest, abs, cock, thighs, like he had all the time in the world. “That’s a surprise.”
“You two know each other?” Professor Hale asked, eyebrow raised, glancing between them with mild curiosity.
“Yup,” Beto said, grinning wider. “We’re gym buddies.”
Nick wanted to swear at him, wanted to shout that they were no such bloody thing. Fucking gym buddies? The wanker. Their only connection was through Charlie, Nick’s boyfriend, Beto’s supposed good mate, though and half the time Beto acted like he couldn’t even remember that fact. Nick’s jaw clenched, face burning hotter, but he said nothing, just held the next pose Professor Hale had called for, side tríceps, trying to pretend Beto wasn’t there devouring him with his eyes.
But he was. And Nick could feel every second of it.
Beto took a spot near the back of the class, far enough from Nick that he thought, if he really tried, he could pretend the bloke wasn’t there. Fuck, he was terribly mistaken. Beto had, once again, proved it was impossible to ignore him. Nick felt his gaze on him without pause, burning him like a red-hot iron brand. Unlike his classmates, Beto didn’t even attempt to pretend he wasn’t appreciating the view. He kept running his eyes over Nick’s body like he was sizing up a horse at market, that fucking infuriating smile always on his lips. He even wet them a couple of times, slow and deliberate, tongue flicking out as if it were licking Nick’s skin instead.
Nick never felt more vulnerable, more exposed. He never felt more seen. Beto’s gaze lit every single one of his nerves on fire in a way Nick had never felt before, not with the rugby groupies snapping pics from the stands, not with the Roosters punters slipping bills into his thong while leering over their burgers. Not even with Charlie, who looked at him like he was the only thing in the world worth seeing, soft and loving and safe. This was different. Raw. Unbidden. Wrong, so fucking wrong. And Nick hated himself for it, absolutely, with all his strength, but there, naked and exposed on the platform, he had nowhere to hide.
And, to Nick’s complete horror, his body began to react against his will, as it always did with Beto. Blood rushed south, hot and unstoppable, his cock twitching and thickening under that relentless stare, lifting slow and unmistakable until it stood hard and curving up against his abs for the whole room to see. Nick tried to will it away, tried to think of disgusting things to kill the mood: Grimmy’s socks after a muddy practice, reeking like old cheese left in a gym bag; Harp’s protein farts in the locker room that could clear the benches; Coach Hendricks’ ancient trainers, crusty with years of sweat and grass stains, but it was useless. Every awful image he conjured was shoved aside by visions of Beto: those full lips curving into that smirk, his voice rasping “irmão” like a caress, those fantastic thighs flexing under shorts, that perfect arse deliberately rubbing back against Nick’s bulge in the gym, slow and teasing until Nick had nearly lost his mind. The erection didn’t fade. If anything, it throbbed harder, all 22 centimeters of it standing proud and obvious under the studio lights. Nick’s face burned crimson, humiliation twisting in his gut like a knife, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t cover up. He had to stand there frozen in the pose, every inch of him on display, while Beto’s eyes devoured him without shame.
The class noticed, hands pausing mid-stroke, but no one gasped or snickered. A few just nodded, like it was part of the brief. Professor Hale glanced over, clocked it, and gave a small, professional smile. “Natural response. Adds interesting tension to the form. Please, carry on, Nick.” One girl murmured, “Captures vulnerability beautifully,” and went back to shading. Another bloke added, “The contrast with the muscle definition is striking,” pencil scratching faster. No judgment. No fuss. Just… art.
But for Nick it was pure mortification, face flaming crimson, heart hammering so loud he was sure they could all hear it. Nick wanted the floor to open and swallow him whole. Wanted to bolt. Wanted, God help him, to step off the platform and shove Beto against the wall, punch that smirk away or… no, don’t even go there, Nick, don’t you fucking dare, while Beto’s eyes never left him, that smirk deepening like he’d won the bloody lottery.
The pose felt like it lasted forever, every second stretching under Beto’s relentless stare. When Professor Hale finally rang the bell to call time, Nick turned immediately, shifting into a rear double biceps, arms curled, back muscles flared wide, lats spreading like wings. Still naked, still exposed, but at least now he wasn’t giving the class, and Beto, a full-frontal view of his hard cock. He held it steady, face burning, praying the change in angle would hide the evidence of what that stare had done to him. His cock stayed hard for the rest of the remaining time, throbbing insistently no matter how hard he tried to will it down. When Professor Hale finally rang the bell one last time, signalling the end of the session, Nick dropped his arms fast and grabbed the robe with shaking hands, wrapping it tight round himself like armour. The soft fabric tented obscenely in front, his erection still obvious, but at the very least he wasn’t naked anymore.
Professor Hale addressed the class again, her voice warm and appreciative as she spoke of the beauty in capturing the human form in all its natural states, the strength, the vulnerability, the involuntary responses that revealed the living, breathing truth of the body rather than a static ideal and bloody hell, what the fuck that mad woman was talking about? She thanked Nick profusely for what she called an outstanding job, praising his poise and the dynamic energy he’d brought to the poses. Nick just nodded, forcing a small smile that felt more like a grimace, eyes locked on the floor. He didn’t look at Beto. He couldn’t. But he felt those eyes on him the whole way to the door, burning hotter than the lights ever could, even after Professor Hale had dismissed the class.
And the worst part, the part that made his stomach twist with shame, was that even through the humiliation, part of him didn’t want the stare to stop.
Bloody hell.
What the fuck was happening to him?
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