The calendar shoot happened two weeks later, when the heat turned the boathouse into a sauna and the riverbank smelled like sun-baked algae. Josh had roped in his ex-girlfriend’s photography major roommate, who showed up with a tripod and a professional demeanor that lasted exactly until Matt stripped down to his jockstrap. “Holy shit,” she breathed, adjusting her camera settings with shaky hands. “You guys are athletes for sure.”
Mark smirked, rolling his shoulders to make his pecs flex. His usual black speedo was swapped for a navy blue one today. “Told you,” he said to no one in particular, palming his cock through the fabric with deliberate casualness. The photographer’s shutter clicked frantically.
Luke rolled his eyes but didn’t protest when she directed him against the rigging rack, the wooden slats digging into his bare back. “Arch a little- a little more- yes, perfect,” she muttered, zooming in on the sweat trailing down his sternum. Josh whooped from the dock where he was sprawled like a starfish, his neon orange speedo clashing violently with his sunburn. “This is gonna fund my beer runs for a year,” he crowed.
Matt, ever the opportunist, had already negotiated a “premium tier” for the back cover- a solo shot of him oiled up and straddling an oar, his thighs flexed to emphasize their tree-trunk girth. “Artistic,” he insisted, winking at the photographer when she choked on her water bottle.
Mark, predictably, took charge of logistics. “August’s gonna be the team shot,” he announced, sprawled across the coaching launch with the lazy arrogance of a conquering king. His legs dangled off the edge, toes skimming the water, his speedo struggling to contain his package. “All of us in the shell, mid-stroke. It's gotta be black and white, too. Classy, ya know?”
Luke exhaled sharply when the photographer adjusted his wrist angle for a more dynamic pose, her fingers lingering on his pulse point. Mark’s gaze snapped to the contact, his dark eyes narrowing, a silent challenge Luke refused to acknowledge. The air between them crackled, thick with unsaid things.
Josh, oblivious as ever, lobbed a water bottle at Mark’s head. “Stop flexing so hard, you narcissist."
Mark caught it without looking, his biceps flexing. “You’re just jealous,” he drawled, unscrewing the cap with his teeth. The photographer’s shutter went into overdrive.
Luke rolled his shoulders against the rigging rack, suddenly hyperaware of every brush of wood grain against his bare skin. The photographer murmured something about “natural lighting” and adjusted his chin with two fingers. Her touch was clinical, but Mark’s grip on the water bottle tightened anyway.
Matt, oiled and gleaming under the late afternoon sun, draped himself over the rigging beside Luke. “Dude,” he muttered under his breath, “if you two keep eye-fucking like that, we’re gonna need a separate calendar for just you two.” His grin was all teeth.
Luke flipped him off just as the photographer called, “Mark! Your turn.”
Mark uncoiled from his place with predatory grace, his speedo clinging to every ridge of his thighs as he prowled toward the dock’s edge. The photographer swallowed audibly when he leaned back on his palms, his abs contracting as he arched into the golden-hour light. “How’s this?” he rumbled, knowing exactly how it looked- his cock half-hard under navy fabric, his shoulders broad enough to eclipse the sunset.
The shutter clicked like a frenzied heartbeat. Luke’s jaw tightened.
Josh wolf-whistled from the water, where he floated on his back like a starfish. “Save some for the rest of us, Casanova!”
Mark’s smirk deepened. He hooked a thumb in his waistband, tugging the fabric just so. The photographer’s camera nearly slipped from her grip. “Jesus,” she whispered.
Luke exhaled through his nose. Two could play this game. He pushed off the rigging and strode toward the shell, his own speedo riding low on his hips. The wood was hot under his palms as he hauled himself into the stroke seat, his biceps flexing. “Hey,” he called over his shoulder, voice dripping with faux innocence, “think we could get a shot of the real power position?”
Mark’s dark eyes narrowed, just as Luke knew they would.
Josh whooped, scrambling onto the dock. “Hell yeah! Team shot! Get in here, pretty boys.” He herded Matt and the photographer toward the shell, his neon orange speedo glowing like a distress beacon.
Mark prowled over, his gait rolling with the loose-hipped swagger of a heavyweight who knew exactly how much space his body commanded. He vaulted into the bow seat without breaking eye contact with Luke, his thighs splayed wide around the rigger. “Power position,” he echoed, voice low. “Let’s see it.”
Luke’s pulse jumped. The shell rocked as Matt and Josh clambered in, their combined weight making the hull dip precariously. The photographer knelt on the dock, lens trained on them with religious fervor. “Okay,” she breathed. “Lean into the catch. Yes, perfect. Mark, flex your back a bit more.”
Mark arched obligingly, the muscles in his shoulders rippling under sweat-slick skin. His oar handle brushed Luke’s back deliberately, judging by the smirk. Luke gritted his teeth and gripped his own oar tighter, the wood warm from the sun.
“Luke,” the photographer prompted, “tilt your chin up. I want to see that jawline.” Her fingers ghosted over his shoulder to adjust his angle. Mark’s gaze snapped to the contact, his knuckles whitening around his oar.
Matt, ever the instigator, leaned forward between them. “Smolder, ladies,” he stage-whispered. “Or I’m stealing this month’s spread.” He flexed his oiled biceps, making Josh groan.
The shutter clicked rapidly. Mark exhaled through his nose and shifted his grip, his biceps bulging. “How’s this for a smolder,” he muttered, just for Luke, before dragging his tongue over his bottom lip.
Luke’s pulse stuttered. Two could play this game. He stretched his arms overhead, arching his back until the hem of his speedo rode up his thighs. The wood of the shell creaked under his shifting weight. “Better?” he asked the photographer, voice dripping with false innocence.
Mark’s nostrils flared.
Josh, oblivious, threw an arm around Matt’s shoulders. “Dude, we should do a themed shot. Like, ‘Rowers Through the Ages.’ I call dibs on Viking.” He mimed rowing with exaggerated strokes.
Matt’s eyes lit up. “Yes. Absolutely.” The photographer adjusted her lens in the distance. “Mark, gladiator. Luke,” Matt's gaze raked over his wiry frame. “greek god. I'll be an...”
“Oil-wrestler,” Matt supplied, flexing his pecs. The photographer choked.
Mark’s oar creaked under his grip. “Luke’s not a god,” he muttered, too low for anyone but Luke to hear. His thigh pressed against Luke’s under the narrow shell, heat radiating through wet spandex. “Just a brat.”
Luke smirked and stretched his arms higher, making his abs pop under sweat-slick skin. The photographer gasped and fired off a rapid burst of shots. “Perfect- don’t move-”
Mark exhaled sharply through his nose and shifted his weight, making the shell rock. His knee bumped Luke’s back, hard. Luke’s breath hitched. The photographer’s shutter clicked like a metronome gone haywire.
Josh, still draped over Matt’s shoulders, squinted between them. “Uh. You two good?”
“Peachy,” Luke gritted out, digging his fingers into his oar handle as Mark’s knee pressed higher. The wood groaned under his grip.
Matt, oil gleaming under the sunset, waggled his eyebrows. “Drama,” he stage-whispered to Josh. “I love it.”
The shutter clicked relentlessly. Luke exhaled sharply and leaned back into Mark behind him enough to make the shell rock. Mark’s thighs flexed instinctively to steady them, his abs contracting as he leaned forward, putting his face inches from Luke’s back. “Problem?” he murmured, breath hot.
Luke’s pulse jumped. “You tell me,” he shot back, tightening his grip on the oar. Mark’s dark eyes flicked down to Luke’s mouth, lingering. The photographer gasped.
Josh, ever the peacemaker, cleared his throat. “So! Vikings, right?” He flexed his biceps. “I’m thinking fur loincloths. Very authentic.”
Mark didn’t look away from Luke. “Sounds itchy,” he deadpanned, shifting his weight to grind his knee higher. Luke’s breath hitched.
The shell lurched as they scrambled out, water sluicing off their thighs as they hit the dock. Josh was already peeling off his neon orange speedo with dramatic flair, his grin splitting his sunburned face. "Alright, boys, no chickening out now. Calendar's called Rowers After Dark for a reason." The fabric hit the dock with a wet slap, his cock springing free, half-hard from the shoot's teasing. "Naked or nothing."
Matt groaned but didn't hesitate, yanking his oil-slick jockstrap down his thighs. "Fuck it, we're already halfway there," he muttered, kicking the fabric aside. His cock curved thick against his stomach, the glistening sheen of oil catching the sunset. The photographer's shutter clicked frantically as he flexed, biceps bulging. "Just don't put my dick next to Josh's. I have standards."
Luke rolled his eyes but hooked his thumbs in his own speedo, the navy fabric clinging stubbornly to his hips. He could feel Mark's gaze burning into him, dark and intent, as he peeled the spandex down his legs. The cooler air hit his flushed skin, his cock filling out lazily under the attention. "Happy?" he tossed at Josh, who was already posing against the rigging rack, his legs spread wide.
Mark's chuckle was low, vibrating through the dock boards as he stepped out of his own speedo with deliberate slowness. His cock swung heavy between his thighs, the thick vein along the underside prominent even half-soft. "Never thought I'd see the day Luke Harper followed orders," he drawled, palming himself with casual arrogance. The photographer's lens fogged slightly.
Josh whooped, slapping his thigh. "Hell yeah! Now that's what I'm talking about!" His own cock bounced against his stomach as he gestured wildly at them. "Group shot, group shot. Everyone grab an oar and look fucking majestic!"
Luke exhaled sharply through his nose but moved toward the shell to grab an oar, his bare feet slapping against the sun-warmed wood. The others fell into place with varying degrees of enthusiasm, Matt already flexing for the camera, Josh grinning like a maniac, Mark prowling behind Luke with deliberate proximity. The photographer adjusted her tripod with shaking hands, muttering something about "golden hour" and "god-tier lighting."
"Mark," she directed, voice cracking slightly, "could you stand behind Luke? For the composition." Her cheeks flushed as Mark stepped closer, his chest nearly brushing Luke's back. The heat of him was oppressive, the musk of sweat and river water thick between them. Luke could feel Mark's breath against his nape, humid and uneven.
Matt snorted, adjusting his grip on his oar with exaggerated care. "Careful, Luke," he stage-whispered, "you might get a dick-print on your back." His smirk was all teeth as he flexed his abs for the camera.
Josh, oblivious as ever, spread his legs wider, his cock bobbing against his thigh. "Alright, boys, look alive. Or at least look like you're alive," he joked, winking at the photographer. "This is gonna fund my beer runs for a year."
Mark shifted behind Luke, his thighs pressing flush against the backs of Luke's knees. The contact was electric, the rough hair of Mark's legs catching against Luke's skin. "Composition," Mark echoed, voice dripping with sarcasm as he deliberately rolled his hips forward. The thick heat of his cock pressed against the small of Luke's back, unmistakable even half-hard. Luke's breath hitched.
The photographer's shutter clicked rapidly, her eyes wide behind the lens. "Uh, perfect, just- Just hold that."
Luke gritted his teeth and leaned into his oar, the wood creaking under his grip. Mark's chuckle vibrated through his spine, the bastard. "Relax, Harper," Mark murmured, lips brushing Luke's ear. "You're tenser than a freshman at his first regatta."
Luke exhaled sharply through his nose, the wood grain of the oar rough under his white-knuckled grip. Mark’s chest pressed flush against his back, the heat of him searing through the sweat-slick space between them. "Fuck off," Luke muttered under his breath, tilting his chin up just enough to catch Mark’s dark smirk in his peripheral vision.
The shutter clicked rapidly. The photographer’s breath was audible even over the river’s lazy current. “Okay,” she squeaked, adjusting her tripod with trembling hands. “Now, uh, Mark, maybe put your hand on Luke’s shoulder? Matt you do the same thing on Josh.”
Mark’s palm landed heavy on Luke’s bare shoulder, fingers splaying possessively over his collarbone. His thumb brushed the hollow of Luke’s throat, a silent challenge. Luke’s pulse jumped under the contact.
Josh, still grinning like an idiot, flexed his biceps with a grunt. “How’s this look?” he crowed. Matt kneed him, his oiled thighs gleaming under the sunset.
Mark’s grip tightened imperceptibly, his fingers digging into Luke’s shoulder hard enough to bruise. Luke could feel the smirk against his ear before Mark spoke, his voice pitched low enough that only Luke could hear. “Gonna fall over, Harper?” His breath was hot, too close, the words vibrating through Luke’s ribs like a second heartbeat.
Luke jerked his shoulder forward, breaking the contact with a sharp exhale. “Not with you breathing down my neck like a fucking creep.” His own voice came out rougher than intended.
Matt barked a laugh, his oiled biceps flexing as he adjusted his grip. “Jesus, just fuck already,” he muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear. Josh whooped, slapping his thigh with a wet smack that echoed across the dock. The photographer’s shutter clicked frantically, her face flushed as she zoomed in on Mark’s handprint blooming red across Luke’s skin.
"Alright, let's grab some solo and duo shots while the light's still perfect," the photographer announced, adjusting her lens with a practiced flick of her wrist. "Matt and Josh, you're up first. Let's get some dynamic poses with the oars."
Josh whooped immediately, tossing his head back with a grin that split his sunburned face wide open. "Hell yeah, centerfold time," he crowed, flexing his biceps until the veins stood out in ropes along his forearms. Matt rolled his eyes but didn't protest, sauntering toward the photographer with an exaggerated swing in his hips, his oiled skin catching the golden-hour light.
The photographer glanced over her shoulder at Mark and Luke. "You two can take a quick break, just stay close cause you’re up next."
Luke exhaled sharply through his nose and tilted his head toward the boathouse without looking at Mark. A silent suggestion. Mark's dark eyes tracked the movement before he nodded once.
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