Page 110 of Nothing Special X: The Last Stand

He’d been pining for this so long that the realization of finally having it was almost too much.

He reached down and tangled his fingers in Cassidy’s messy black-and-gray hair, pulling him closer, needing him to take more.

The suction was perfect, the warmth of Cassidy's mouth a stark contrast to the frigid air blowing in the trailer.

It wasn’t long before he began to shake, his breaths coming in ragged hitches.

As if he sensed his peak coming, Cassidy squeezed his thighs hard, his fingers bruising his flesh as he increased the pace, bobbing his head with an urgent rhythm.

"I'm... I'm gonna—" Xander groaned, voice breaking.

Cassidy didn't pull away. He bore down, burying his nose into his pubic hair, sucking with a final, desperate intensity that made Xander squeeze his eyes shut.

Waves of pent-up need and pleasure overcame him, his body convulsing as he came so hard he had to shove his fist into his mouth to keep from screaming and alarming anyone nearby.

As the tremors settled, Cassidy stood slowly, but he didn't pull away. He buried his mouth in the crook of his throat and let out a low, satisfied groan against his skin.

"There. That should help you get through your scene," he whispered, voice dripping with dark satisfaction. “And you might remember to pretend it’s Wyatt on that bed…and not me.”

Xander Vale

Two weeks later…

Xander stood in the middle of his bedroom surrounded by people touching him from every angle, but somehow he couldn’t stop smiling.

His bedroom had turned into a temporary styling suite with garment racks lined along the far wall, rolling cases open across the floor, steam rising from a portable steamer near the balcony doors, and so many hanging garment bags it was as if his team was dressing an entire band instead of just him.

His bed was covered in velvet trays of cufflinks, watches, lint rollers, silk socks, two backup shirts, and three emergency sewing kits because apparently the road to an awards show was paved with clothing malfunctions.

His wardrobe team moved around him with the precision of a NASCAR pit crew. Elliot was downstairs managing arrivals, deliveries, guest credentials, and whatever crisis came with dressing a movie star for the biggest night of his career.

One woman knelt at his feet checking the length of his tuxedo trousers. Another adjusted the hem on his second wardrobe change’s pants. Someone from grooming dabbed beneath his jaw with a sponge. His manicurist had already threatened him twice for moving his fingers before the clear coat dried.

And in the middle of it all, Malik stood behind him with a comb in one hand, staring at him with a teasing smirk. “What are you grinning so cute about?”

Xander blinked at his own reflection. “Nothing.”

Malik lifted one brow. He’d been styling Xander’s hair for almost four years, which meant he’d come to know him better than most. He was tall and lean, with warm brown skin, a perfectly shaped beard, and a habit of wearing gorgeous silk scarves tied around his waist-length dreadlocks.

“That smile is not nothing,” Malik said.

Xander tried to settle his mouth, but he couldn’t. “I’m excited for the show.”

“Nah.” Malik leaned closer to the mirror, studying him. “I’ve styled you for plenty of shows. Premieres, festivals, magazine covers, last year’s charity gala where your smile looked more like you were constipated than excited. You’ve never smiled like this.”

“Shut up, Malik.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re damn near glowing.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know all, honey,” Malik hummed. “I also know love when I see it.”

Xander felt his face heat. “Shh. Don’t jinx it.”

Malik’s grin softened. “Okay, now you have to spill it.”

“No.”