Page 66 of Nothing Special X: The Last Stand

He dropped his finger.

There was no crude opening, cheap music, or rushed shots.

Illustra knew what they’d purchased.

Furi didn’t need noise. The scene opened in silence, almost reverent, with the camera facing a wall of glass overlooking downtown at night.

The city stretched beyond the window in blue-black distance, scattered with lights, while moonlight and stars cast shadows across the staged condo’s high-end bedroom.

The room was intentionally expensive.

A four-poster, king-sized bed. Sheer covers over the black lamps. A high-back velvet chair in the corner of the room in front of a gas stone fireplace. Above it hung a silver, black, and gray framed abstract painting at least thirty-by-forty inches on the wall, one that probably cost a full month's mortgage.

It was a sexy backdrop of glass, steel, silk, and shadows.

Illustra had several studios in Atlanta. They must’ve shot this one in their Stone Mountain high-rise studio, to get that kind of night-sky view.

Then Furi stepped into frame.

Syn’s breath stopped.

The camera didn’t push him. It loved him slowly. Moved with a kind of obscene patience, circling as Furi turned with it, his hair falling over one shoulder and keeping the side of his face out of view.

His honey-blond hair fell in a streaked curtain over his chest. It flowed around him, while his immaculately trimmed beard made his jaw look as firm as granite. It was as if the production team had brought in the best stylist in Atlanta to make him up.

It was more beautiful than Syn had seen it in months, and that hurt in a place anger couldn’t reach…only sadness.

Because he’d been too busy to notice. Too tired, stressed and frustrated to see that Furi’s hair had grown dull from neglect, that he’d stopped spending time on conditioning and treating it.

But on-screen, under professional hands and specialized lighting, he was luminous. Untouched by time. Like that world remembered how to worship him and Syn had been too damn buried in survival mode to remember how.

The camera kept rotating.

Furi wore an open black silk pajama shirt that glided over his strong back like water.

Jesus.

Syn was transfixed on the suggestion of those hooded eyes, peeking beneath heavy lids, the line of his cheek, the shape of his mouth when he exhaled.

Furi eased the silk off one shoulder.

Syn’s jaw clenched so hard pain shot toward his ear.

The shirt slipped lower, then lower, revealing the intricate ink Syn had traced with his tongue more times than he could count. Every tattoo shone sharper under the lights. Every line, shade, piece of colorful art along his arms, chest, ribs, and stomach had been accented as though the camera knew people would pause the frame to study it.

Millions of them.

Furi turned and gave the lens his profile, his hair shielding and exposing him at the same time. It was fucking magical and devastating.

Syn’s stomach twisted. He didn’t feel aroused and that just made him more livid.

He wanted to feel something. Lust, warmth maybe. Jealousy with heat behind it.

But there was nothing. Only anger. And beneath it, deception.

Furi moved with the kind of ease that came from knowing what the camera wanted from him. That was what tore at Syn the most. There was no awkwardness or hesitation. He performed as if he’d stepped out of one life, then back into another without missing a beat.

His body knew the lens, hands knew timing, breath knew when to catch, when to deepen, when to let bass roll out low enough to sound private even though millions were listening.