Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 125248 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125248 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
He paid for the platinum membership with a level of calm that scared the shit out of him.
He’d entered his information, clicked through the age verification, and selected the upgraded package, for the privilege of watching what probably thousands of people had already seen…and enjoyed
The page opened like a shrine.
It wasn’t some generic, cluttered page with flashing buttons and bad fonts. Illustra had gone all-out and dressed the site as if it specialized in lavishness and elegance.
The black background, gold lettering, slow-moving banners, elegant thumbnails arranged like gallery portraits instead of adult clips, whispered class and exclusivity.
There were velvet-red accents, diamond-sharp graphics, and a massive scrolling banner across the top that moved in a shimmering loop.
HE’S BACK.
Beneath it, in all caps and sexy script, was the title.
FURIOUS STYLES: THE SILK ENCORE
Syn stared at it until his vision tunneled.
Beside it were badges declaring record-breaking views, subscriber counts, trending rankings, and a live counter that kept climbing in the corner like a monitor attached to Syn’s rage.
11.5 million views.
Million!
Syn choked, throat constricting.
Over eleven million people had watched the love of his life pleasure himself to climax. Gawked at him. Fantasized about him. Touched themselves to something Syn considered only his to enjoy.
His!
Something mean, hard, and possessive bared it’s teeth behind his sternum in a way he knew could be unsafe if he lost control of it.
Syn had known who Furious was when he’d fallen for him. Knew there were thousands of images and videos out there before there was a them, and he’d never punished Furi for that.
In fact he’d defended him for it. Furi’s past was never a stain he felt he needed washed off, because loving his man meant loving the road that had brought him to him, even the parts that had bite.
But this wasn’t before. This was now.
After the promises.
After Furi had told him he was done.
He hovered his finger over the play button.
For several minutes, he sat there breathing, staring at the thumbnail of Furi’s body draped in black silk and moonlight.
His face wasn’t visible, not fully, but Syn knew the line of those shoulders. The curve of his neck. The fall of that long hair.
Syn didn’t want to watch it…but he had to.
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.