-Devon.
The sound of a woman's voice pulled me from the edge of sleep. Tinny, bright, the kind of tone that lived for exaggeration. Bryce's phone was on the nightstand, screen casting pale blue light across the room.
"And to our surprise, Bryce Villa's fandom hasn't gone up in flames," the woman said, her voice curling like smoke. "One corner of the fanbase is shipping him with his new bodyguard. Not really new, though—it's been three months."
I opened my eyes. Bryce sat on the sofa opposite the bed, shirt half-buttoned, legs stretched out in nothing but briefs. He toyed with his hair absently, strands slipping between his fingers as he leaned closer to the phone. He looked absorbed, as if the whole world had narrowed to the gossip piped through that little speaker.
The second commentator's voice cut in, playful: "Maybe he's just busy, Maya. He has that new play, the Europe tour. Sometimes artists simply grow out of their rebellious phase."
I almost laughed. Bryce, grown out of rebellion, sounded like a punchline.
Instead, I stayed quiet, watching him the way one watches the sea—dangerous in its storms, but hypnotic in its stillness. When Bryce concentrated, his restless edges softened. He didn't look like the menace people painted him as. He just looked like a man killing time. I smiled faintly to myself, an involuntary thing.
"I actually thought celebrities didn't bother listening to what was said about them," I said, voice still thick with sleep.
His head lifted immediately. That boyish grin cut across his face, the one that always made him look like he'd gotten away with something. "I'm a very curious person. And after the last death threat I got? I like to keep track."
I pushed myself up against the headboard. "I heard most of those come from females."
He chuckled, tossing his hair back. "Yeah, mostly. Though once, a boyfriend of one of the fans promised to off me. Imagine being so jealous your girlfriend listens to my songs you want to kill me. Ridiculous."
I rubbed at my jaw, dry amusement in my tone. "Strange, isn't it? The only real threat that ever got close was from someone you called a friend. Since then it's only been the fans pressing too close. They don't even make it past the outer guards. Hard to believe your personal team would all leave just because things got hectic."
Bryce nodded, eyes flicking back to the ceiling as though replaying old chaos. "That's because I'm 'behaving' now." He mimicked air quotes. "Gracie's word, not mine."
I shifted upright, crossing my arms loosely. "And what exactly does behaving mean? What did you do before?"
He tipped his head back and let out a groan, as though remembering a performance he wasn't sure he regretted. "I used to deliberately stir up fans just to piss my guards off."
A smirk tugged at my mouth. "And why would you do that?"
"I don't know," he admitted, grin curling again. "I guess I wanted them on edge. The truth is, I was terrified most of the time. Always expecting a bullet or some lunatic with a knife. So I'd provoke situations, thinking it would force them to pay closer attention. But they didn't care enough."
His candor surprised me. I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. "So I'm putting your mind at ease now."
That's when he rose. Smooth, unhurried, still in his half-dressed state. He padded over to the bed and climbed onto it, the mattress dipping under his weight. His palms pressed into the sheets on either side of me, his knees bracketing mine, his face so close I felt the warmth of his breath.
"You're—" His lips brushed mine before the word finished.
"The best—" Another kiss, quick and certain.
"Bodyguard in the whole wide world."
He stopped there, close enough that the air between us felt like a thread strung too tight. His smile hovered, impish, testing how far he could push before I stopped him.
His hair was still damp from a shower, the faint scent of citrus shampoo mixing with the warmth of his skin. I found myself watching the curve of his mouth rather than forming a reprimand.
"You keep handing out superlatives," I muttered. "One day you'll run out."
He tilted his head, grin widening. "Then I'll invent new ones. You'll live."
My hand rose instinctively, steadying the back of his neck, not to pull him closer but to anchor the moment. He blinked at the touch, as if he hadn't expected me to meet him halfway. The sudden quiet between us hummed louder than the gossip channel still playing faintly in the background.
"I don't think you know how much trouble you are," I said, though my voice lacked its usual edge.
"Trouble's fun," he whispered, eyes glinting. "You should try it."
And then his lips pressed to mine again, softer this time, almost tentative—as though after all his theatrics, he was shy about how much he wanted it.
He kissed me like he was still testing whether I'd pull away—and when I didn't, when I tilted my chin up just enough to meet him halfway again, something in him sparked. Bryce pulled back just enough to murmur, "Well, that's twice now I've kissed you and you didn't bite me. Gotta say, I'm starting to feel misled."
I arched a brow. "You wanted me to bite you?"
His grin turned wolfish. "Kinda figured you'd at least shove me off. Threaten to break my fingers. Call me unprofessional."
"You're the one half-naked and straddling me. I don't think professionalism is your strong suit."
Bryce leaned in, lips grazing my jaw now, voice dropping into that sing-song tease he used when baiting the press. "Mmm. I thought you liked me better like this. Minimalist. Vulnerable. Kissable."
"You're out of your mind," I said, but it came out too quietly, not nearly firm enough. His mouth was too close, and the heat of his body where it brushed mine made it hard to think in straight lines.
He laughed, low and soft, like the sound of sheets rustling in the dark. "Nah. Just bored. And you're conveniently attractive."
I gave him a flat look, though my hand still rested at the nape of his neck, thumb grazing the soft downy edge of his damp hair. "You call every one of your bodyguards attractive?"
"I never talked to the others in bed." His nose brushed mine. "And they sure as hell never touched me like you're touching me now."
"I'm stabilizing your spine so you don't fall and crack your skull."
"Right," he said, slowly, as if considering the truth of that. Then, deliberately, he rocked his hips forward just enough to press the bulge of his cock lightly against my stomach. He was only in briefs, and the shape of him, the heat, was impossible to miss. "Should I fall now? Might need CPR."
"Don't test me," I warned, though my voice was already darker, not sharp like a threat, but slow, like a weight dragging downward.
He shifted his weight again, nudging in closer, knees bracketing my thighs more snugly. His mouth hovered just over mine, and I could feel the faint tremor in his breath when he exhaled. "Why not? You said it yourself—no real threats make it past the outer guards. You're just here for decoration."
I moved fast. Not because I was angry—because I wanted to see if he'd flinch. I gripped his wrists and flipped us, pushing him flat against the bed with a thud. Bryce let out a soft oof, surprised laughter already blooming across his face.
"Fuck," he said, winded but grinning wide. "You've got some bite after all."
I kept him pinned, hands pressing his down to either side of his head. His hair fanned wild across the pillow, dark and tousled, eyes wide with something that wasn't just amusement anymore.
"You really want to know how much bite I've got?" I asked.
"God, yes," he breathed, and then smirked again. "But you've got to promise not to bruise me somewhere visible. I've got a shirtless shoot next week."
My weight settled more firmly on him, legs tangled with his, and I dipped closer, breath brushing his throat now. "Keep talking, and I'll put you in a sling for that shoot."
He groaned, head tipping back, throat exposed. "Fuck, that's so hot."
"Of course it is," I muttered against his skin, letting my teeth scrape lightly along the curve of his jaw. "You like danger as long as it wears a pretty face."
He hummed. "And a bulletproof vest."
"Not wearing one now," I reminded him.
He tilted his head toward mine again, mouth brushing my cheek, lips grazing just beneath my ear. "Then I guess I'm the danger here."
I laughed, low in my throat. "You think so?"
"I know so," he whispered, and then his teeth closed lightly on my earlobe. Just a hint of pressure. Just enough to remind me who I was dealing with—someone who couldn't stand still for long, someone who never let go of the wheel even when pretending to drift.
I leaned into the contact. "You're playing a dangerous game."
"Only fun kind there is," he said, and then twisted his wrists in my grip—not to escape, but to curl his fingers through mine. His grip was firm, unexpectedly warm. "Come on, Devon. You're not gonna run now."
My heart thudded once, hard.
"Who said anything about running?"
His wrists still pinned beneath mine, Bryce stared up at me like I was something he'd summoned on a dare and wasn't entirely sure he could handle. His smirk had settled into something lazier now, not cocky, but stretched wide with anticipation, lips parted just slightly, like he already knew what was coming and was savoring the wait.
I let my grip loosen, not pulling away, just shifting my fingers until I was holding his hands more than restraining them. His palms turned into mine instinctively, warm, a little damp. His pulse kicked against my thumb.
Then I leaned in.
I didn't go for his mouth again. I dropped lower, pressing a slow kiss to the corner of his jaw, then another just beneath his ear, letting the stubble there rasp against my lips. He let out a quiet breath, the kind that dragged from deep in his chest and ended in a half-laugh when my teeth caught his skin.
"Fuck," he muttered, twitching under me. "You're really committing to this, huh?"
I didn't answer. Just let my mouth keep moving—his throat now, then the notch at the base of it, the faint curve of collarbone revealed by the loose fold of his shirt. The fabric was still half-buttoned, pulled taut where his chest rose beneath it. I kissed the line between buttons, tongue brushing the soft warmth of his skin, and I felt him shift again beneath me, thighs parting a little more, like his body was trying to meet mine without quite asking.
He rolled his head back against the pillow, hair a mess, and laughed again—breathy, chaotic, that boyish edge breaking through. "If you undo another button I'm gonna have to file an HR complaint."
I looked up through my lashes, already sliding my hand down his torso. "Then I guess you're fucked."
"Filing the complaint anyway," he said, biting down on a grin, breath catching as my mouth found the next patch of skin between the open edges of his shirt. I kissed over his sternum, teeth scraping gently, and felt his hands tighten in mine—no longer just letting me hold them, but gripping back now, grounding.
I worked my way lower. Across his stomach, where the faintest line of muscle dipped down toward the waistband of his briefs. He squirmed when I brushed my nose against that line, the sharp inhale impossible to miss.
"Shit, you're killing me."
I nuzzled just above the elastic. "Good."
"You're cruel," he hissed. "Hot, but cruel."
"You're hard," I said, and then finally looked down.
His briefs were doing a terrible job of hiding anything. The fabric stretched tight over him, every outline visible, thick, eager and twitching slightly as I trailed a fingertip down his thigh.
He sucked in a breath through his teeth. "You're not gonna—"
I cut him off with a kiss low on his hip, right above where the waistband curved. "Say please."
He let out an incredulous laugh. "What?"
"Say it."
He lifted his head off the pillow to stare at me. "You're kidding."
I kissed the same spot again, slower this time. "You wanna find out?"
"Jesus Christ," he muttered, thumping his head back down. A beat passed. Then—quietly, through clenched teeth—"Please."
I dragged my mouth across the waistband, over the bulge itself, teasing through the thin fabric, letting my breath roll hot against him. He groaned low, hips twitching upward, trying to get more contact, but I held back.
"You have no idea how much I hate you right now," he muttered, strangled.
"That's not what your cock says."
"Touché."
I finally slid the waistband down. He arched his hips to help, and his cock sprang free, flushed and heavy, thick against his stomach. I didn't touch it right away. I just watched the tension crawl up his thighs, his belly, his chest. The chaos in him was quiet now, stripped down to breath and heat.
He was watching me too, half-lidded, brows pinched in that way he got when he was trying not to say something reckless.
I leaned in and kissed the underside, right near the base, featherlight. He twitched. I kissed higher, the same way, a little more pressure each time. He hissed something under his breath—cussed, definitely, but I was already halfway to the tip, and his words got lost somewhere in the air between us.
When I finally wrapped my mouth around him, slow and certain, I heard the mattress groan beneath us as his hands jerked free from mine and clutched the sheets beside his head. No protest. No attempt to stop me. Just full-body surrender, hips bucking slightly before I pushed him down with a palm flat on his stomach.
He was thick and warm on my tongue, and I took my time with it, sliding down inch by inch, letting him feel every motion. His breath stuttered, a curse spilling out again as my lips sealed around him, drawing him deeper, my tongue tracing the vein that throbbed along the underside.
"Holy fuck, Devon—" he choked, hand flying to my hair but not tugging, just holding, anchoring.
I bobbed slowly, letting him slip in and out of my mouth with rhythm, with precision, flicking my tongue just right each time I reached the tip, dragging a groan out of him every time I eased back down. He was panting now, his whole body taut, legs spread and shaking slightly as I worked him over.
Then I pulled off with a soft pop, just long enough to breathe across the wet heat of him.
"Still wanna file that complaint?" I murmured.
He let out a cracked laugh. "File it? I'm gonna frame it."
I grinned against his skin, the sharp edge of his voice still curling in my ears. He was breathless now, sprawled beneath me with his shirt rucked halfway up his chest and his briefs bunched around one thigh, caught somewhere in the tug halfway down. His cock glistened where I'd left it—flushed and leaking, twitching toward me like it missed my mouth already.
Bryce dragged a hand over his face, then down through his mess of hair, the gesture more for grounding than glamour. His eyes were wild with pleasure, pupils blown, mouth parted, but he still found a way to smirk.
"Okay," he rasped. "Fine. Maybe I'll take the form home and sleep with it."
I kissed the crease of his thigh, right where it met his hip. "You could've just said thank you."
"Too mainstream," he muttered, his fingers curling tighter in my hair. "Besides, we're not done, are we?"
My tongue flicked a slow line just beneath the head, and his hips jerked off the mattress in reflex. "Not even close."
I took him in again, all the way this time, until my nose brushed his skin and I felt the subtle tremble run through his abdomen. He swore again—something sharp and reverent, like a prayer in reverse—then let his head fall back, neck arched, arms flung wide across the bed like he was offering himself up.
I set a pace then. Not punishing, not sweet—just maddening. Smooth rhythm, deep and slow, retreating with purpose only to return more greedy each time. He moaned low in his throat, dragging a hand over his face again as if the sensation shorted something in his brain.
His thighs started to tense, so I eased off, pulling back to lick a stripe along the underside, teasing the sensitive skin at the base. "Relax."
"You're killing me," he gasped, breathless, his voice gone hoarse from restraint.
"Would've thought you'd like it slow."
"I like getting my soul sucked out, Devon, not my sanity."
That made me laugh, my breath puffing warm against the tip as I spoke. "You're not ready to come."
"Then make me last," he shot back, defiant even as his body twitched at the edge.
So I did. I pulled away completely just to watch him react—his hips lifted on instinct, a growl escaping his throat like I'd betrayed him. But I slid my hand up to take him instead, fingers wrapping snug around the slick of his shaft, stroking with the same maddening rhythm I'd used with my mouth.
He groaned again, dragging a pillow over his face this time. "Fuck—fuck. Okay. Jesus."
"You usually this dramatic?"
He peeked out from under the pillow, flushed and glowering. "Only when someone's got their fucking tongue halfway down my cock and then stops."
I leaned up over him again, one hand still stroking, the other pressing into the mattress beside his ribs. "That was halfway?"
"Devon." His voice cracked like he didn't know whether to beg or threaten me.
I let my thumb drag across his slit, smearing the precome over the tip before sliding back down, twisting my wrist slightly. He gasped, and this time it wasn't a word—it was just a raw sound, some tattered mix of helplessness and pleasure that cracked through the air like static.
Then I dipped my head again.
I didn't tease this time. I took him hard, deep, no warning. He cried out—cut off, breath gone—and I felt the way his body arched under me, every inch of him straining to meet my mouth. His hands flew back to my head, not pulling, not directing—just holding on, desperate, grounding himself in me as I worked him over.
This time I didn't stop. I hollowed my cheeks and swallowed him down, finding the rhythm again, deeper now, harsher, lips slick and stretched as I took him whole.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he groaned, legs trembling against the bed. "You're gonna—Jesus, you're gonna make me—"
I slowed just a hair, enough to let him feel the edge creeping closer. My hand gripped his hip, holding him down as he writhed, groaning, swearing, his body caught in that limbo between control and collapse.
"I'm serious," he gasped, his voice cracked wide open. "I'm—I can't—Devon, I'm—"
And I swallowed him deeper.
He came with a ragged shout, his whole body bowing up off the mattress. Hot pulses filled my mouth, and I took every one, sucking him through it as his muscles spasmed and his thighs clenched tight around me. He swore again, broken and breathless, both hands fisted in my hair now, head thrown back against the pillow.
By the time I let him slip free, he was panting hard, chest heaving, shirt soaked at the collar. His cock twitched against his thigh, softening now, still flushed and slick. I kissed the inside of his knee before crawling back up beside him, dragging the sheet up lazily over his waist.
He lay there like someone had robbed him of thought. Eventually, his eyes cracked open.
"Fuck me," he said, voice wrecked.
I stretched out beside him, one arm behind my head. "I thought I just did."
He turned his head, blinking blearily at me, then laughed so hard he choked. "Okay. Okay. You're not just dangerous. You're lethal."
"You started it."
"Yeah," he said, still breathless. "And you finished me."
Bryce rolled toward me, still catching his breath, but that usual glint had returned to his eyes—the one that said trouble wasn't over, just catching its second wind. His hair was an absolute mess, shirt hanging off one shoulder, lips still red from where he'd bitten them mid-orgasm. He leaned over and kissed me, slow but sure, a lingering press of his mouth to mine that tasted faintly of sweat and salt and the remnants of adrenaline. No hesitation. No pulling back.
When he pulled away, I blinked at him, eyebrows raised. "That doesn't gross you out?"
His brows lifted, incredulous. "Why the fuck would it gross me out?"
"I don't know," I muttered, glancing away. "I just thought… because…"
And he kissed me again, this time firmer, deeper. His tongue slid against mine with intent, deliberate and unflinching. I could feel the confidence in it, the answer embedded in his kiss rather than anything he'd say aloud. He didn't care. Not in the way people usually pretended they didn't care—this was the real thing. He kissed like someone who meant to make a point.
When he pulled back, he was still close enough that our noses brushed. "You just gave me one of the best blowjobs I've ever had," he said, eyes locked on mine. "You tended to me. Took your damn time. Didn't treat me like I was some fucking prize to break open and show off—you made it about me. And you didn't look grossed out once. You were into it."
"I was," I said quietly.
"So why the hell would I be grossed out after you swallowed?"
"I don't know," I said again, and shrugged. "I was just… curious."
His mouth quirked. "You always get curious after sex?"
"Only when the guy starts kissing me with his own come still on my tongue."
That made him laugh, a hoarse sound, real and relaxed, his head dipping against my shoulder. "Jesus, Devon."
I let the moment stretch, running a hand absently through the tangle of his hair.
"I enjoy it, too," I said after a beat. "Seeing you like that. Wrecked because of me."
His gaze snapped back up, and for a second, the tension changed—nothing defensive, just sharper, almost reverent.
"Yeah?" he said.
I nodded. "I liked watching you fall apart. Watching you lose all that performative shit you carry around. It was just you. That mess was mine."
He grinned, slow and crooked. "You sound proud."
"I am."
"Well, then," he murmured, brushing a thumb across my cheek. "Guess I'll have to return the favor sometime. See what you look like when you're wrecked."
I slid an arm around him and tugged him close, catching him off guard. No flair, no teasing—just a firm, steady grip, chest to chest, one hand cradling the back of his head as he tucked into my shoulder with a breath that caught halfway.
"Jesus," he muttered, muffled into my skin. "What's this for?"
I held tighter, like I could squeeze the chaos right out of him. My fingers slid up into the damp tangle of his hair, anchoring there, and I felt the rise and fall of his chest begin to slow against mine.
"Merry Christmas, Bryce," I said.
He didn't laugh, didn't throw some smartass line back. For once, he just stayed quiet, arms sliding around me in return, slower than mine had. His fingers curled into the small of my back, holding on like he meant it.
Then, after a long beat, his voice came, soft and stupidly sincere: "Damn. You really know how to fuck up a guy's heart."