ME: That’s the one.
Ghost: I like him.
ME: He’s pretty great when he isn’t sharing my biggest embarrassment in front of the whole team.
Ghost: THAT'S your biggest embarrassment? Damn, we’ve got to get you out more.
ME: Ha. Ha.
Ghost: We got our proofs from the photoshoot back today.
ME: Yeah? How’d they turn out?
Ghost: You tell me…
The next message is an attachment. I open it up and…Oh, Holy Night.
I have jerked off to many pictures of Jesse. Especially ones where he’s performing and he’s all sweaty, or the selfies he takes after he gets off stage.
But this…
Jesus.
It’s a shot of Jesse, alone, with no background and simple, muted colors. He’s wearing the most obscene pair of leather pants I’ve ever seen. The front of the pants has a plunging waistline, leading straight to his dick, which is a hair's breadth from being exposed. I can actually see the shape of the base catching the shadows, and the full shape of his cock down the inside of his right leg. His hand is resting over the bottom half of his shaft, not quite gripping, but curled around enough to be suggestive. His other hand cups the back of his neck, feigning a timidity that doesn’t reflect in his eyes at all. The pose and the placement of a thin belt around his natural waist, lengthens his body, accentuating the nakedness of the front of the pants.He’s standing with his legs just a little more than shoulder-width apart and leaning slightly back, making his hip bones and Adonis belt pop. He’s looking down at the camera like the photographer was on their knees. He’s not wearing anything else. His chest, arms, and throat are completely bare. His hair is wet or gelled and looks darker than usual, and his green eyes are rimmed in black eyeliner that’s smudged just enough to make it look like he’s had a wild night.
Goddamn he’s so fucking hot. Otherworldly hot.
I have to unbutton my pants to get comfortable, adjusting my cock against my waistband and absentmindedly stroking myself while I stare at the photo.
I’m zooming in to look closer at how his cock is possibly fitting in those pants when the screen lights up with a video call. I’m so surprised, feeling caught red-handed zooming in on Jesse’s dick-print, that I almost drop my phone.
I don’t have time to make myself look less completely shook, so I answer and give him the brunt of the state I’m in. My face is flushed, I’m sweaty, and my hair is falling in my face.
Jesse, of course, looks flawless. His hair is damp, so he might be fresh out of the shower. I can almost smell his shampoo, the herbal scent that reminds me of mulling spices and sex. I consider the stupidly expensive bottle of shampoo in my shower at home and wish I’d replaced my travel bottle ofIrish Spring 3 in1that I keep in my away bag. I don’t smell like him after showering when we’re on the road.
“You went quiet on me, heartthrob.”
I give him a look. “First of all, just no. Second of all, you kind of shorted out my brain.”
“Yeah?”
“Uh, yeah. Those pants defy physics. And decency. What the hell were these photos for?”
“Rolling Stone.”
“I love how you say that so casually, like it's nothing to be inRolling Stonemagazine.”
He smiles and shrugs, and it occurs to me that, to him, it probably isn’t that monumental. I know he’s been on the cover at least one other time.
“I can’t imagine they’ll get away with having this on the cover.”
“I’m wearing the pants on the cover, but not this pose. And the rest of the band is in it, too.”
“What are they wearing?”
“Nothing quite so extra,” he laughs.
I blow a huff of air at a lock of hair that’s fallen onto my forehead. “Well, you look…” I swallow, not really having the words.
