His Cocky Prince by Cole McCade

Author:Cole McCade [McCade, Cole]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Romance, Gay / Lesbian / LGBT
Amazon: B099KP928L
Published: 2020-12-31T23:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

GOD, CILLIAN WISHED HE COULD have held on to the afterglow from last night.

Because right now, he was having a very, very crappy day.

It was like Newcomb could smell it on him—the lingering pheromones, the floating cloud of lazy pleasure that had left Cillian so sated he’d barely made it through thirty minutes of Brendan’s old opera tapes—bright colors, vivid emotion—before he’d passed out in a contented heap, tangled up with Brendan on the sofa, naked in their tumble of blankets.

He hadn’t had sex that good in a while.

If ever.

And Brendan hadn’t even been roleplaying much—just a few dirty words here and there, just enough to give Cillian that shiver of pleasure that came from feeling like he was doing something just a little bit shameful.

If Brendan actually took it further…

Cillian caught himself drifting on those thoughts all day. And then rudely slapped out of them multiple times—Tell this and Tell that, Newcomb hounding him over every imagined infraction until he was ready to shout, slap the script out of the director’s smarmy little hands, ask him how he’d fucking like it if—

Breathe.

Breathe.

The only things that had kept him steady throughout the day were Sophie’s irreverent sympathetic humor…and Brendan. Always there on the sidelines, always a watchful guardian…always reminding Cillian with every heated glance just what they’d done last night, until Cillian missed more than one cue and maybe, just maybe earned a few of those shouts of his name, the calls of cut, the disgusted demands to do it again.

Please don’t let me be this dickmatized.

Please.

By the time he made it back to his rental cottage after Newcomb called an end to shooting for the day, Cillian had about zero patience left for Maxwell’s disapproving looks. His backward comments about Cillian coming home in the same outfit he’d left in…forty-eight hours ago. The pointed reminders about how long it had been since he’d called home, or listened to his parents’ voicemails. The…the…everything, until it was all Cillian could do to bite his tongue and remember not to take his frustration out on anyone else. Silence was the only thing that got him through showering, changing—and then escaping again, giving Maxwell the night off and calling an Uber just to lift the weight of judgment Maxwell carried around him all the time.

He just wanted to spend the evening with Brendan, calm down, possibly have wild, crashing, dripping, mindless sex again.

Only Brendan was in a mood, too.

And, sitting perched on Brendan’s sofa, Cillian thudded his forehead against the script in his hands again and again and again while Brendan paced the living area, glowering down at his own script.

“It’s something about the way you say this line,” Brendan muttered. “I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s lacking force.”

“…I’ve said it ninety different ways and you’re still not happy,” Cillian groaned, closing his eyes. “There’s nothing wrong with the way I’m saying it. It’s not even an important line. No one’s going to remember if I sounded a little quieter on it.

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