If you look at the image above, that was basically me for most of my life. I wasn’t just indifferent to the holidays; I was a card-carrying member of the “I Hate Christmas” club. I was the guy rolling his eyes at the first notes of a carol, the one muttering under his breath while everyone else was roasting chestnuts. I genuinely despised the season. But if you know me now, you know that script has flipped. I’ve somehow crossed the line from “bah humbug” to actually humming along with the radio.
It wasn’t a random personality quirk; there’s a reason I hated it. Let’s be real: my family of origin was, to put it mildly, completely fucked up. It was a train wreck. Being gay on top of that definitely didn’t help matters; it just added a layer of isolation to an already volatile mix.
Then I spent years working retail as a makeup artist. If you’ve never worked a cosmetics counter in December, you haven’t seen the true face of humanity. I was trapped in a mall, drowning in a sea of aggressive shoppers demanding the perfect shade of red lipstick like their lives depended on it, all while the same five holiday songs played on an endless, maddening loop. The sensory overload of perfume, panic, and incessant jingling bells didn’t just annoy me—it completely wrecked the season. By the time I clocked out, the last thing I wanted to see was tinsel; I just wanted silence.
For a long time, the holidays weren’t a celebration—they were something I had to survive. But eventually, I escaped that hell. I got out, I built a life of my own, and most importantly, I met Ricardo.
Ricardo and I had a rollercoaster romance—off again, on again, spanning years—but through all the turbulence, he was undeniably the love of my life.
Then came my move to Mexico, and shortly after, the world fell apart. Ric passed away during the Covid epidemic, and I was absolutely gutted. The silence he left behind was deafening. But the following Christmas, sitting with that grief, I made a choice. I decided I needed to change my attitude, not just about the holidays, but about how I was processing everything.
I turned to the one thing that always makes sense to me: writing. I channeled that energy into a novella called Making It Glitter. The irony isn’t lost on me—after years of despising my time in retail, I wrote a romance about two guys falling in love while working at the mall, one dressed as an elf and the other as Santa. It was my way of taking the setting of my nightmares and turning it into a place of love.
Writing is what changed me.
Now that I’m away from retail and family drama, the holidays have become enjoyable for the first time. I even have a playlist of holiday music I’ve been listening to while working on my next holiday themed romance, The Naughty List.
I’ve been a huge fan of romantic comedies my entire life, and The Naughty series if a result.
First there’s The Naughty Professor, my gay version of The Nutty Professor. Coming the day after Christmas is The Naughty List, my first snowed in romance. This has been so much fun to write, and I daresay it’s much more romantic than I expected it to be. It kind of reminds me of one Christmas Ric and I were trapped in a cheap motel in Pennsylvania. We’d been driving back to Richmond from his family’s place in Ohio, accompanied by our chihuahua, Pepe. It was cozy, warm, and… I’ll keep the rest of that memory to myself. *wink*
Preorder The Naughty List now from Amazon, and lock in the sale price of 3.99. The price goes up to 4.99 on release day.
We are knocking on the door of 2026, which marks a massive milestone for me: My tenth year of publishing fiction.
Ten years. A full decade.
When I started this journey, the landscape of MM romance looked very different. I was different, too. My first pen name was Enrique Cruz. I was finding my voice, experimenting with tropes, and just beginning to understand the craft of storytelling. My first stories were short erotica, and I left that pen name behind long ago. I also named my publishing company “Cruz Publishing” so I’d never forget my beginnings.
Now I write under my actual name. Over the last decade, I’ve written millions of words, published dozens of books, and learned more than I ever imagined about love, character arcs, and the art of the Happy Ever After.
As I prepared for this anniversary, I started doing something I rarely do: I sat down and read my own backlist.
It was a nostalgic trip, but it was also eye-opening. There are stories in my catalog that I still absolutely adore. But I also saw places where “2020 Ian” rushed a pivotal scene that “2026 Ian” would savor. I saw novellas that were bursting at the seams, begging to be full-length novels. I saw emotions that could go deeper and chemistry that could burn hotter.
Growth is a natural part of being an author. If I wrote exactly the same way today as I did ten years ago, I wouldn’t be doing my job.
So, how do I celebrate ten years? By giving my past work the future it deserves.
The “Ian O. Lewis Remastered” Project
I am thrilled to announce that throughout my anniversary year, I will be remastering a significant portion of my back catalog.
What does “remastering” mean? It’s more than just a fresh coat of paint (though you know I love designing new covers!). I’m diving back into the manuscripts. I’m tightening the prose, deepening the emotional beats, and expanding the stories that I feel never quite got the space they deserved.
My goal is simple: I want to give you the very best book I can.
Whether you have been reading my gay romance novels since day one or you just discovered me through a social media recommendation yesterday, I want to ensure that every title in my library reflects the writer I am today. I want these stories to shine as brightly as they do in my head.
Looking Forward (And a Secret)
Of course, I’m not just spending 2026 looking in the rearview mirror. I am just as excited about the future.
I have a packed schedule of brand new releases coming your way this year. I’m exploring new dynamics, new settings, and yes—new levels of steam.
And… I have a secret.
I am currently developing a brand new series that is completely top secret for now. It’s something a little different for me, but it’s packed with everything you love about my books. My lips are sealed on the details (for now), but let’s just say it’s going to be a wild ride.
Thank you for sticking with me for ten incredible years. Here’s to the stories we’ve told, the ones we’re polishing up, and the ones that are just waiting to be written.
In this exclusive, sexy excerpt, we’re diving straight into the fire. Mason is completely overwhelmed by having to share space with the man who used to be his biggest adversary—and trust me, he finds a very cathartic and very hot way to deal with all that complicated history and unwanted attraction. Get a fan ready, because this is the moment when the line between hate and something much, much deeper—and dirtier—gets officially blurred.
Around ten, Beau stood and stretched, his sweater riding up just enough that I glimpsed a patch of skin above his belt. I looked away immediately, focusing on my laptop screen.
“I should head out,” he said. “Got a big day tomorrow. Moving into the new place.”
“The condo in Shockoe Bottom?”
“Yeah. Finally escaping my parents’ arctic tundra.” He grabbed his suit jacket from the back of the chair. “Thanks for dinner. And for, you know, talking. About genuine stuff.”
“It’s not a big deal.”
“It is to me.”
He was standing close again—too close. I could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, the slight stubble along his jaw, the way his lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile.
My gaze dropped to his mouth without permission.
Don’t.
But I couldn’t look away. Couldn’t stop wondering what it would be like to close the distance between us, to find out if he kissed the way he argued—with everything he had.
“Mason?”
I blinked, forcing myself to meet his eyes. “What?”
“You okay?”
“Fine. Just tired.”
He studied me for a moment longer, and I had the horrible feeling he knew exactly what I’d been thinking. But he just nodded and headed for the door.
“See you tomorrow, Price.”
“Goodnight, Thatcher.”
The door clicked shut behind him, and I stood there in the suddenly too-quiet office, my heart pounding like I’d just run a marathon.
This is a problem.
The second my apartment door clicked shut behind me, I shed my jacket like it was on fire. My tie followed, yanked loose with a sharp tug, the silk whispering against my collarbone as it slithered free. The briefcase hit the floor with a thud. I needed a hot shower. Needed to feel myself burn.
The water roared to life, steam billowing up to fog the glass before I’d even stepped in. Scalding. Punishing. A heat that should’ve seared the memory of Beau right out of my skin.
It didn’t.
I braced my forehead against the tile, letting the water sluice down my back, but all I could see was Beau—leaning over my desk, his cuffs rolled up to reveal the faint dusting of dark hair on his forearms. The way his fingers had tapped against the wood, restless, like he was fighting the same pull I was. Curiosity, he’d called it. Like I was some goddamn equation he needed to solve.
A groan clawed up my throat. I turned my face into the spray, but the water couldn’t drown out the sound of his laugh—low, rough, the kind that vibrated straight through my ribs. Or the way his voice had dropped when he’d asked about my mother, like he was peeling back a layer of me no one else got to see. It was almost like he cared.
My fingers curled into a fist against the wall.
“God, I hate him,” I muttered.
Except I didn’t. Not even close.
The soap slipped in my grip, suds sliding down my chest, and my traitorous brain supplied the memory of his sweater riding up—just a flash of pale skin, the shallow dip of his waist, the hint of a scar near his hipbone I’d never get to ask about. My stomach twisted. I wanted to trace it with my tongue. Wanted to hear him gasp.
Fuck.
My cock was already heavy, aching, and when I wrapped my hand around it, it was with furious resignation. Like my body had been waiting all day for this.
The first stroke was punishment.
The last was relief.
Beau’s cologne—bergamot and something smoky, like burnt sugar—flooded my senses. I could taste it, could still feel the ghost of his breath against my jaw when he’d leaned in to argue about the damn case, close enough that I’d had to clench my fists to keep from grabbing him.
My hips jerked forward, water sluicing over my shoulders as I imagined him pressed against my office door, his hands fisted in my shirt, his mouth hot and demanding. Or worse—spread across my desk, his dark eyes locked on mine as he dared me to do something about it.
A broken sound tore from my throat. My free hand slammed against the tile, fingers splaying wide as my orgasm hit me like a wrecking ball—pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. Beau’s name burned on my lips, swallowed by the roar of the water, and by the shame curling in my gut.
I sagged against the tile, chest heaving, the aftershocks of release doing nothing to quiet the voice in my head:
You’re so fucked.
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When I’m not writing, I’ve been watching old films from the 1930s—those moody, atmospheric pictures where shadows tell half the story and desire hums just below the surface. There’s something intoxicating about that era. The way the camera lingered on a trembling hand or a cigarette burning. The way emotion had to be suggested, not shown. It’s sexier because of what’s left unsaid. It forces the viewer to use their imagination.
I didn’t plan for it, but those movies have started bleeding into my writing of Devil’s Advocate. The story has that same smoky tension—two men circling something they both want and fear, trapped between sin and salvation. It feels like an old black-and-white film playing on a loop inside my head.
When I picture Lucien and Jimmy, I see them in that hazy chiaroscuro light: Lucien framed in half-shadow, his eyes catching just enough glow to look dangerous. Jimmy, trembling, the moral world he’s been raised in collapsing around him like a cathedral in flames.
Every whispered word, every near-touch feels cinematic—like one of those moments just before the censors cut away, leaving the audience to imagine what happens next.That’s what Devil’s Advocate is to me: A love story shot in metaphorical black and white, where the sin isn’t desire—it’s denial.
The following is an excerpt from Devil’s Advocate, which releases on Halloween 2025.
Lucien’s arms were solid bands around my back, his chest a wall of heat I could lean into or break myself against, and for a second I forgot how to breathe. I pressed my face to the place where his neck met his shoulder and smelled only clean skin with something darker underneath: smoke, spice, and the faintest trace of kitchen grease, which somehow made him more real. The throb of my pulse synced to his heartbeat, steady and thunderous, and the world went quiet except for that sound and the tiny, ragged breaths scraping out of me.
I was grateful. God help me, I was so grateful he’d crossed that room and put his arms around me when I was shaking apart. A minute before, my daddy’s voice had been chewing me up from the inside, and then Lucien’s hold came down like shelter. He said nothing at first. He just gathered me in his arms like he’d been waiting to, like I’d fit there all along.
And I was embarrassed, too—humiliated that he’d seen me like that, weak and small and scared. I never wanted him to think of me that way, as the boy who flinched when a man raised his voice. I wanted him to see the good parts: the music, the patience, the part of me that showed up at the food kitchen because I believed kindness was holy. But there I was, clinging to him like a drowning man.
“Hey,” he murmured against my hair. “I’ve got you.”
Something broke open in my chest.
The gratitude spiraled into something else—something hotter, heavier. It started at the base of my spine and streaked forward, a live wire snapping under my skin. I became aware of everything about him at once: the width of his shoulders, the way his breath stuttered, the heat rolling off him like summer pavement. My fingers curled into the back of his shirt and felt muscle under the cotton. He was so solid, filled with promise and danger, and the nearness of him hit me like a storm.
My breathing went ragged. I tried to slow it, count it, hide it, but the more I tried to get a grip, the worse it got. Sweat gathered at my hairline and slid along my temple. My skin prickled like I’d stepped out of my body and every nerve had come alive. And then I realized—mortifying and undeniable—that I was hard. Not just a little. Not just that shy ache I knew how to will away. My dick was straining against the zipper, urgent, a pressure that bordered on pain, and I was pressed against him with nowhere to hide.
I told myself to think of something else. Math problems. Sermon notes. Hymns. I tried to hear “How Great Thou Art,” and all I heard was the steady drum of my pulse. And the feel of his hand rubbing circles at the small of my back, slow, steady, possessive in a way that made my knees weak.
Temptation wasn’t a whisper anymore. It was Lucien.
And then it hit me—Lucien was trembling. Just a little, but I felt it, a fine shiver running through him that set off a matching quake in me. His thigh shifted between mine, and I went dizzy. The world narrowed to the slide of his breath along my cheek and the hot, unmistakable pressure pressing back against me.
Lucien was hard too.
The knowledge lanced through me, sweet and terrifying. I’d never been more aware of another man’s need in my life.
“Are you okay?” he whispered.
I opened my mouth and found nothing but a sound I didn’t recognize leaking out of me—a broken little gasp that turned into a groan. It crawled out of my chest without permission, honest and helpless, and the second it left me, I felt him respond. His grip flexed. His breath caught. The hardness of him nudged against me, and I had to squeeze my eyes shut against the way it ricocheted through my body.
“Jimmy.” My name, dragged out of him like it cost. “I want you.” He said it haltingly, careful and fierce all at once. “I want you so bad it feels like I’m coming apart. But if you’re scared—if you don’t want to—say it. I’ll stop. I need you to want me too. This doesn’t go one inch further unless you want it.”
The floor seemed to tilt. A man like him, all hard edges and masculine, handing me the reins—I didn’t know what to do with the power of it. The ache in me swelled, thick and tidal. I clutched his shirt tighter, breathing open-mouthed against his throat. My heart hammered.
Not forcing. Not taking. Only offering himself.
My mind split clean down the center.
On one side was heat, near unbearable pressure, and a promise I could taste.
On the other side—memory. It rose up mean and bright, a projector bulb burning through the dark.
Saul’s laughter in our garage the summer I turned sixteen, dust motes floating like glitter in hot light. We’d taken apart the lawnmower because we were dumb and bored and everything felt possible. He’d had oil on his jaw, and I’d wiped it off with my thumb, and we’d paused like the air had gone syrup-thick. He’d said, “If you don’t want to—” and I’d cut him off with my mouth because I didn’t want to talk about it. I wanted to feel.
We were clumsy. It was nothing like the slick sin Daddy warned about from the pulpit. It felt like a firefly landing on your knuckle—shocking and wonderful, light with nowhere to go but inside your skin. Our teeth bumped. We figured it out, and the world didn’t end.
Until the side door slammed open. Daddy’s silhouette cut the light, and then his voice was everywhere, a flood that drowned me.
“Abomination!”
He came at us so fast I didn’t have time to beg. Saul scrambled back, knocking the wrench set onto the concrete with a scatter of clanging metal. Daddy’s hand caught my arm, and I remember the shock more than the pain at first, the disbelief that this was happening, that my father’s hand could feel like a stranger’s.
Saul ran.
The sound of his sneakers slapping the driveway was the loudest thing I’d ever heard until the belt was louder. Leather and rage, over and over, a rhythm I still sometimes felt under my skin when I tried to sleep. Daddy panting, quoting scripture between blows like a man trying to baptize me with pain.
“Better to enter heaven maimed—better to cut it out—better than hellfire!” The words tangled, becoming one long sentence that meant only this: You are wrong. You are broken. God hates what you are.
Afterward, there was the quiet. The slick mess of tears, the sting that didn’t stop, the coppery taste of blood in my mouth where I’d bitten to keep from screaming. Daddy kneeling beside me, gentling his voice, telling me he loved me, that he had to do it, that love corrected error, that he’d saved me from damnation. He prayed over me while my body shook.
“You’ll thank me one day,” Daddy whispered, and I nodded because there was no other answer allowed.
The flash of memory snapped away, and I was back in Lucien’s kitchen, wrapped in arms that held but didn’t hurt, hearts colliding instead of fists. My skin burned with the echo of old pain and the fresh blaze of desire. I pressed closer, greedy for comfort, greedy for him, and hated myself for wanting this even as it made me feel alive.
“Tell me what you want,” Lucien said breathlessly. “You get to choose, Jimmy.”
Preorder your copy of Devil’s Advocate now. It’s available at all major online bookstores.
Sometimes, writing a rom-com means channeling deep emotion, exploring vulnerability, and digging into the human heart. And sometimes… it means writing two unhinged divas beating the hell out of each other with a rhinestone-encrusted purse.
This scene is one of my absolute favorites from The Naughty Professor. It’s pure chaos — cold cream, sequins, feathers, and profanity flying through the air like confetti at a drag brunch. Lux (formerly Juniper) is reborn, Velvetina Jackson is not having it, and what unfolds backstage at Badlands is nothing short of a sparkly war crime.
Grab a drink, maybe a boa, and prepare yourself for glitter-fueled violence, campy dialogue, and one of the funniest transformations I’ve ever written.
I woke up in a panic.
Everything was spinning — the lights, the ceiling, maybe my soul. I fluttered my eyelids open, and for a brief moment I imagined I had died and become a disco ball.
Then my brain rebooted.
Wait. Who was I? Where was I? Why did the floor feel like it was covered in rhinestones?
I pushed myself upright, swaying. “Okay,” I croaked. “Check for pulse. Check for dignity.”
No pulse problems. Dignity… pending results.
I looked up — and froze.
The mirror across the room reflected something tragic: black lipstick smudged like I’d made out with a chimney, raccoon eyeliner, a tangle of black and blue hair that looked like it had lost a fight with a leaf blower.
“Oh hell no,” I rasped. My reflection blinked back, equally horrified. “I am not that bitch anymore.”
Something inside me snapped, fizzed, and rewired all at once — like someone had poured espresso into my DNA. I felt awake for the first time in my life.
A grin curled across my lips. “I’m Lux.”
It came out naturally, like the name had been hiding under my tongue waiting for the right dramatic entrance.
Music thumped beyond the dressing-room door — heavy bass, a crowd screaming, and a deep masculine voice roaring, “JAX!”
I staggered to the door, cracked it open, and peeked out. There he was — gold thong, glitter and glory — Jax himself.
My muse, and the vessel that contained my creator, Dr. Sterling.
He was performing like sin in motion. The crowd adored him. Phones were flashing, hands reaching for him. I felt an ache of envy — no, not envy. Hunger.
I wanted to be out there too. To be seen, worshiped, and adored. But not looking like Siouxsie Sioux and Robert Smith’s unwanted love child.
I slammed the door and looked around for salvation. That’s when I saw it: a jar of cold cream sitting beside the mirror like a beacon from the gods of reinvention.
“Well,” I said to myself, “every resurrection starts with a deep cleanse.”
I dipped my fingers in and smeared the cool cream across my face. Black streaks slid down my cheeks in oily rivers. My eyeliner surrendered first, then the lipstick, until all that remained was… me.
And holy hell.
I leaned in. For the first time in my life, I actually saw her — wide eyes, soft mouth, cheekbones that could start small wars. No armor. No sarcasm. Just skin and light.
“Oh damn,” I whispered. “I’m this fucking hot?”
The universe, clearly amused, offered no comment.
But something was missing. No makeup, no sparkle — I looked like a clean canvas, and that just wouldn’t do. A diva without glitter is just a civilian.
I scanned the counter. Empty. Just a few lonely bowls of body glitter sparkled under the vanity lights.
Then I noticed her — sprawled on the floor like a collapsed chandelier: Velvetina Jackson, still out cold, mouth open in a perfect “O,” with one leg bent in a way that defied basic geometry.
“Sorry, sis,” I said, crouching beside her. “But desperate times call for petty crimes.”
I tried to pry her rhinestone-encrusted purse from her manicured grip, but the purse gave a stubborn little tug back.
I froze.
A low groan rose from the heap of sequins on the floor. One glitter-caked eyelid fluttered open.
“Unhand my Chanel knock-off!” Velvetina croaked. Her wig was sideways, one lash dangling like a sad tarantula on her cheek, but the menace was real.
“Oh, you’re awake,” I said brightly. “Great! Now go back to sleep.”
“Over my dead, perfectly contoured body!” She sat up with the grace of a resurrected diva, clutching the purse to her chest. “That’s Velvetina Jackson’s emergency glam kit, and I don’t share foundation shades or life advice with anybody!”
We locked eyes—predator versus glitter-addict.
I grabbed the purse and yanked. She yanked back. The purse made a noise like a dying accordion.
“Let go!” I hissed.
“Never!” she shrieked, wobbling to her feet in stilettos that could double as murder weapons.
She swung the purse like a mace. Lipsticks and false lashes went flying, a high-speed cloud of cosmetics. A compact whizzed past my ear, exploding against the mirror like a grenade of pressed powder.
“Girl!” I shouted. “Do you mind? I NEED THAT MAKEUP!”
Velvetina bared her teeth. “Nobody steals my look, baby—especially not a Hot Topic wannabe!”
“You fucking bitch!”
I lunged. She counter-lunged. We collided in a shower of sequins. For thirty glorious seconds, it was less catfight and more interpretive dance of rage—two sparkly demons tangled in a whirl of wigs, powders, and profanity.
“You fucking drama queen!” Velvetina growled. “Let go of my shit!”
She tried to choke me with her feather boa. I grabbed it mid-swing and yanked, spinning her like a glittery tornado. “You asked for drama!” I cried.
“I am drama!” she screamed back—right before tripping over her own stiletto heels.
Velvetina pinwheeled, arms flailing, and I swear time slowed down.
“Ya-a-a-as!” echoed through the room before she toppled backward into the vanity. A rain of rhinestones followed, and Velvetina Jackson went down.
Silence.
I stood there, panting, boa in one hand, purse in the other. Glitter drifted through the air like angel dust.
“Sweet dreams, queen.”
💋 The Naughty Professor officially hits all major retailers on October 16, but guess what? You don’t have to wait! It’s already live in my Cruz Publishing bookstore, where you can grab it early for just $3.99. Preorder now from the other retailers like Amazon and Kobo and lock in that price before it jumps to $4.99 on release day. This book is pure romantic-comedy chaos — glitter, lab coats, and love potions gone wrong. If you like your rom-coms sexy, smart, and a little bit unhinged (in the best way), The Naughty Professor is waiting for you right now at Cruz Publishing. 💫
Noah Miller has two passions: the poetry of the Song of Songs… and taking his clothes off for money. One pays the bills. The other feeds a lifelong obsession with love, beauty, and desire — the kind his rabbi father would rather never hear about.
In Biblical Knowledge, Noah’s worlds collide in ways he never saw coming. This first chapter drops you right into his life in Los Angeles — the sunlight, the sweat, and the secrets — as he juggles a PhD program by day and the stage lights of a strip club by night.
Here’s your exclusive first look.
Song of Songs 4:9- You have stolen my heart with one glance of your eyes.
The parking lot at the Claremont School of Theology looked like a car commercial—sleek sedans, shiny hybrids, the occasional BMW that probably belonged to someone’s daddy. My car didn’t fit the vibe. A dented silver Toyota Corolla with a temperamental air conditioner and one speaker that only worked if you smacked it just right. I wedged it between a Tesla and a Lexus and killed the engine.
My phone buzzed.
Dad had texted.
Will you be joining us for Rosh Hashanah this year? It would mean so much to your mother. And your sister. Plus, your grandmother. And to me, of course, though I understand you are busy with… whatever it is you do these days.
Translation: Your absence will break the heart of every woman in our family and probably make God sigh heavily in your direction.
I rolled my eyes and shoved the phone into my bookbag before I could type something sarcastic like Sorry, can’t make it, I’m busy dancing naked for strangers while working on my dissertation about biblical smut.
I didn’t even know if I wanted to go this year. Rosh Hashanah started Monday, ended Wednesday, and my life wasn’t exactly holiday-friendly. I had class, shifts at the club, and zero desire to sit through hours of polite family tension where every question felt like a veiled critique.
A glance at my watch made my stomach drop. Crap. Running late.
I jogged toward the humanities building, my sneakers squeaking against the tile when I burst through the doors and took the stairs two at a time. By the time I slipped into the classroom, everyone was already there, chattering in little knots. I was the last one in.
Every seat was taken except for one near the back. I slid into it, catching a few curious glances before I dropped my bag on the floor and dug out my notebook.
That’s when I saw him.
A guy in the second row, broad shoulders outlined under a crisp button-down, dark hair falling just enough to make you want to push it back. His eyes—holy hell—green like the first bite of a Granny Smith apple, sharp and unexpected. He was listening intently to a girl beside him, but there was this stillness about him, like he knew exactly how much space he took up and didn’t apologize for it.
My brain made a note: Danger. My body made a different note: Yes, please.
The door swung open, and in walked the professor, Dr. Scheinbaum.
If you told me she was the president of an artsy, left-leaning European country, I would’ve believed you. Platinum hair in a sculpted bob, severe black dress offset by a scarf that looked like it had been painted in a single stroke by an avant-garde genius.
“Good morning,” she said in a rich, precise voice that made you sit up straighter whether you wanted to or not. “Welcome to Sacred Eroticism: Interpreting the Song of Solomon. This is not a class for the prudish, the fainthearted, or those who believe the Bible is entirely about smiting.”
A ripple of laughter moved through the room.
“Eroticism in the ancient world,” she continued, pacing with the grace of someone who knew exactly how to control a crowd, “was not tucked into the shadows. It was celebrated, sung about, carved into temple walls. Song of Solomon—or Song of Songs, if you’re feeling poetic—was essentially an ancient playlist of love ballads, seduction poetry, and borderline graphic metaphors. You think Shakespeare was sexy? Solomon was the original thirst trap.”
A guy in the front row choked on his coffee.
“Now, don’t misunderstand me—this was not pornography as we know it. This was artful. Symbolic. A woman’s hair wasn’t just hair; it was like a flock of goats descending Mount Gilead. Which, granted, is not the compliment it used to be. I don’t recommend trying that one on your next date.”
More laughter.
I tried to focus. I really did. But my mind drifted. Mostly toward the green-eyed guy. The way his jaw flexed as he scribbled notes. The casual way his sleeves were rolled up, showing tan forearms dusted with dark hair.
Then he spoke.
“Dr. Scheinbaum,” he said, and his voice hit me like a bass note—deep, smooth, with the kind of resonance that curled low in my stomach. “I’ve read arguments that the Song of Solomon isn’t just an allegory for divine love, but also a celebration of physical love as part of God’s design. How do you reconcile the two interpretations without erasing either?”
I blinked. I didn’t expect him to sound like that. Or to ask something that made me want to underline every word.
Dr. Scheinbaum’s eyes lit up. “Ah, Mr…?”
“Forrester. Henry Forrester.”
Henry. Even his name felt deliberate. Sexy.
Dr. Scheinbaum tilted her head toward Henry like he’d just tossed her a particularly fine chocolate truffle.
“A fine question, Mr. Forrester. The short answer is, you don’t reconcile them.” She moved to the front of the desk and perched there like a queen surveying her court. “Ancient writers were not interested in the binary we moderns love so much. They didn’t feel the need to separate the sacred from the sensual, because to them, they were part of the same thing. When you see the divine in everything, why wouldn’t you see it in the human body?”
She let the question hang, scanning the room with a hawk’s patient stare.
“That said,” she continued, “theologians across centuries have tied themselves into interpretive pretzels trying to ‘sanitize’ Song of Solomon. Personally, I think it’s more interesting if we let it be messy. God, desire, love, sweat, it’s all in there. Trying to strip the text of its eroticism…” She paused, letting a sly smile curl her lips. “Well, that’s like trying to eat baklava without the honey. What’s the point?”
The class chuckled.
She rose, heels clicking, and began pacing. “Let’s remember—this was before Tinder, or Grindr. You didn’t swipe right on someone’s selfie; you met them at the village well, or the threshing floor, or during a sacrificial feast. Courtship involved livestock—literal flocks of goats. You wanted to impress your beloved? You brought her a prize ewe. Maybe a couple of camels, if you were really feeling it.”
Laughter rippled through the room.
“And fertility rituals weren’t tucked away in some back chamber. They were public, celebrated. You prayed for rain and for a good harvest, yes—but you also prayed for sons, daughters, and a bed that wasn’t cold.” She gestured toward the whiteboard, where she wrote in bold strokes: Desire was communal currency. “Your body was part of the divine economy, just like your land or your crops.”
Her gaze swept over us like she was daring anyone to look away.
Toward the end, Henry raised his hand again. “What about the metaphor in chapter four, verse twelve?” And then, smooth as silk, he quoted it in perfect Hebrew, the words rolling off his tongue with an ease that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
Dr. Scheinbaum’s brows arched. “Excellent. And can anyone answer Mr. Forrester’s question? Namely, why that verse is so provocative in the context of ancient Hebrew poetics?”
Before I could think better of it, my hand shot up.
“Yes…?”
“Noah Miller,” I said. “The verse refers to a ‘locked garden’—gan na’ul, ma’ayan chatum—a closed spring. In ancient Hebrew imagery, that meant exclusivity and invitation withheld. It wasn’t just romantic; it was an erotic challenge.”
A flicker of approval lit her eyes. “Very good, Mr. Miller.”
She clapped her hands once, the sound snapping through the air like a whip. “Since we have students who already have more than a passing familiarity with the material, we’re going to start the semester with paired projects. Each pair will examine how desire is presented in a sacred text of their choosing.”
Groans from the room.
“Yes, yes, I’m cruel,” she said dryly. “Mr. Forrester, you’ll work with Mr. Miller. Consider yourselves the first pairing.”
My inner slut, who’d been quietly purring ever since Henry opened his mouth, sat up and stretched. Hours with him? Talking about desire? Oh, this semester had potential.
Dr. Scheinbaum clapped her hands again, the sound echoing off the whiteboard.
“All right, lovers of sacred filth,” she said. “Find your assigned partners. You have fifteen minutes to get acquainted and,”—her gaze swept over us like a hawk—“to name your project. Something memorable. Preferably something that makes the rest of the class squirm.”
A few students laughed, but others looked like they’d just been asked to pick out lingerie in public. I glanced at the blonde girl in the front row with the halo braid and Bible-shaped tote bag. Yeah, she was going to go with something like Purity and Praise. Then there was the muscular guy in the “Jesus is My Spotter” T-shirt. He was leaning forward, brow furrowed like he was prepping to submit his title to the Vatican for approval.
Henry slid into the seat beside me, his notebook tucked under one arm. The second his knee brushed mine, a current zipped up my leg.
Up close, he was even more dangerous.
Perfect face, firm jaw, green eyes that looked like they’d been hand-painted by God on a day when He was feeling especially generous. His voice was deep and smooth when he said, “So… I was thinking we could call it Metaphorical Horticulture: An Analysis of Agricultural Imagery as Relational Framework in Song of Songs.”
I stared at him. “You’re kidding.”
“What? It’s accurate.”
“It’s a mouthful.”
“Yes, well… precision matters to…”
“No, Henry.” I leaned back in my chair. “Dr. Scheinbaum literally just told us to make the class squirm. Nobody’s squirming over ‘agricultural imagery.’”
His brow furrowed. “It’s not supposed to be tawdry.”
“Tawdry is the point. Song of Songs is basically ancient sexting.”
His ears went pink. “That’s… debatable.”
“Oh, it’s not,” I said, leaning forward just enough to watch his blush deepen. “What about Your Mouth is Wine, Your Kisses are Better Than Spices? Or, Let Him Kiss Me with the Kisses of His Mouth? Hell, we could just go with The Locked Garden—classy, but still filthy if you know your Hebrew.”
He actually looked like I’d slapped him with a wet fig leaf. “That’s… suggestive.”
“Exactly.” I grinned. “It’ll make the holy rollers in the front row clutch their pearls and Dr. Scheinbaum proud.”
Henry hesitated, then sighed like he’d just agreed to smuggle contraband. “Fine. The Locked Garden. But only if we keep the analysis rigorous.”
“Sure,” I said, biting back a smirk. “Rigor is my specialty.”
I didn’t tell him I was already looking forward to watching that blush spread across his cheeks every time we met.
I wrote The Locked Garden in bold letters at the top of my notebook and slid it across for Henry to see. He glanced at it like it might combust.
That was when Dr. Scheinbaum’s shadow fell over our desks.
“Mr. Miller, Mr. Forrester.” Her eyes flicked down to my scrawl, and one corner of her mouth curved upward in a smirk so quick you might miss it if you weren’t watching for it. “Provocative. I approve.”
Henry’s posture went ramrod straight, but she was already gliding away, heels clicking against the tile, tossing casual comments to other pairs.
The rest of the class went by in a blur—her voice weaving through metaphor and translation, assigning first readings, reminding us that we’d need to present our project in four weeks. I caught Henry sneaking glances at me once or twice, though it was hard to tell if he was annoyed or curious.
Finally, Dr, Scheinbaum closed her notes. “That’s all for today. Go forth and study biblical desire. And don’t be squeamish.”
Chairs scraped. Papers rustled. Henry stood, and I fell into step behind him as we moved toward the door. The hallway was clogged with students, and I didn’t mind the slow pace. Not with the view.
Broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, perfect posture, and—God help me—that ass. High, tight, and made for thoughts I shouldn’t be having about a study partner in an academic setting. My mind flashed to an image, uninvited, to how Henry’s ass would look without tailored trousers in the way. The thought warmed me in places that had nothing to do with scholarship.
We stepped out into the afternoon sun, the campus buzzing around us. Henry glanced back at me, those green eyes catching the light like polished glass.
The question hit me before I could stop it: Was I going to spend this semester just looking at Henry Forrester… or was I going to find a way to actually touch him?
Biblical Knowledge releases to all major online retailers on August 28, 2025. Preorder your copy now from your favorite store.
There are some tropes that just never go out of style — fake dating, opposites attract, that one bed in the room — but if you ask me, enemies-to-lovers is the holy grail. And no, I’m not just saying that because I wrote a whole gay romance about a snarky atheist podcaster and a sexy small-town faith healer trying very hard not to fall into bed (and maybe love) with each other.
But seriously, enemies-to-lovers endures for a reason. It’s electric. It’s messy. It’s unhinged emotional yearning wrapped in a sexy, slow-burn shell. In Holy Water, I cranked that dynamic all the way up and added just a dash of religious trauma, a shot of Southern charm, and a full pour of mutual obsession.
So why does it work? And why does it work even better when one character thinks the other is a con artist sent straight from Satan?
Let’s talk.
1. The stakes are high — and deeply personal.
In Holy Water, Julian Reed doesn’t just dislike Jude Brooks — he’s made it his mission to expose him. His career depends on it. His pride depends on it. And let’s be real, his deeply repressed desire to believe in something again depends on it too.
When characters have a reason to resist their feelings — real, internal conflict — the payoff becomes so much sweeter. There’s no insta-love here. Just slow, spicy spiritual warfare with tongue.
2. Desire and doubt? That’s the good stuff.
Enemies-to-lovers always hinges on a push-pull dynamic. One minute they’re at each other’s throats, the next minute they’re noticing how good the other one smells in a confession booth. (True story.)
The tension between Julian and Jude isn’t just sexual — it’s existential. Jude represents everything Julian doesn’t trust: faith, charisma, miracles that can’t be proven. But he also represents something Julian’s secretly aching for: healing. And that’s where enemies-to-lovers shines — in the messy space between hate and hope.
3. It lets us explore redemption in sexy, human ways.
We love a redemption arc — but make it queer and sweaty, please. Both Julian and Jude are wounded. They’ve both built armor around their hearts. And enemies-to-lovers gives them permission to fight for something real, instead of just falling into it.
When two characters with every reason to walk away choose to stay — and choose each other anyway — that’s romance. That’s faith.
And in this case? That’s Holy Water.
🙏 Read Holy Water now — and let the healing begin. Holy Water is now available at all major online bookstores as well as my direct bookstore, Cruz Publishing!
I knew the moment I walked into Dr. Felix Sterling’s office that I’d found my next leading man—or at least, the messiest genius in a three-mile radius. His office was part library, part explosion, and part cry for help. Books everywhere. Three open laptops. A whiteboard covered in formulas that may or may not have been about lube viscosity.
Dr. Sterling himself was hunched behind a desk, chewing the end of a pen and looking like a gay Doogie Howser who’d aged into anxiety and never stopped pulling all-nighters.
Me: Dr. Sterling. Thanks for letting me barge into your natural habitat.
Felix: Oh! Yes! Thank you for coming. I—wait, not like that—I mean, thank you for visiting. [He shoves a pile of papers off a chair with a panicked gesture.] Please, sit down! I printed out a journal article for you but then spilled coffee on it. And ink. And possibly a chemical that makes mice fall in love.
Me: Happens to the best of us. So, you’re a tenured professor, a published researcher, and you’ve got a… very interesting extracurricular situation.
Felix:[blushes hard] If you’re referring to the, um, transformation serum, that was honestly never supposed to be public. I synthesized it during a particularly lonely Valentine’s Day. [beat] They say necessity is the mother of invention, but loneliness? She’s a wicked stepmother with a strap-on.
Me: Wow. Okay, let’s unpack that. Are you lonely?
Felix:[laughs nervously, then stops] Yes. Profoundly. I haven’t had a boyfriend. Ever. Not a real one. I mean, there was that guy from Reddit who mailed me a lock of his hair, but that doesn’t count, does it?
Me: …No. That counts in court records, not dating history.
Felix: Exactly. I’m just not… I don’t know. People don’t see me that way. I talk too fast. I care too much about obscure 18th-century aphrodisiacs. I own a custom lab coat with my D&D character embroidered on it.
Me: Sounds like husband material to me. But you did create a serum that changes your entire personality?
Felix: It’s more than that. The compound rewires neural inhibition, boosts testosterone, and hijacks frontal-lobe regulation. It unleashes the part of me that isn’t scared all the time. The part that doesn’t double-check his outgoing emails for tone. [quietly] The part people actually want.
Me: Felix. C’mon. You are the whole package. You just don’t see it.
Felix: That’s sweet of you to say, but I assure you, the only people who’ve called me “hot” were under the influence of my own synthetic aphrodisiac. And it was a peer-reviewed double-blind trial, so they didn’t technically know it was me.
Me: Felix. Babe. What if you drank the serum right now?
Felix: Oh no no no no—absolutely not. The last time I did that, I woke up with glitter in places I don’t talk about, a tattoo of a dolphin with abs, and a police citation for “inappropriate hot tub evangelism.”
Me: Exactly. That’s the kind of energy this blog needs. For the readers.
Felix: But—I—this is supposed to be a serious academic interview!
Me: This is serious. I’m seriously begging you. C’mon, just one sip. For science. For love. For the readers who like a good “nerd to thirst trap” transformation.
Felix: sighs Fine. But if I start stripping, you have to turn the recorder off. Unless it’s for Patreon content.
Me: Deal.
Felix opens a drawer and retrieves a small, glowing vial. He eyes it like it’s his worst idea and his best chance. With one last glance at me — equal parts dread and curiosity — he knocks it back like a man surrendering to fate.
He shudders. A low sound escapes him. And then… he changes.
The curve of his spine straightens. The nervous fidgeting stills. His eyes sharpen with intent. One eyebrow arches in slow, sexy defiance. The glasses come off and so does the act.
Jax: Ahhh. That’s better. [Cracks his neck, flashes a grin so smug it should be illegal.] You must be Ian. You’ve got the kind of vibe that makes a man wanna misbehave in a hotel elevator.
Me: I—okay. Hi, Jax. Welcome to the interview.
Jax: Thanks, darlin’. Felix gets all shy about this part, but I’ve got no such hang-ups. What do you wanna know? I’m an open book. A very naughty, slightly bent book.
Me: Well, people are curious. Who are you, exactly?
Jax: I’m what happens when Felix stops worrying about tenure and starts worrying about pleasure. I’m the part of him that says, “Screw the rules,” and then actually does. I like good wine, bad decisions, and kissing boys who use big words. [leans forward] Especially if they wear glasses and pretend they’re not kinky.
Me: You seem… confident.
Jax: Oh, I am. Confidence is just chemistry with better posture. I don’t waste time overthinking. I want something, I say it. I feel something, I do something. And if someone wants me? Baby, I notice.
Me: So you’re basically Felix, minus the insecurity.
Jax: Exactly. Felix is all heart and no hustle. I am the hustle. And sometimes, people need both. [pauses, then softens — just a little] He wants to be loved, you know. Not just admired for his brain. He wants someone to look at him and see him — the stammering, brilliant, lonely man who’s never quite believed he was enough. He doesn’t think he deserves to be wanted.
Me: But you do?
Jax: Oh, sweetheart. I know he does. That’s why I exist. [grins again, full heat this time] And if anyone needs convincing? I’ve got a few ideas that don’t require words. Just consent… and maybe a sturdy table.
The Naughty Professor is available to preorder now. Come fall for Felix. Try to survive Jax. And maybe discover that sometimes, the messiest love stories are the ones that actually stick. The preorder price is 3.99, and goes up to 4.99 on release day!
I wasn’t scheduled for anything else today, which meant one thing: freedom. Sweet, beautiful, no-lube-needed freedom. No studio lights, no body oil, no terrible dialogue I had to deliver while holding a plank position.
I leaned against the front desk like I had nowhere better to be, which was a lie, but a cute one. Petyr was scrolling on his phone, probably looking at tweets about union strikes or articles on OSHA violations. Dimitri had a sudoku book open, pencil tapping against the counter like it was a metronome set to “mildly annoyed Russian.”
“Another thrilling day in adult entertainment customer service,” I said, grinning. “Tell me, gentlemen… when you dreamed of escaping Soviet oppression, is this what you pictured? Lube shipments and call sheet drama?”
Petyr snorted. “Back then, I dreamed of eating a sandwich without standing in a line for three hours.”
“Dream big,” I said.
Dimitri didn’t look up from his puzzle. “At least this job comes with free coffee. Even if it tastes like sadness and broken promises.”
I laughed. They were both like that—sharp, dry, impossible to rattle. They were also disgustingly in love. It had been what, decades now? Since before I was born, probably. Every time I caught them sneaking little glances at each other or making dirty old man jokes, part of me wanted to roll my eyes… but a bigger part of me just… wanted.
I wasn’t used to that feeling. Most of the time, I was perfectly fine just floating. Hookups, jokes, nights on stage with a mic in my hand, making people laugh so they didn’t notice I was deflecting my loneliness like a human pinball machine. Love was for other people. People with stable home lives and functional trust issues.
But watching Dimitri scribble in his sudoku while Petyr tilted his phone toward him to share some meme, and seeing the way they smiled at each other like it was all still new? Damn. I wanted that. Someday. Maybe.
If I didn’t die of sarcasm poisoning first.
I was about to say goodbye and head out when the phone on the desk rang. Dimitri picked up, still holding his pencil like he was ready to stab something if this was another spam caller. “Boys On Film, how can I direct your… oh. It’s you.” His whole tone shifted. “Yes, sir. He’s standing right here.” Then he held the receiver toward me like it was radioactive.
“It’s the boss.”
I blinked. “Jack?”
Dimitri nodded. “Da.”
I grabbed the phone, a little confused. Jack never called me directly unless it was about a scene. “Nico Steele, local legend, speaking.”
Jack’s voice crackled on the line. “Cute. Listen, I need you to come to the production meeting. Conference room. Ten minutes.”
I frowned. “Production meeting? Why? I’m not a producer. Or a director. Or even emotionally stable enough to be in that room.”
“You’ll understand when you get there,” Jack said. Then he hung up.
I lowered the phone slowly. “Well. That’s not ominous at all.”
“Good luck,” Petyr said, already back to doom scrolling.
Dimitri winked. “If there are bagels, bring me one.”
I headed toward the conference room, curiosity buzzing in my chest like a bad caffeine hit. This was weird. What did Jack want me there for? Was I in trouble? Was I getting fired? Promoted? Canceled?
Right as I turned the corner near the makeup suite, I almost collided with… oh no.
Bradley.
He was limping like a war survivor. Moving like every joint hurt. And his face… Jesus. The area around his eyebrows was an angry, blistering red. Like he’d lost a fight with a glue gun.
I winced in sympathy. “Dude… you okay?”
Bradley just shook his head, slow and defeated. His eyes were wide and glassy, like he’d just seen the face of God, and it was wearing a waxing apron.
“Eyebrows?” I guessed, nodding at his scorched forehead zone.
He gave me a barely there nod. His mouth opened like he wanted to speak, but no words came out. Just air and trauma.
I wanted to hug him. Which was new. Physical affection wasn’t usually my default setting. But there was something about the way he looked right then. Like a kicked puppy who’d been dumped in a rainstorm, that tugged at something soft in my chest.
Before I could act on the impulse, he mumbled, “I’m supposed to meet Jack and Liam for… something. A meeting.”
My ears perked up. “Wait. No way. Me too. Come on, just follow me.”
Bradley hesitated, like he didn’t trust the universe anymore. Which was fair, but he limped after me, anyway.
And as we headed toward the conference room, side by side, something in my stomach did a weird little somersault. Like… anticipation. Or dread. Or… something else I couldn’t name yet.
Bradley shuffled next to me like a condemned man heading toward the firing squad. Every step looked like it hurt. Hell, even watching him walk hurt.
I kept glancing sideways at him, debating whether to put an arm around his shoulders. Would that be weird? Too much? Too soon? Probably. But… damn. The poor guy looked like he’d been through a full season of America’s Next Top Traumatized Porn Star.
We hit the hallway leading toward the conference room. Carpeted, quiet, the kind of corporate ambiance that screamed “free coffee and passive aggression.”
Bradley cleared his throat. “Do you… uh… do you know what this meeting’s about?”
I shook my head. “Nope. Jack was super evasive. Real ‘I’ll tell you when you get there’ energy. Like a horror movie, but with worse lighting.”
Bradley sighed. “Awesome.”
There was a beat of silence. Then, just loud enough for me to hear, he muttered, “Can’t even sit down…”
I glanced over. “Wait. Why?”
He stopped walking. Turned toward me. His eyes were shiny, like actual tears pooled up along the lower lids.
And in the most broken, betrayed voice imaginable, he said, “That crazy old lady… bleached my asshole.”
I froze. My brain short-circuited. Like, full system reboot.
My mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
And then, before I could talk myself out of it, I opened my arms wide. “Oh, buddy… come here.”
Bradley didn’t even hesitate. He stepped right into my chest like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I wrapped him up in both arms, pulled him tight… and immediately regretted how hard I squeezed when he made a tiny, wounded noise and whispered, “Ow… my back…”
“Shit, sorry.” I loosened my grip fast, hands going soft on his shoulders. “Forgot about the… uh… full body trauma.”
We laughed, both of us quick and awkward, and then kept walking.
When we pushed open the conference room door, the full cast of characters were already mid-salad. Laura, Liam, Jack, Nessa, and Moira were all sitting around like the judges’ panel on some adult industry version of Shark Tank. Coffee cups were everywhere. Half-eaten chopped salads. Nessa had her phone out like she was live-tweeting Bradley’s suffering.
Jack looked up first. “Grab some food and have a seat.”
There was a buffet spread along the back wall. Sandwiches. Fruit. A giant bowl of mixed greens that looked like sadness coated with dressing.
Bradley made a beeline for the farthest end of the table, keeping his distance from anything leafy.
I drifted behind him, watching the way Nessa’s eyes lit up when she spotted him. Like a cat that discovered a bird with a broken wing.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” I muttered under my breath. I parked myself next to him at the buffet line, close enough to block her line of attack.
Bradley hovered awkwardly over the food, looking like none of it made sense to him. Like he wasn’t sure if eating would make the pain better or worse.
Trying to cheer him up, I nudged his shoulder. “You know what helps after a traumatic cosmetic experience?”
He glanced at me, wary. “What?”
“Carbs. Lots and lots of carbs. Bagels are nature’s apology letter.”
That got him. A tiny, reluctant laugh broke out of him. Soft but real. His first actual smile since I’d seen him.
And wow.
Hearing that sound, God. It hit me right in the chest. Made me want to hear it again. Immediately.
So I kept going.
I grabbed a sandwich and held it up like I was a game show model showing off a prize. “This one’s got turkey and provolone. Full of healing properties. Also, I’m pretty sure eating it will reverse the psychological damage caused by Lola’s… services.”
Bradley’s laugh got a little louder. “Not sure that’s medically accurate.”
“Oh, I don’t do medical accuracy,” I said, grinning. “I do emotional support and poor decisions.”
He smiled down at the sandwich tongs like they were suddenly the funniest thing he’d ever seen.
We were still standing there, giggling over deli meats, when Jack cleared his throat.
Both of us turned toward the table.
Everyone—and I mean everyone—was staring at us.
Laura had one eyebrow raised, like she was mentally taking notes. Liam was biting back a smirk. Moira had gone into full gossip-mode, sipping her coffee slowly like she was watching a soap opera. And Nessa… Nessa looked like Christmas had come early.
Jack gave us a look that said “Anytime, gentlemen.”
Sheepishly, Bradley and I grabbed our food and hustled to two empty chairs side by side.
As we sat down—Bradley gingerly, like every surface was made of hot coals—I stole one last glance at him.
He was still red around the eyebrows. Still moving like he needed medical leave. Still adorable in that whole wounded-animal sort of way.
I didn’t know what this meeting was about.
But I suddenly didn’t mind being here at all.
Jack cleared his throat again. “Alright. Let’s call this meeting to order…”
And with that, we were off.
Jack cleared his throat again, tapping a pen against the table like he was warming up for a TED Talk. “First off… Nico.”
I blinked. “Me?”
Jack nodded, giving me a rare, genuine smile, the kind he usually reserved for Liam or big subscriber milestones. “We want to thank you for trusting us with your comedy career. It means a lot. We’re gonna work our asses off to make sure you’re a success.”
My stomach did this weird, flippy thing. “Wow. Thanks, boss.” I gave him a little salute. “I like the sound of ‘success.’ Sounds expensive.”
The table chuckled.
Nessa leaned forward, her huge acrylic nails tapping against her iced coffee like castanets. “And speaking of expensive… your management contract’s ready.” She pointed at me, all sly grin and Bronx attitude. “After this meeting, I’ll give it to you to look over.”
Liam immediately jumped in, waving a forkful of salad for emphasis. “And get an entertainment lawyer to review it. Seriously.”
I gave him a thumbs-up. “Obviously. I like to know exactly how I’m selling my soul.”
“Good man,” Liam said.
Jack set his pen down with a little clap against the table. “Okay. Now, for the real reason, we’re all here.”
Everyone shifted in their chairs. Moira put down her phone. Even Laura sat up straighter.
Jack gestured toward Nessa like he was passing a live grenade. “Ness, you wanna explain?”
Nessa beamed like it was Christmas morning and she’d just unwrapped a pair of Louboutins. “Absolutely.” She flipped open her notebook and pushed her sunglasses up onto her head like a Wall Street executive, if Wall Street executives wore hoop earrings and hot pink lipstick.
“So. Earlier today, I had a visit from a group of Japanese businessmen.” She gave a dramatic pause, letting that sink in. “They’re here in the States for some kind of… tech conference? Anyway, they found our site, watched a few of our videos, and they want to hire us, Boys On Film, to produce a custom scene for them.”
Laura blinked. “Wait… an outside contract? Like… an actual commission job?”
Nessa nodded. “Yep. Fully funded. Their production company wired over the deposit already.”
There was a collective buzz of excitement around the table. This was big. Like… real-world, industry-recognized big.
“They’ve offered…” Nessa flipped a page for dramatic effect. “…almost two hundred thousand dollars for the project.”
The entire room went silent.
Even Jack looked like he might faint.
For about three full seconds, the only sound was Moira’s straw sucking the last inch of coffee from her cup.
Then, all at once…
“Two hundred K?!”
“Holy shit.”
“Are you serious?”
I just sat there blinking. Even Bradley—poor traumatized, still-pink Bradley—looked like he was having a mild out-of-body experience.
Liam held up a hand like a traffic cop. “Okay, hold on. This all sounds amazing, but… what exactly are we making for them?”
Jack smirked. “Glad you asked.”
All eyes swung back to Nessa. She bit her lower lip, clearly savoring the buildup like it was dessert.
“When I heard what they wanted,” she said, voice syrupy with fake innocence, “the first person I thought of… was Bradley.”
Everyone turned.
Bradley froze like a deer caught in very judgmental headlights.
“Wait, what? Why me?” His voice cracked halfway through.
“Yeah… why Bradley?” Liam asked, glancing between them.
Nessa clapped her hands once. “Because the project is… drumroll please…”
Moira tapped on the table obligingly.
“…a gay bukkake video.”
The room went dead silent again.
I felt my pulse kick up, suddenly wide awake. “Okay wait… I’ve heard that word before… but I don’t actually know what it is.” I looked around the room like I was expecting someone to say it meant “group hug” or “team-building exercise.”
Laura gasped like I’d just admitted to not knowing how to use Google. “Oh, my God. No. Are you sure we wanna go there? Boys On Film’s never done something that hardcore before!”
Nessa waved her off like she was swatting at a fly. “Laura, sweetie, did you not hear me? Two. Hundred. Grand.”
That shut everyone up again.
I mean… we were all whores in different ways. But two hundred thousand dollars? That was… retirement money. Health insurance money. Rent-for-a-few years money.
Liam gave Jack a look. “We’ve… never done anything like this before.”
Jack’s expression stayed cool and calculating. “We’ll figure it out.”
I raised my hand like I was back in high school. “Okay, but like… what is it, though? Someone explain for the people in the room who don’t have a porn PhD.”
Moira snorted into her coffee.
Nessa smiled at me sweetly. “It’s simple, baby. One guy kneels on the floor… and a bunch of other guys… finish on him.”
My brain took about five full seconds to process that.
I turned to Bradley just in time to see all the color drain from his face like a cartoon character fainting.
He pushed back from the table like he was about to make a run for it. “Hell no,” he said. Loud and immediate. “Absolutely not. There’s no way I’m letting a bunch of guys jizz all over me. No. Nope. Not happening.”
I kind of wanted to applaud. The man had conviction.
Jack leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table, that signature wicked grin spreading across his face. “Would you do it… for twenty thousand bucks?”
Bradley froze mid-freakout.
I could practically see the math happening behind his eyes. Rent. Debt. Food. Survival.
He swallowed hard.
And then, after the most painful, reluctant pause in history, he said, voice both soft and doomed:
“Yes. Yes, I’ll do it.”
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Laura’s voice cracked across the set like a whip. The overhead lights buzzed, the giant box fan in the corner kept humming like it had a personal vendetta, and somewhere behind the camera, Moira was snickering loud enough for me to hear.
Laura stomped onto the set with that exasperated little march she did when she was two heartbeats away from losing her mind. Her high ponytail was frizzing at the edges, and she had a smudge of eyeliner under one eye like she’d rubbed her face sometime around hour five of this nonsense.
She pointed a French-manicured finger at Holden. Well…Bob. Real name: Bob Hildebrandt. Stage name: Holden Alcock, because branding is a cruel god.
“Holden,” she said, hands on her hips like a furious school principal, “I know this is your last day working for us, but I need you to dial up the passion. Watching paint dry while someone read a tax manual out loud would be sexier.”
Holden, lying on his back on the rented IKEA bed, gave her a lazy thumbs up. “Got it, boss lady.”
Boss lady. Jesus.
I sat back on my heels, still between his legs, and fought the urge to roll my eyes so hard they’d fly across the room. I liked Laura, and most of the people here. But Holden? No. I didn’t like Holden. I didn’t dislike him enough to wish him dead, but I wouldn’t send flowers to the funeral.
I mean…he was nice. Sort of. In a “damp washcloth” kind of way. Pleasant. Forgettable. Flexible to an almost concerning degree. Like, circus contortionist flexible. I once watched him scratch the back of his head with his own foot during a stretch. Not cute. Not sexy. Definitely not the kind of thing I needed to picture when I was trying to fake my way through another afternoon of studio lighting and organic coconut oil.
But hey—silver lining? After today, I’d be back to solo scenes until they found me a new partner.
Or three.
Laura clapped her hands twice. “Okay! Reset positions! Nico, on top. Holden, you’re on the bottom. Let’s finish this.”
I sighed, repositioned myself, and leaned over Holden with all the fake bedroom eyes I could muster. The AC kicked on, rattling the ductwork above us. The smell of lube, sweat, and cheap vanilla-scented air freshener filled the studio.
“Action!” Laura called.
We started again.
Holden moaned like a man auditioning for a haunted house job. Long, drawn-out, and about as natural as botched Botox.
I moved my hips, grinding slow and steady, trying to remember if I’d paid my electric bill. I had a set tonight at the Brooklyn Comedy Collective. Ten minutes. New material. The jokes weren’t finished, but they were percolating somewhere in the back of my brain like stale coffee.
Joke one: Why did the porn star refuse to do missionary?
Because after a decade in the industry, the only thing he believes in is doggy style and nihilism.
Okay. Not bad. Needs a punchier tag.
I shifted my weight, changing rhythm just enough to make Holden gasp like he’d been goosed by the ghost of bad acting past.
Joke two: Things I’ve learned from adult film: lube solves most problems, eye contact solves the rest, and if the cameraman falls off the ladder mid-scene, just keep going.
That one actually made me grin. My shoulders shook with the effort not to laugh.
And then came joke three.
Joke three: My career path was either to be a porn star or youth pastor. Honestly? The skill set is the same. Lots of fake enthusiasm, plenty of awkward silences, and you’re constantly pretending not to notice when people cry.
I snorted.
Out loud.
Mid-thrust.
Right into Holden’s ear.
He jumped like I’d tased him, and Laura’s voice sliced through the studio again.
“Cut!”
I froze. Holden froze. The sound guy actually dropped his mic boom onto the floor with a thud.
Laura stormed toward us again, rubbing her forehead like she was developing a migraine with my name tattooed on it.
“Nico,” she said, drawing out my name like she was considering using it in a curse. “Were you running jokes in your head again?”
I flushed. Warmth spread from my ears down to my neck like a sunburn of shame.
“…Maybe.”
Laura shook her head and let out a long, dramatic sigh worthy of a community theater production of Les Mis. “Baby, I love you. You’re talented, gorgeous, and you’re charismatic as hell. But please. Focus. Give me fifteen more minutes of serious top energy and I’ll let you out of here in time to bomb at your open mic.”
I grinned sheepishly. “It’s not an open mic. I got booked for a spot.”
“Even worse. Now make me proud. Or at least make me something usable for the website.”
I gave her a lazy salute, repositioned again, and did my best to clear my head of jokes, existential dread, and the temptation to improv a monologue about bad acting and worse moaning.
Fifteen more minutes.
Then I’d head straight for the subway, pray the L train wasn’t delayed, and go bomb onstage like the professional disaster I was born to be.
The L train screeched along the tracks like it was trying to shake us off. I had one earbud in, blasting some low-fi beat with enough bass to rattle my brain, but it still wasn’t enough to drown out Nessa and Moira holding court three seats down.
Nessa and Moira worked with me at Boys On Film, the adult film studio where I spent most of my daylight hours pretending to enjoy myself on camera. Nessa was one of our talent managers—a six-foot-tall, red-haired Bronx hurricane in platform heels, with a psychic ability to detect drama and romantic tension from a hundred yards away. Moira ran hair and makeup, with eyeliner so sharp it could cut glass and a voice that could wake the dead. Together, they were chaos in lipstick form. Loud, nosy, and endlessly entertained by my personal life.
Moira was already halfway into a story about some guy she’d hooked up with who, apparently, had a tattoo of Tweety Bird on his inner thigh. Nessa was wheezing with laughter, pounding her fist against her knee like she was trying to restart her own heart.
“And I said to him—get this—I said, ‘What is this, Looney Tunes or a cry for help?’” Moira cackled.
Nessa nearly choked. “Bitch! Stop! You’re gonna get us kicked off this train!”
A woman across the aisle shot them a dirty look. Moira winked at her like she was doing charity work.
I pulled my beanie lower over my ears and kept my head down, staring at the scuffed floor between my sneakers. My heart was doing double Dutch in my chest, and I kept running my set list through my head like I could cram jokes in at the last minute and magically become…well…good.
This was one of my first real bookings. Not just an open mic. Not just five minutes before a room full of other sad comics and two drunk tourists looking for the bathroom. A real show. With a real audience. And actual money at the end of it.
It wasn’t much money, but still.
If I pulled this off… If I kept pulling it off… Maybe I wouldn’t have to fake-orgasm on camera anymore for a living.
That thought alone kept me breathing.
The train jerked, announcing our stop with a metallic whine and the unmistakable voice of a disinterested MTA conductor who sounded like he hated everyone.
“All right, bitches, let’s roll!” Nessa announced, like she was leading troops into battle.
She tried to stand up in her skyscraper heels—black patent leather with rhinestone straps that wrapped around her calves like a bedazzled boa constrictor—and immediately wobbled like a newborn giraffe.
“Oh, shit—whoa—fuck, hold up—”
Moira caught her by the elbow. I grabbed her other arm instinctively.
“Jesus, Ness, what the hell possessed you to wear these?” Moira asked, steadying her.
Nessa swatted at her hair like she was being filmed for reality TV. “I didn’t buy ‘em! Chesty Adams left them at the studio like six months ago. Never came back for ‘em. I swiped ‘em from wardrobe.”
Moira burst out laughing. “Oh, my god. You’re wearing abandoned stripper shoes?”
“Wardrobe clearance, baby,” Nessa said, striking a pose that almost sent her face-first into a pole.
I bit back a grin. If nothing else, at least I’d have my personal laugh track at the show.
We half-walked, half-dragged Nessa up the stairs and onto the street. The Brooklyn night was sultry, humid, and sticky with the smell of car exhaust, halal carts, and old beer.
The club wasn’t far—just a block and a half. Brooklyn Comedy Collective, tucked into a brick building that looked like it used to sell hardware or secondhand TVs. The entrance was a skinny black door covered in faded stickers and flyers for punk shows and improv classes nobody wanted to take.
Inside, it was dim and cramped, with mismatched chairs and a low ceiling that made the whole place feel like somebody’s unfinished basement. The air smelled like cheap tequila and poor decisions.
Perfect.
I ditched the girls at a corner table near the front. Moira was already ordering drinks. Nessa was asking the server if they served Red Bull and vodka in buckets.
Backstage, if you could call it that, was a six-by-six storage closet with a cracked mirror, two broken stools, and a Sharpie graffiti wall full of comic signatures and bad drawings of genitalia.
I paced, wiping my sweaty palms on my jeans, willing myself to chill out. My hands shook just enough to annoy me, but not enough to stop me.
A little tequila would’ve helped. Just one shot. Just enough to take the edge off. But no. No time.
From the overhead speaker, the announcer’s voice buzzed:
“Give it up for your next comic… Carol Barnes!”
Polite applause. More like clapping out of social obligation.
I checked the set list taped to the wall by the door. I was next. Great.
Carol’s set lasted maybe seven minutes. I heard her muffled voice through the wall. Some bit about dating apps and her cat’s IBS. Tough crowd. Barely any laughs.
When she came offstage, Carol brushed past me, eyes glassy and wet, her hand swiping under her nose like she was about to cry.
Awesome. Tonight just kept getting better.
I bounced on the balls of my feet, rolling my neck, doing that little pre-show pacing thing comics do when they’re trying not to throw up.
The announcer’s voice crackled again:
“Next up… Nico Steele!”
I stepped out into the lights, forcing a grin like my rent depended on it.
The crowd stared at me. About forty people. Hipsters in beanies. A group of drunk finance bros in the back. A few lesbian couples near the front. And, dead center, Nessa and Moira, already waving like maniacs.
“All right, let’s get this out of the way,” I said, grabbing the mic. “Yes. Nico Steele is my real stage name. But… uh… different stage.”
A few chuckles. Good start.
“I know some of you are sitting there thinking… he looks familiar. Did I go to high school with him? Did I meet him at a bar? No, babe. You saw me naked on the internet.”
Bigger laugh. Nice.
“That’s right. I’m one of the rare artists who can say I make money by literally shaking my ass. And not like… metaphorically. Like actually shaking my ass. On camera. For money. More than a bank teller makes, by the way. And with better benefits. No 401k, but you should see our dental coverage. Gotta keep these teeth pretty for the cum shots.”
The lesbians in the front row howled.
I kept rolling.
“People ask me all the time, ‘Nico, what’s the hardest part about being in porn?’ And I tell them, honestly… it’s keeping a straight face when your scene partner is making sex noises that sound like a dying lawn mower.”
That got Moira laughing so hard she slammed her hand on the table.
“And let me tell you, if you’ve never stared deeply into the dead eyes of a man named Bob, while pretending to passionately make love to him for a website called Manhammer… you haven’t truly lived.”
The place erupted.
By the time I wrapped my last joke, a bit about lube being the true universal solvent, I was sweating, wired, and practically vibrating with relief.
Applause hit me like a wave.
Real, actual applause.
I stepped off stage with my heart in my throat and a grin so wide my face hurt.
Maybe—just maybe—I wasn’t completely fucked after all.
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Ian O. Lewis and Luke Jameson 