Off Camera, On Knees by Jace Wilder - MM Celebrity Romance book cover

Off Camera, On Knees — Bonus Chapter

Private Screening
by Jace Wilder

🔥 Exclusive Bonus Chapter

Sign up below to unlock Private Screening — a scene too hot for Amazon. Logan breaks the one rule they have: he watches River’s stream. What starts as curiosity becomes the filthiest, most intimate night of their relationship — with the camera still rolling.

Private Screening

Logan’s POV — Set two weeks after the epilogue

The rule was simple: Logan didn’t watch River’s streams.

It wasn’t a boundary born of jealousy or discomfort — it was respect. The second bedroom was River’s workspace, the same way a film set was Logan’s. You didn’t watch your partner work unless you were invited, and River had never invited him, and Logan had never asked, because the arrangement worked and the boundaries were clean and the relationship was built on the foundational understanding that they could be everything to each other without being the audience for everything each other did.

Logan respected the rule. Had respected it for months. Had spent every Tuesday and Thursday night in the living room with Action’s head on his thigh and Dolly on the bookshelf and a movie on the television, aware that behind the closed door of the second bedroom, the ring light was on and River was performing for strangers and the sounds — the ones that filtered through the wall despite River’s best efforts at soundproofing — were sounds Logan heard and acknowledged and filed under not for me with the disciplined compartmentalization of a man who’d spent thirteen years putting things in boxes.

He was fine with it. He was absolutely fine with it.

It was a Thursday night. River had been streaming for twenty minutes. Logan was on the couch with a script he wasn’t reading, Action at his feet, the television playing something he wasn’t watching. The house was quiet except for the distant, muffled sounds from the second bedroom — the low murmur of River’s voice, indistinct through the wall, the occasional shift of the bed frame.

Logan stared at the script. Read the same sentence four times. Set it down.

The problem — and Logan was aware this was a problem, was aware that he was constructing a justification in real time and that the justification was transparent — was that River had been in a particular mood all day. The kind of mood that involved walking around the house shirtless, brushing against Logan in the kitchen with studied casualness, and saying things like “I’ve got a new routine planned for tonight” with a smile that was not the professional cam smile but the private one, the one that meant I know exactly what I’m doing to you.

River had been winding him up. Deliberately. With the precision of a man who understood arousal the way a watchmaker understood springs.

And now he was behind a closed door, performing, and Logan was on the couch, wound tight, and the rule was simple and the rule was clear and the rule was—

Logan picked up his phone. Opened the browser. Navigated to the streaming platform. Typed RiverRunsDeep into the search bar.

His thumb hovered over the enter key for approximately three seconds.

He pressed it.

The stream loaded. And there was River.

The ring light cast its warm halo across the familiar bedroom — their bedroom, functionally, even though they slept in the other one. River was propped against the headboard, shirtless, wearing the gray joggers that Logan knew for a fact were selected specifically because they showed everything. His hair was artfully messy. His eyes were half-lidded, lazy, the expression that his audience called the come-hither and that Logan called the you’re-in-trouble.

He was touching himself. Not urgently — slowly, his hand moving over the front of his joggers in a languid, teasing stroke, his head tipped back, his throat exposed. The chat was scrolling fast. Tips were cascading.

Logan watched. His mouth went dry.

He’d never seen River work. He’d imagined it — of course he’d imagined it, he was human — but the reality was something else entirely. River on camera was a force of nature: confident, controlled, devastatingly present. Every movement was intentional but not mechanical, every sound was genuine but calibrated, and the combination — the authenticity layered over the expertise — was so erotic that Logan’s body responded before his brain could register the ethical implications of what he was doing.

River pulled his joggers down. Logan’s breath caught.

He was hard. On screen, in Logan’s hand, on the couch in the living room. He was watching his boyfriend perform for strangers and he was hard and the guilt and the arousal were tangled together in a knot he couldn’t separate.

River wrapped his hand around his cock — the same hand that had been on Logan’s body three hours ago, the same fingers that had threaded through Logan’s hair at breakfast, the same grip that Logan knew intimately from the inside — and stroked with the expert, devastating skill that had built a career. His eyes found the camera. The lens. The thousands of people watching.

And then he said, in that low, wrecked voice: “I keep thinking about someone.”

The chat exploded. WHO??? / logan??? / tell us everything

River smiled. The private smile. “He doesn’t watch my streams. That’s our rule. So he doesn’t know I’m thinking about him right now.” His hand moved faster. His breath caught. “But I am. I’m thinking about what he did to me this morning. In the shower. Before he left for work.”

Logan’s hand was on his own cock. He hadn’t decided to put it there — his body had made the decision unilaterally, the way bodies did when the person they loved was on a screen looking like that, sounding like that, talking about him.

“He pinned me against the tile,” River told his audience, told the camera, told the thousands of strangers who would never know the specific details — which tile, which shower, which morning — but who were watching River’s face as he said it and believing every word, because every word was true. “He’s bigger than me. He can just — hold me there. One hand. And he —”

Logan stroked himself in the living room. On screen, River stroked himself in the bedroom. Thirty feet apart, a wall between them, performing the same act simultaneously — River for an audience, Logan for no one — and the parallel was so absurd and so hot that Logan made a sound that he immediately muffled with his fist.

Action lifted his head from his paws, gave Logan a confused look, and went back to sleep.

“He told me not to come,” River was saying on screen. His voice was ragged now, the composure cracking. “He said — he said I had to wait. Until tonight. Until he —”

River stopped. His hand stilled. His head turned — not toward the camera, but toward the door. The closed bedroom door.

“Hold on,” River said to the chat. He set his phone down — the camera angle shifting to show the ceiling — and Logan heard footsteps. Close footsteps. Getting closer.

The bedroom door opened. River appeared in the hallway, backlit by the ring light, naked from the waist down, hard, his expression shifting from streaming-composure to something sharper. More focused. The expression of a man who’d just had a realization.

“You’re watching,” River said. Not a question.

Logan looked at him. Phone in one hand, cock in the other, caught red-handed on his own couch.

“I can explain,” Logan said.

“Your hand is on your dick.”

“I can explain that too.”

River leaned against the doorframe. He looked down at Logan — at the phone with the stream still playing, at the obvious state of Logan’s arousal, at the script abandoned on the floor — and his expression did something complicated. Anger, for a fraction of a second. Then amusement. Then heat. A lot of heat.

“How long?” River asked.

“Twenty minutes.”

“You’ve been watching me for twenty minutes.”

“The routine was very compelling.”

River was quiet for a moment. Then he crossed the room. Took Logan’s phone from his hand. Looked at the screen — at himself, paused, the stream still live, the chat going berserk with WHERE DID HE GO and WHAT HAPPENED and IS IT LOGAN IS LOGAN THERE.

River looked at Logan. Logan looked at River.

“You broke the rule,” River said.

“I know.”

“That requires consequences.”

Logan’s cock twitched. River noticed, because River noticed everything.

“Come with me,” River said.

Logan followed River into the second bedroom. The ring light was on. The camera was still rolling. The chat was still live — thousands of viewers watching an empty bed, speculating wildly.

River picked up his phone from the headboard. Held it up. The camera caught them both — River in the foreground, Logan behind him, six-two and broad and unmistakable even without his face in frame.

“He’s here,” River told the audience. “He was watching. He broke our one rule.” He turned to Logan. His eyes were dark, commanding, the cam persona and the private persona fused into something that made Logan’s knees feel structurally unsound. “And now he’s going to make it up to me. On camera.”

Logan’s brain short-circuited. “River—”

“No faces. No identifying features. Just — us. If you want to. Say no and I turn the stream off right now.”

Logan looked at the camera. The small dark eye that had started everything — the fear of exposure, the terror of being seen, the long journey from a closet to a carpet to a doorstep at midnight. The camera that had been a weapon and a threat and a tool and, in the end, a witness to the most honest moments of his life.

“Don’t turn it off,” Logan said.

River’s smile was incandescent.

He positioned the camera low — angled to catch their bodies from the chest down, faces out of frame. Then he turned to Logan, put his hands on Logan’s chest, and pushed.

Logan sat on the edge of the bed. River climbed into his lap, straddling his thighs, and kissed him — deep, filthy, performative and genuine simultaneously, a kiss that was for them and for the audience and that somehow lost nothing by being shared.

“Take your shirt off,” River murmured against his mouth. “Show them what I get to come home to.”

Logan pulled his shirt over his head. The chat — visible in his peripheral vision on the laptop screen — went nuclear. They couldn’t see his face, but they could see his body — the action-hero build, the stunt scars, the broad shoulders — and the implication was clear.

“On your knees,” River said. The cam voice. The command voice. The voice that made Logan’s entire nervous system reorganize itself around obedience. “You broke the rule. You owe me.”

Logan sank to his knees on the floor of the cam room. River stood above him, backlit by the ring light, hard and beautiful and entirely in control.

“Show them how sorry you are,” River said.

Logan took River into his mouth. On camera. For an audience. For the first time in his life, he was being watched — seen, witnessed, observed — while doing the thing he loved most, and the fear that had governed his entire existence was gone. Dissolved. Replaced by the sharp, electric thrill of a man who’d spent years terrified of exposure and had discovered, in the warm light of a ring lamp, that being seen by someone who loved you was the opposite of exposure. It was freedom.

He sucked River’s cock with devoted, expert attention — the skill he’d learned in this room, in this relationship, from the man now standing above him gripping his hair and making sounds that were half performance and half genuine and entirely devastating. The chat scrolled. The tips cascaded. Thousands of people were watching a man on his knees worship another man, and they couldn’t see his face, and they didn’t need to, because the devotion was in his body — in the angle of his jaw, the grip of his hands on River’s hips, the sounds he made around River’s cock that were so raw and so wanting that no one watching could doubt they were real.

“Good,” River panted. “So good. You’re so — fuck — you’re incredible.”

Logan groaned around him. The praise kink, alive and well, making his cock throb untouched. He took River deeper, opened his throat the way River had taught him a lifetime ago in a padded room in Burbank, and River’s hand tightened in his hair and his hips stuttered forward and he gasped — a real gasp, unperformative, the sound of a man losing control in front of an audience for the first time.

“Up,” River managed. “Get up. I need you inside me. Now.”

Logan stood. River pushed him onto the bed, climbed over him, and the camera caught what followed — two bodies moving together with the practiced urgency of people who knew each other’s rhythms by heart. River sinking down onto Logan with a groan that the microphone captured in devastating clarity. Logan’s hands on River’s hips, guiding, gripping, the size of them visible against River’s lean waist. The rhythm building — slow, then fast, then a pace that was neither choreographed nor performative but simply them, doing what they did, the way they did it, with the unselfconscious ease of two men who’d stopped performing and started living.

River came first. Back arching, head thrown back, spilling across Logan’s stomach while the ring light caught the silver bar in his nipple and the tattoo sleeve on his arm and the expression on his face that was invisible to the camera but that Logan — looking up at him from below, face out of frame but eyes wide open — would carry with him forever.

Logan followed. Buried deep, gripping River’s thighs, the orgasm pulling through him in long, shuddering waves that were amplified by the knowledge that somewhere, thousands of people were watching his body react to River’s body, and the reaction was so honest, so unguarded, so completely free of performance that it felt like the final, definitive answer to a question he’d been asked in a rehearsal room a year ago: Do you think I can do this?

Yes. He could do this. He could do anything, as long as River was the one watching.

River collapsed against his chest. They lay tangled, breathing hard, the ring light warm on their skin, the chat still scrolling, the stream still live.

River lifted his head. Looked at the camera. His face was flushed, his hair destroyed, his expression the specific, satisfied look of a man who’d just had the best stream of his career and knew it.

“Show’s over,” he told the audience. “Same time next week. Be good.”

He reached over and ended the stream. The ring light went dark.

They lay in the silence of the cam room, sweating, tangled, the faint glow of the laptop screen reflecting off the ceiling.

“You broke the rule,” River said against Logan’s chest.

“You set me up.”

“I absolutely set you up.” River lifted his head. His grin was the real one — the one with the edge, the one that meant he’d been three moves ahead the entire time. “The shower thing this morning. Walking around shirtless. Telling you about the new routine. I wanted to see if you’d crack.”

“You’re diabolical.”

“I’m a professional.” River kissed his chest. “And the stream numbers are going to be insane.”

“I can never show my face in public again.”

“No one saw your face. They saw your body. Which, for the record, the chat described as — let me check — ‘holy shit,’ ‘I need medical attention,’ and ‘this man was built in a lab.’”

Logan laughed. The real laugh, the one that came from the bottom of his chest, the one River had earned and kept and would never stop earning.

“New rule,” Logan said.

“What?”

“I’m allowed to watch. But only in person.”

River propped himself on one elbow. Looked down at Logan with the expression that held everything — the cam performer and the consultant and the boyfriend and the partner and the man who’d walked into a windowless room and changed the molecular structure of Logan’s life.

“Deal,” River said. “But next time, you don’t get to hide behind the wall.”

Logan pulled him down and kissed him. The ring light was dark. The camera was off. The audience was gone. And the two of them lay in the room where performance and truth had always been the same thing, and held each other, and laughed, and were known.

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