Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 77930 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77930 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
I shouldn’t have wasted time trying to get off or wasted time reading the letter, and now I was double, triple, quadra screwed, with a squirt of fuck-me whipped cream on top.
I ran back inside, stripped, and hopped in the shower for thirty seconds before throwing on whatever clothes I could find nearby. My Civic had seen better days, but I wiped off the driver’s side seat as best as I could and stacked two beach towels on it before gunning it all the way to the job site.
I couldn’t fuck up. Not this job.
I raced over to the place we were filming today for work, following where my maps app told me to go. I pulled up into the gravel driveway of an impressive two-story house tucked at a mountainside ledge, looking down over Denver. The Fixer Brothers were set to renovate this place next, and already, I could tell the house was going to be stunning to capture on film. It had gorgeous bones, great angles for sunlight, and a Craftsman-style design. It would film like a beauty for the TV show.
“I’m here,” I said as I got out of my car, waving to Flynn, the director, who was glaring at me from beside the film crew van. “I’m here.”
“I was getting worried,” he said, waving me inside. “Set up the wide shots in the kitchen. House should be great for the footage, don’t you think?”
“It’s perfect,” I agreed.
I headed to the gear van and took the first of the giant, heavy cameras out, hoisting it up onto my shoulder.
When I got hired to work filming a legit home renovation TV show, it had been like winning the lottery. For the first time in my life, I was working as a camera operator on a real show, and I had real paychecks to prove it. After being called a hopeless artist for a lifetime, that was all I needed. Proof that I was on the right track. Proof that I really could make a living doing what I loved: filming anything and everything.
I went back and forth making trips to the gear van for ten minutes before I even thought about who this house might belong to.
When I walked into the kitchen, I looked up and locked eyes with the homeowner: a tall guy.
A tall, very attractive guy. A man with dark brown, nearly black hair, striking cheekbones, and plush, ruddy lips.
Lips that seemed familiar, somehow.
Very familiar. Almost like I’d seen them before.
My heart dropped like I’d just stepped off of a high cliff. I did a double take, and realized in a flash that I was right. I’d seen this guy before, without question. I’d seen him just this morning, as I almost came to the sight of him.
I was standing right across from Adam Dix.
Jawline? Check.
The little pair of freckles he had—one that was shaped like a little heart at the side of his face, and the other tiny one near his lips?
Check. Check.
Adam never showed anything above the top of his mouth in any of his videos, clearly choosing to stay anonymous online. But I’d have recognized that mouth anywhere. It was a strange feeling to look into a pair of eyes for the first time, knowing you’ve seen a guy’s most private moments hundreds of times on a computer screen.
And, of course, also knowing that the guy looking back at you doesn’t have a clue in hell who you are.
The real-life Adam was standing at the counter in the morning sunlight, spritzing it off with cleaning spray. As if he was just a regular dude like the rest of us, instead of the hottest guy I’d ever stumbled across on the OnlyShots website.
He grabbed a paper towel and ripped it off, wiping at his counter while I was silently fanboying in my head.
“Do you think it’s big enough?” Adam asked, his eyes flashing up to mine and suddenly making my whole body freeze in place. “For the cameras, I mean. I’m Adam, by the way.”
God, that voice.
I swallowed.
Yes. Yes, it’s big enough. It’s thick, and long, and I’ve imagined it inside me more nights than I could count—
His eyes were even better than I could have imagined. I’d wondered idly a few times what they might look like.
Light green fucking jewels, apparently.
“Chase Blau,” I told him, holding out my hand. “You can remember because my hair has the blue streak in it, and my last name means ‘blue’ in German, and… yeah. I really like the color blue. And to answer your question, it’s definitely big enough.”
I was already talking his ear off and I’d just met him.
He shook my hand. “Adam Richardsen,” he said.
“I know who you are.”
Do not tell him you jerk off to him. Do not tell him you jerk off to him.