1. Chase

On the day I met Adam Dix, I didn't know I was going to meet Adam Dix.

In fact, I was watching one of his videos online that morning, edging myself for as long as I could before I had to finish and go to work.

Adam's voice came through, deep and velvety even from my little laptop speakers as he talked throughout the video in his irresistible, addictive way:

"I wish this was your hand, instead," he said, stroking himself before letting out a deep sigh that almost made me blow.

I gripped myself hard, knowing I couldn't edge myself for much longer.

Adam Dix was an amateur in every sense of the word—this was one guy filming videos of himself on his cell phone camera at home in his bedroom. Not some grand, overedited production. And that was the way I liked it. Adam was a relatively unknown creator on the OnlyShots website, and he'd never shown his full face.

I liked wondering who he was. Part of me got off on not knowing, even though I was so curious it drove me crazy.

He bit his bottom lip in the video and panned the camera back down lower again, pumping himself with his fist like I was doing right now, too.

Adam's videos always did it for me.

And I was about to blow.

I shifted on my seat and right as I was about to lose control, my front door buzzer rang out, filling the air. I jumped on the chair, broken from my Adam Dix trance.

"Fuck," I muttered under my breath as the buzzer rang out again.

It was the world's most heinouslytimed alarm.

I loosened my grip. Reluctantly.

I had no idea who the hell would be at my door this early on a weekday, but I had to get to work anyway. I had no time left to waste drooling over Adam's latest upload like I was some sort of animal. I closed the lid of my laptop, shoved my pants up, and grabbed my bag, hauling ass out my apartment door in a rushed daze. I looped down the stairs that led to the street and opened up the door.

I squinted in the morning sun, looking down to see a pink envelope resting on the red brick outside the apartment doorstep.

Nobody was outside.

The envelope had my name written on it and was sitting next to a single red rose. Beside them both was a colossal plastic cup of iced coffee, dripping with condensation in the summer warmth.

My chest tensed. Something told me that there wasn't going to be anything good contained in that envelope.

I picked it up and tore it open, finding a handwritten letter inside.

Chase,

Our time together has been nothing short of beautiful. You've opened my soul, in a way no words could express. But as I leave Colorado, some doors opening means others have to close. I've decided not to return.

But remember: no one has ever sucked me off like you do.

Loveliest wishes, Victor

PS. Enjoy the coffee. I know you like them iced, sweet, and bigger than your head.

"Fuck me," I said under my breath.

At least Victor had said I sucked good dick.

I reached for the coffee, taking a long sip through the straw. Icy cold and ribboned with cream and caramel, just the way I liked it. A squirrel running by on the sidewalk took one look at me before he ran away, too.

I crumpled up the letter and shoved it in my pocket to throw away later.

Victor was a guy I'd met at The Rowdy Box, a gay club down in Denver. He and I had only been having a casual fling for three weeks, but like all things with me, it had been… intense.

I may or may not have hooked up with him every single night for the past three weeks. My dick tended to lead me to places where my brain couldn't quite catch up, and attention was what I craved most.

I'd known that my latest fling would be flying off to New York City soon, but until now, he'd led me on, making me think we could still hook up regularly when he visited Colorado.

I wasn't heartbroken. Not in the slightest.

I was just insatiable.

But that was a problem for future me. I needed to get to work. I took another chug of the iced coffee, praying that the cold, sweet, caffeinated nectar of the gods would fuel me for a long day of filming ahead.

I found my beat-up blue Honda Civic parked nearby on the side of the street, swung open the door, and sank into the front seat.

My elbow caught the steering wheel, and in a flash, the plastic lid popped off the coffee. A rush of cold liquid and ice waterfalled down the front of my body.

"Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me."

Ice and coffee pooled in my lap. I sucked in a breath through my teeth, saying every swear word I knew in a singsong voice.

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.

"Oh, right," he said, shifting. "I'm sure the construction guys gave you the run-down beforehand."

I'd focused on that heart-shaped freckle more times than I would have liked to admit. Watching Adam's mouth as he licked his lips in his videos. Sometimes he bit his lower lip, right as he was about to come, and God was it hot and holy fuck it was not the sort of thing I should have been focusing on right now after I'd showed up at his house for a professional work assignment.

"The kitchen's plenty big, yes," Carla said, waltzing through the kitchen beside me and saving my ass from saying anything stupid. Carla was a production assistant on set, and she kept everything working like a well-oiled machine for the TV show. "We can work with this angle. We get a clear shot of the kitchen and a bit of the light passing through from the living room. You have the perfect house for a renovation show, Adam, I'll tell you that much."

He smiled sheepishly, putting a hand behind his neck. "Thank you so much. Was hoping you guys wouldn't be disappointed with the house once you got here."

He shifted on his feet, picking up the bottle of cleaning spray before putting it back down again, clearly not knowing what to do with himself. I watched him glance around, then put one of his hands behind his neck again, and all at once I realized that the version of Adam standing across from me right now wasn't some slick, cocky adult content creator. He was… awkward. Bashful. Shy, even.

Adam fucking Dix was standing there acting shy?

Apparently, if Adam Dix was like the Superman of solo adult videos, Adam Richardsen was like Clark Kent.

This was the same person who had uploaded a video last week where he shot white all over his own chest, glistening with sweat, and promised to his viewers in a low growl that there was "so much more where that load came from."

Not that I had especially enjoyed that video, or anything.

Not that I'd watched it over and over again in bed that night as I gripped myself harder than hell and then came so hard I almost slid off the edge of my mattress.

No. Nothing like that at all.