Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88218 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88218 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
“Is it weird I find that oddly romantic?”
I blink at him. He finds that romantic? “Yes, it’s weird.”
“Okay. I’ll stop, then.”
“Stop what?”
He stands. “I’ll stop picturing what that would’ve looked like. I should get cleaned up anyway.”
I’m left staring after him as he ducks out the sliding door to the backyard and runs down the steps to get to the guesthouse.
I should really get up and shower, but I can’t bring myself to move yet. I lean back on the couch and blink at the roof. Did that just happen?
The evidence of it is in my underwear and on my shirt. My face still stings from beard rash.
Did I really jerk off Mason Nash? How am I even thinking these words right now?
Mason.
Mason Nash.
His mouth on mine, my hand on his dick …
But now he’s gone, and I realize he didn’t even think to suggest we clean up together.
I mean, of course he didn’t.
Mason hasn’t exactly given me anything to cling to. A handjob isn’t going to flip a switch.
I should’ve forced myself to hold back, but after messing around with him in the kitchen, and with him staring at me all day, I couldn’t help myself.
Oh, Denny, you naïve fuckhead.
I head to the bar and pour myself my usual even if I’m in dire need of a change of pants. This calls for a drink or ten.
The amber liquid swirls in the bottom of the glass, but as I go to take a sip, I pause.
My hand shakes.
I can’t seem to bring it to my lips.
I’ve been sober for twenty-eight days. Four whole weeks. I know because I counted. Ever since we turned up on Mason’s doorstep after I went and blurted shit I shouldn’t have to Harley and Blake. It’s unheard of for me to go that long, but ratting out Mason’s location like that, and then seeing him, it made me reevaluate some things.
While I don’t think I have a drinking problem, I have a problem with drinking. There is a difference even if it’s only slight.
There’s no doubt with my biological parents being the delightful people that they were, I’m prone to addiction, but I don’t crave alcohol when it’s not there. I crave it when I have issues to face that I really don’t want to. Temptation and addiction go hand in hand, and maybe I’m in a little bit of denial, but as I stand here, drink in hand, I realize I don’t want to handle this Mason situation the same way I do my other problems.
There technically isn’t even a problem right now. All my fantasies from the last few years just came true. I should be happy, not staring down a glass of whiskey.
I have no idea what’s going on in Mason’s head which makes me insecure, which makes me want to drink.
It’s not healthy.
With my last ounce of willpower, I pour the drink down the sink and practically run to my bedroom to shower.
I finally have my house back, and the last three nights, while they’ve brought Mason and me closer than we’ve ever been, they’ve also exhausted me beyond words.
If everything sticks to the schedule, we should only have two more weeks of shoots until the show is wrapped up. At least until the live finale in a few months after all this lead-up is aired.
The high from my first ever shared orgasm with a guy doesn’t last long as I wash all the cum off me. I take my time, trying to hold on to any last shred of satisfaction, but it’s no use. When the high is stripped away, all that’s left is doubt.
I rinse and get out, drying off with my towel and then shoving my legs into sweats. I don’t bother with a shirt, and I wonder if Mason will reappear for dinner or if he’ll hide away in his room for the rest of the night.
Is that why bitterness is clawing at me?
Because he went to his room? Or is it because he didn’t ask me to go with him?
Welcome to Overthinking, LA. It’s my permanent residence when it comes to Mason Nash.
The sound of manly grunts fills my ears as I make my way back to the informal living area, and I’m confused as fuck. Right up until I see Mason’s dark head of hair poking up over the top of the couch, and as I get closer, his laptop comes into view.
He’s watching porn … Gay porn.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
He turns his head and looks back at me with a smile. “Research. I’m getting a head start.”
“Porn research. Looking for a new career? Think you’ll go gay for pay?” I have to joke about this because every negative thought I had two minutes ago, they’re all gone. Because he’s watching porn. Yep, that’s how easy it is for poor Denny Mariano to forget all the reasons to protect his heart.