Page 8 of Hotshot

“Denny Mellon?”

I pivoted on a patch of thin ice and almost toppled over.

Holy shit.

It was him.

The cowboy.

And he knew my name.

Did I mention cowboys were my kryptonite?

Check this out: Teenage me had jacked off to a YouTube video I’d found of a cowboy stripping a T-shirt over his head while water sluiced over his cut abs. It had been a nightly ritual for weeks on end. The second that first bead of water would slide down his pecs, I was a goner, shooting so hard cum hit my chin as I panted and gasped for air.

In the aftermath, a wave of confusion would swallow me whole and I’d wonder why I wasn’t thinking of my girlfriend’s tits. It took a while for me to figure out that I might not be so straight after all. But cowboys were my first clue.

The Western mystique of a tough guy taking charge and being a fuckin’ boss was a turn-on. The reality probably involved cow patties and a lot more manual labor than I’d ever want to do, but it was a sweet fantasy.

That might have been why those billboards resonated. They taunted me…tempted me, reminded me who I really was. Sure, I liked women, but I definitely, absolutely, positively was a hundred percent attracted to dudes too.

And no one knew.

“Uh…”

Yeah, that was me. This wasn’t going to go well at all.

The stranger stopped a couple of feet away and tilted his hat. Damn, he was really fucking hot with a rockin’ bod, sky-blue eyes, high cheekbones, and a perfectly square stubbled jaw. Christ, even his slightly crooked nose added to his masculine beauty.

“Hank Cunningham. I’m new here. My family recently bought the mill in Wood Hollow and?—”

“I know,” I intercepted. “I, uh…I heard. My friends work for you.”

“Oh, that’s cool. Hey, I?—”

“I’ve seen your abs,” I blurted nervously. “They’re nice.”

He cocked his head, lips curling in amusement. “My abs?”

“No, yourads, like…advertisement. You’re the cowboy billboard. The billboard on the cowboy,” I rambled. “I mean the—the cowboy on the billboard.”

I could have sworn he frowned at first, but then something else happened. He smiled. And fuck, it was stunning. Hank’s grin started on the left corner of his sexy mouth and slowly took over his face. Shit, he had killer dimples too.

“Am I?”

For someone with acute anxiety, this minor interaction was a major challenge…even with tequila. If I hadn’t had a little social lubricant in my system, there was no way I’d have been able to form a full sentence. And I would have been better off.

“Yeah, I live in Denver and I play hockey. I drive by the billboard with the log cabin and the horse on my way to the rink. It’s a big ad, and the horse looks like it could step onto the interstate. It’s cool.”

Full sentences…good. Bonus for being sort of intelligible too.

Hank pursed his lips. “Are you sure that’s me?”

I motioned at his hat and smokin’ bod in an “I’d know this sexy package” anywhere gesture.

“Positive. He’s hot…and you’re hot.”Shit.The words were out, and there was no getting those fuckers back. “For a tall guy…with a horse.”

“You don’t like horses?”