Page 19 of The Humbug Holiday

He roared a moment later, spurting cum on my ass.

Holy crap, that was…wow. Just…wow.

4

Cameron

To be perfectly honest, I wasn’t sure how we got here. Not that I was complaining. That was…amazing.

I balled my cummy shirt and tossed it to the floor, beside my desk, wishing I could slip it on and symbolically put a little distance between us. However, I wasn’t about to put on a cum rag, so I had to rely on good ol’ fashioned maturity.

Sex didn’t have to be a big deal. Sometimes it was just a case of hormonal combustion and off-the-charts chemistry. Or whatever was happening here. Yes, I was attracted to him. Yes, I’d press the replay button in a heartbeat and do that all over again. Only next time, I’d take him upstairs to my room and maybe tie him to my bedpost and—

“Are you gonna get weird about this?” Joe asked, threading the leather strap through his belt loop.

I pointed at my chest as I flopped onto my office chair. “Me? Weird? Never.”

“Good.” Joe met my gaze and smiled, stopping to pick up his own ruined shirt. “It was just a thing that happened.”

“Just like the last time this thing happened.”

“Exactly. I’ll get started on the basement stairs. Want me to take the boxes in the entryway down too?”

“Uh…yes, thank you.”

“No problem. I’ll find the one with lights and a few ornaments for this bad boy.” He hiked his thumb toward the tree.

I waited till he was at the door, then called out, “Hey, for the record…I want to do that again.”

Joe flashed a boyish grin. “You’re gonna have to buy me dinner next time, Mr. Warren.”

I snickered softly. “I can do that.”

“I was joking. As our, um…intimate exchanges suggest—I’m easy. At least I seem to be for you. So yeah…I’m down.”

He was gone before I could comment, which was just as well. I was liable to ask stupid questions like…when?

We could both use some space, and I definitely needed a clean shirt and—

Buzz. Buzz.

I glanced at my cell warily. This had to be important.

“Hi, Martin. This appears to be an actual phone call. You know how I feel about those.”

My manager chuckled. “I do, but I thought you’d want to know about the ongoing bidding war in Hollywood. I’m fielding calls from HBO, Paramount, and Netflix for the next installment in theMorningside Stalkerseries. And they want to know about the new story you’re working on. Don’t worry. I’ve told them all you’re out of contact for a month to six weeks, but Cam…all three of those studios want to buy the script outright for mega millions.”

I furrowed my brow, torn between pleasure and confusion. It was a normal feeling when it came to my work. I wrote what I loved, and I loved mysteries. I’d been raised on a steady diet of “whodunits” in my youth. I loved Agatha Christie books and Alfred Hitchcock movies. My favorites were the ones that delved into the human psyche and made me think. But I was always in it for the escape. Books created safe spaces I’d desperately needed as a young kid and they were the gift that kept giving.

Every serious writer hoped for a modicum of success. The money and accolades were nice for sure, but I loved knowing I’d done something to give back and maybe provide much-needed escape for someone who needed a break from reality. To do so on such a large scale was frankly beyond my wildest dreams.

“Mega millions?” I repeated, pacing toward the bare Christmas tree. “The book isn’t even finished.”

“It’s a bidding war, Cam. They all want first dibs on Book One so they can secure the whole series.”

“Wow. That’s good.”

“Good? It’s incredible! And the numbers they’re throwing around are insane. I promise not to bug you through the holidays. I know how much you covet the season—” He paused to chuckle when I grumbled on cue. “But I figured you’d want to know that your presence will very much be in demand in LA in January. So don’t get too comfy out in the wilds of Vermont. I made sure the house was just drafty enough to discourage permanent residence.”