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Blurb: Brian Monroe, a 23-year-old college student with a double life, is used to living fast-by day, a quiet cashier at a neighborhood store, by night, one of the city's hottest rising porn stars with one golden rule: never bareback, always protect the line between pleasure and vulnerability. He's in control of his body, his rules, and his emotions-until the morning he rear-ends a sleek black sports car and comes face to face with Jason Blackwood. Jason, 34, is the enigmatic and untouchable CEO of Blackwood Industries, a man with shadows behind his eyes and a heart buried beneath layers of grief. Since the tragic death of his wife, he's shut himself off from the world, pouring everything into raising his daughter and keeping his desires locked away-until a reckless young man with too much attitude and too little caution crashes into his life. Their collision ignites a slow burn of seduction, boundaries, and raw emotion. Brian is fire and flirtation, pushing Jason's buttons and cracking his carefully built walls. Jason is steel and silence, resisting the pull of a man he shouldn't want. But desire doesn't ask for permission, and love never follows the rules. As Brian challenges Jason's notions of love, sex, and identity, and Jason tempts Brian to risk the one rule he's never broken, both men must decide: can they bare their truths without destroying each other?
Chapter 1 The Crash
Brian's POV
Late again. Shit.
I shoved the last bite of croissant into my mouth and swerved onto Maple Avenue, barely managing to wrestle my phone into the cupholder. A text from my boss at the shop was still glowing on the screen: If you're not here in 10 minutes, don't bother.
Ten minutes? I could do ten minutes. If the lights were green. If traffic played nice. If the universe gave me even the tiniest goddamn break.
Well it didn't. Sucks for me.
My piece-of-crap Toyota rattled as I took a turn a little too hard. I muttered an apology to it under my breath, like the old girl would forgive me. I'd bought it for six hundred bucks from a guy who smelled like regret and marijuana, and she ran like a dying goat on a treadmill, but she was mine.
And she was about to make my life a whole lot worse.
I was fiddling with the A/C knob when traffic ahead of me jerked to a stop. I slammed the brake, heart leaping into my throat-and then there was a crunch. Not loud. Not dramatic. But enough.
Enough to make me swear. Loudly.
I lurched forward, smacking the steering wheel with both palms. "No, no, no-shit, please no."
I shoved the door open and stumbled out, legs shaky. I hadn't hit the car hard. But when I looked up and saw the rear bumper of the sleek black machine in front of me-low, curvy, polished like glass-I felt the blood drain from my face.
This wasn't just any car.
This was luxury. Wealth. Trouble.
The driver's door opened slowly. Purposefully. And then he stepped out.
Tall. Broad. Dressed in a suit that probably cost more than my rent, tailored to a body that could make any lady or gay man sweat. His hair was raven-dark, swept back with a few artfully rebellious strands falling over his forehead. His face-fuck, his face. Like someone had sculpted it out of ice and then decided to give it a soul.
He looked at the damage, then at me.
And it wasn't just disappointment or irritation on his face. It was something deeper. Like life had been pissing in his coffee all morning and I was the cherry on top.
"I am so, so sorry," I said, hands up like I was surrendering to the god of expensive cars. "I didn't see- I mean, I did see you, obviously, but not in time, and-"
He didn't interrupt. Just crossed his arms and raised a single, condescending eyebrow. The kind of look that told me he'd dealt with far more annoying people and had less than zero patience for them.
I winced, already pulling out my wallet. "Look, I'll pay for it. I swear. I don't have much on me right now, but I get paid tomorrow, and I can-"
"Don't bother."
I froze. "What?"
He turned back toward the car. "Forget it."
"No, I-I hit you. I need to make it right."
"You can't afford it," he said flatly. "This bumper costs more than your car."
"Still. I have to try."
Something in my voice must've reached him, because he paused, hand resting on the roof of the car. He turned his head slightly, studying me for a beat. That was the moment I recognized him.
Jason Blackwood.
CEO of Blackwood Industries. Billionaire. Business icon. Also known as the city's most eligible widower, and the most emotionally unavailable man alive.
I swallowed. "Mr. Blackwood, I'm really sorry."
"Apology noted." He slid into his seat, cool as ice, and shut the door before I could get another word out.
Then he was gone.
---
I barely made it to the store before my boss threw a fit. Didn't matter. The whole shift blurred. I kept replaying that moment-his face, that voice, the dismissiveness that burned more than the guilt. I hated owning people. Especially rich, ridiculously hot people who could afford to laugh off a scuffed bumper.
So, naturally, I did the one thing that made sense: I stalked him.
Nothing creepy. Just some strategic Googling. And by the next morning, I was standing in the glass-paneled lobby of Blackwood Industries with a manila envelope full of cash and a knot of anxiety lodged in my throat.
The receptionist blinked at me. "Do you have an appointment?"
"No. But I need to see Jason Blackwood."
"I'm afraid-"
"I'm the guy who hit his car yesterday."
That got her attention. She raised an eyebrow, picked up the phone, and muttered something into the receiver.
Two minutes later, a security guy showed up to escort me upstairs.
I should've turned around then. But I was already in too deep.
Jason's office was nothing like mine at the store. Or anywhere I'd ever been, actually. It had floor-to-ceiling windows, polished steel shelves, and a massive desk with a black leather chair that made my mind drift off to places I didn't want it to.
He sat in it like a king.
Didn't smile when I came in. Didn't speak. Just tilted his head like I was a strange bug crawling across his floor.
I held up the envelope. "This is for the damage."
He didn't take it. "You really came all the way here just for that?"
"I told you I'd pay you back."
"I told you I didn't care."
"Yeah, well..." I hesitated. "I care."
Something flickered behind his eyes-annoyance, maybe. Or interest. I couldn't tell. He stood, slowly, and walked around the desk. Close enough that I could smell the faintest hint of expensive cologne and something sharper beneath it, like clean steel.
"You work?" he asked.
"Yeah. Store clerk. And, uh..." I cleared my throat. "Other stuff."
His mouth twitched. Not quite a smirk. "Other stuff?"
I resisted the urge to squirm. "Yeah."
He stared at me like he was figuring out a math problem. Then, finally:
"All right, Brian."
I blinked. "I didn't tell you my name."
"You're not that hard to find."
I flushed.
He held out a hand-not for the envelope, but for a handshake. "You want to make this right? Work for me."
"What?"
"Six months. Temporary contract. You work under me-pardon the phrasing-and when it's over, we call your debt paid."
"Doing what?"
"Whatever I tell you to."
I stared at him. "You're serious."
"Completely."
"You don't even know me."
"I know enough. You're persistent. And irritating. But it's interesting."
I should've said no. Should've turned around and walked out with my envelope and my pride.
Instead, I shook his hand.
I didn't know it yet, but that handshake was the beginning of everything. And the end of the quiet life I thought I wanted
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