Page 6 of Becoming His Perfect Daddy
Well, ithad, past tense. I hadn’t written in weeks, since before Jay and Jesse’s book released, and if the drought went on much longer, I’d have to delay my next release. Last night’s date with Jason had just made the lack of inspiration even more stark. Especially because the dry spell my love life was experiencing wouldn’t be letting up any time soon.
My right hand sure got frequent workouts, as did my selection of dildos and plugs in varying sizes and textures. I even had a vibrator or two. Even years after starting hormones, my sex drive had never gone back down to pre-T levels. Not that I was complaining—an orgasm was a quick way to relax, and porn had the added bonus of being book research—but still. In a former life, I’d have wished for a man to warm my bed. Or more recently, a Daddy to warm my ass before he bent meoverthe bed. Then stayed all night to spoon me afterward.
Oh, hell, who was I kidding? I wished for one now.
I never was very good at lying to myself.
I sighed, filling a glass of water from a pitcher on the counter of my open kitchen then padding down the hall to my office and plopping down in front of my laptop. It was still early—I’d only just showered after a quick breakfast—so maybe I could finish up my final tasks for a bookkeeping client’s payroll this morning so I was free to write this afternoon and evening. Charlie, Jesse’s younger brother, needed his own fucking love story already.
When my stomach growled loudly hours later, I was deep into a particularly complicated project for one of my clients and making good time. I’d forgotten to eat lunch, but I hadn’t even realized I was hungry. I might have even been so in my flow state that I’d lost time. One glance at my clock made my jaw drop.How was it two o’clock? It was only eleven like ten minutes ago! I loved when that happened.
Would’ve been better if I’d been writing, though.
I saved my work to my secure cloud before switching over to my browser, thinking I’d check my email before I grabbed some food. Since I’d just sent a newsletter yesterday morning, I wanted to be sure to respond to any readers who’d replied in a timely fashion.
I scanned my unread emails quickly, marking the ones I didn’t need to click into as read: junk, sales for products I wasn’t in the market for, one- or two-word replies to the newsletter I’d sent yesterday morning that didn’t warrant a response.
But then my eyebrows furrowed at one particular email that had come in last night.
Tilting my head, I stared at the preview as if it held the answers to the mysteries of the universe. The subject told me I’d received a reply to yesterday’s newsletter. The email address of the sender was innocuous—just the handle ofbooklover367at a common domain—but the preview text had me swiping across my trackpad to click on it.
Several years back, when I’d only had a small handful of books out, I’d taken to using my email newsletter as a sort of journal, sharing with whomever cared to read it whatever was on my mind that day. I included book announcements and writing updates, sure, but I felt my readers would appreciate the personal touch, so I always had a section dedicated to insights into my admittedly chaotic brain.
I frequently did get meaningful and often heartfelt replies, so I figured I was on the right track, but this week’s email had been forgettable, nothing special. Just a little blurb about my latest shopping find: a fancy coffee maker complete with a frother, a grinder, and temperature-optimized brewing that I found at a discount home goods store at half price. Coffee was a must forthis writer, and I liked it fancy even at home—especially when I got busy and didn’t have time to get out to my favorite coffee shop very often—so my new gadget made me happy. I just wasn’t expecting many replies.
But as I began to read the email, my heart started pounding. To be honest, before I’d even opened the email, I’d sensed it would be unlike any other email I’d received.
I was right.
Cameron,
I know you don’t know me, but I’ve been a huge fan of your books since I first readThe Prince’s Rule.
I smiled. Using my real name didn’t bother me; it wasn’t a secret. I used it to sign all my email newsletters. The writer of the email had just been paying attention. And the book they mentioned was one of my bestselling books, so that didn’t surprise me. I’d been asked repeatedly to release a bonus epilogue for Rafael and Stephen’s story. Maybe someday. The book’s tenth anniversarywascoming up in a year or two . . .
I’m not a writer myself—not fiction, anyway—so I can only imagine how difficult it must be to keep releasing quality book after quality book. Your writing is engaging, sexy, swoony, kinky, and sweet, and I eagerly await every release. *grin*
Jay and Jesse’s story gutted me in all the best ways, and I wouldn’t be exaggerating if I said that book changed my life. I’m loving this new series, and I can’t wait for the rest of the crew to get their love stories—especially Hudson.
Hmm. Hudson was originally intended as a throwaway side character, but he must’ve connected with this mystery sender. Come to think of it, a few of my reviewers had mentioned him, too. And my editor.
A whisper of an idea started to form in my subconscious—nothing concrete or even vaguely tangible, just the spark of something that might turn out to be everything in the future. I knew my brain would need time to work it out before I could actualize it into the form of a book, though. Time I didn’t have.
I went back to finish the email before I got distracted by my self-pity.
I just wanted to say thank you for writing the books you do. They mean more to me than you could possibly know. Seriously. Keep writing. I’m here cheering you on.
Always,
S.M.C.
I blinked at the closing and the mysterious initials.Always? What did they mean by that?
I read over the letter again, trying to read between the lines. Whoever this was—I couldn’t even tell their gender by the email’s content—was likely a technical or professional writer of some sort, but that could mean anything, I supposed. They were playful, given the cheeky grin, and refreshingly honest. I even puffed up at their praise, as any rejection-averse author would.
But my book changed their life? How was that possible? I knew Jay and Jesse’s story was powerful, especially since it was supremely personal—it was one of just a few of my books with a transgender character—but how could that be true? Hyperbole, certainly.
Leaving the email open on my screen, I grabbed my now empty water glass and headed to the kitchen to find lunch. I gnawed on a sandwich while standing at the breakfast counter, my mind too occupied with rereading the anonymous email on my phone to be bothered to find a seat at my small kitchen table.
