My Broke Self Sends My Gay Sex Novel to My Father's Terrifying Mafia Boss Instead of a Resume BL

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My Broke Self Sends My Gay Sex Novel to My Father's Terrifying Mafia Boss Instead of a Resume

I write about desire for a living, but my readers say my sex scenes are too soft. They're right. I've never been touched, never been chosen, never been anything but a twenty-two-year-old virgin typing heat I've never actually felt onto a screen at midnight with $12.43 in my bank account and rent due in eleven days.

So I did what any desperate, broke, completely unraveling person does I applied for a summer job with my father's boss.

The problem? I hit send on the wrong file. Instead of my resume, Roman Hale mafia-connected, forty-one, terrifyingly precise, and the most dangerous man within a fifty-mile radius of my life -received 4,200 words of my most intimate, explicit, deeply personal fiction. About an older man. Doing things. Slowly.

He didn't fire me. He didn't call my father. He sent back nine words and a start date.

That should have been my first warning. Instead, it was the beginning of the most consuming, suffocating, electric thing that has ever happened to me fake dates, backroom deals, a man who had been reading my writing in the dark long before I ever walked through his door, and the slow, unbearable realization that every word I ever wrote about desire, I wrote about someone I hadn't met yet.

I thought I was saving myself when I sent that email.

I had no idea I was walking straight into him.