Drafting The Heat – Jace Wilder (1)

It wasn’t exaggeration. If anything, the books undersold it. But it wasn’t the physical release that kept him awake. It was what Jax had said. Good boy. You’re doing so good. You’re perfect. The praise had cracked something open in Jules. Something he’d been keeping locked away for so long he’d forgotten it existed. He wanted to be good. For Jax. Wanted Jax to look at him with those dark eyes and tell him he was perfect, wanted to earn that approval over and over until it filled up all the empty spaces inside him.

Claire had never praised him. Had never told him he was doing well, that he was enough, that she was proud of him. Their intimacy had been transactional—you do this, I do that, we both have an orgasm, everybody’s satisfied. Except Jules had never been satisfied. Not really. He’d been going through the motions, performing the expected responses, and calling it good enough. This wasn’t good enough. This was everything.

And it was fake. The reminder hit him like cold water. This was a lesson. Research for a book. Jax was helping him understand desire so he could write about it convincingly—that was all. The praise wasn’t real. The connection wasn’t real. None of it was real. Except it felt real. It felt more real than anything Jules had experienced in his entire life. He rolled onto his side and pulled the blanket up to his chin.

Through the wall, he could hear Jax moving around in his room—the creak of bedsprings, the soft sound of sheets rustling. Was Jax thinking about him? Was he lying awake too, replaying the evening, wondering what it meant? Or was he already asleep, satisfied with a lesson well taught, ready to move on to the next chapter in the curriculum? Jules didn’t know. That was the worst part—after seven years of friendship, after two weeks of intimacy that had surpassed anything he’d experienced in previous relationships, he still couldn’t read what Jax was feeling.

You’re not the only one affected here, Jax had said. But affected how? Physically, obviously—arousal was a biological response, and Jax was only human.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

OceanofPDF.com For everyone who ever asked for “lessons” and got love instead. OceanofPDF.com CONTENTS Title Page Copyright Dedication Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Epilogue Thank You OceanofPDF.com CHAPTER ONE The email arrived at 4:47 PM on a Tuesday, which felt appropriate. Not a Monday, when bad news at least had the decency to announce itself with the week’s fresh cruelty.

Not a Friday, when you could drown it in weekend whiskey. No, this particular gut-punch chose a Tuesday—the most forgettable day of the week—to inform Julian Vane that his career was, in his editor’s politely devastating words, “at a crossroads.” He read it again, glasses sliding down his nose, as if the words might rearrange themselves into something less catastrophic on second viewing. Julian, I’m going to be direct because I respect you and your work.

The chemistry between Marcus and David reads like a WikiHow article. ‘Step one: approach love interest. Step two: initiate physical contact. Step three: experience emotion.’ There’s no heat, no tension, no want. I need to feel like these men would die if they couldn’t touch each other, and right now I feel like they’d be equally satisfied with a firm handshake. If you can deliver a revised draft in six weeks with the passion this story deserves, we’ll move forward.

If not, we need to discuss whether this book has a future at Westbrook. I know you have it in you. Find it. Best, Patricia Jules closed his laptop with the careful precision of a man defusing a bomb. Then he opened it again. Read the email a third time. Closed it once more.

“Find it,” he muttered to the empty loft. “Sure, Patricia. Let me just check between the couch cushions. Maybe it’s next to my will to live.” The loft didn’t answer. It rarely did, despite being the kind of converted warehouse space that seemed like it should be full of artistic energy and creative inspiration. Fourteen-foot ceilings. Exposed brick.

Industrial windows that let in the kind of gray January light that made everything look like a French film about depression.

This is a short excerpt from the opening of “” by Unknown, quoted for review and introduction purposes. All rights belong to the copyright holders.

Book Information

• Unique ID: 559323c4ecab58d2
• File Extension: .pdf
• File Size: 1,215,903 bytes (1.16 MB)
• Title: –
• Author: Unknown
• Pages: 127
• Language: English (en)

Reading & Word Statistics

• Estimated Reading Time: 184.79 minutes
• Total Words: 36,958
• Total Characters: 213,225
• Average Words per Page: 291.01
• Average Characters per Page: 1678.94

Most Frequent Words

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