Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 101101 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 404(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101101 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 404(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
A couple of months later, Andrey found out I was pregnant, so Owen and I ran. We ended up in a shitty motel, where Andrey found us, killed Owen, and then forced me to abort my baby.
I moved to Russia to get away and never once even considered looking at a man. I was busy helping my grandfather run his company and trying to heal from the trauma.
But when my brother Dominick dragged me home after our grandparents passed away, I had a lot of time on my hands. So, I decided to put myself out there.
I went on too many first dates and barely any second ones. So, when I met Theo and he seemed to tick all the boxes of what I was looking for, I grabbed ahold of him.
“Girl,” Nicole drawls, “you need to get back on the horse. You might as well be a virgin at this point. The man didn’t even give you an orgasm, so he doesn’t count.”
I snort out a laugh. “I want to, but it’s hard …”
Nicole snickers at my unintentional pun, and I roll my eyes.
“A couple of times, I came close …”
“To coming?” she questions.
“No.” I laugh. “To sleeping with a man. But it never felt right.”
“And it felt right with Theo?”
I think about that for a second and then shake my head. “No, it felt … comfortable and safe.”
“Maybe that’s the problem,” she says. “You need to be taken out of your comfort zone.”
“Maybe,” I agree. Then, because deep conversations like this stress me out, I add, “At least he wasn’t allergic to pussy.”
“What?” Nicole barks out a laugh.
“When I first came home, I tried to pick up a man. I brought him back to a room at the country club, but his face was only between my legs for about twenty seconds when he told me he was allergic to pussy.”
“Oh my God, stop!” Nicole wheezes because she’s laughing so hard.
“I mean, I’m not an expert on the opposite sex, but is that really a thing?”
“Excuse me,” a gentleman says, sliding in next to me and leaning against the bar. “Can I buy you a drink?”
I glance down at my whiskey sour—which is still more than half full—and wonder how men manage to function, let alone pick up women.
Then another gentleman, who I didn’t notice had sat down next to me at some point—or maybe he was here before me?—says, “She already has a drink, and if you haven’t noticed from the Saint Laurent purse and matching heels, she’s capable of buying her own drink.” He raises a finger to the bartender, and when he approaches, he says, “Whiskey, neat.”
The asshat standing between us huffs and walks away, giving me a perfect view of the gentleman who just saved me. I suck at guessing ages, but with his messy brown hair, stubbled jaw, and the slight crinkles around his eyes, he looks to be around my age—late twenties. But the way he carries himself in his Tom Ford suit—with his shoulders tense and his back straight, his eyes alert and darting around the bar—it’s as if life has aged him several years.
“I’m Brielle,” I find myself saying. “And this is my friend Nicole.”
I never make the first move, but this guy has me intrigued. And I am here in hope of meeting a man and having sex with him so I can find out if I am in fact the problem.
“Kane,” he says, lifting his drink from the bar top and taking a sip.
My gaze goes to his throat and the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows while I wait for him to elaborate. When he doesn’t, I glance at Nicole, and she quirks a brow, obviously equally intrigued by him.
“Do you live in Harbor Point?” I ask, making conversation.
The city is small, and since it’s split between North Harbor Point, where the upper class reside, and South Harbor Point, where the middle and lower class live, I’m surprised I haven’t seen him around before.
“I do now,” he says cryptically.
Another sip.
No elaboration.
I’m about to give up—because I don’t beg for any man’s attention—when he turns toward me and says, “Because I think you’re the kind of woman who’ll appreciate it, I’m going to get straight to the point. I have a room upstairs. Nothing fancy. Just a place to sleep while I wait for my stuff to arrive. Bed is comfortable, and I promise to make you come at least twice before you sneak out … three times if you spend the night.”
I’m so taken aback by his comment that I snort out a laugh, and the drink I was nursing splashes over my glass and all over my hand.
“Excuse me?” I scoff, unsure if I should be turned on or offended. I’m slightly mortified that I’m leaning toward the former more than the latter.