Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 114492 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 458(@250wpm)___ 382(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114492 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 458(@250wpm)___ 382(@300wpm)
He stares at me for a long beat. “So, as far as a second tattoo for you goes, my advice is don’t overthink it. My brother always thinks his ink has to make some earth-shattering statement about the meaning of life.” He scoffs. “But you can waste half your life trying to be all deep and profound all the time. The bottom line is we’re all gonna die—so who gives a shit if you die with ‘YOLO’ stamped on your ass or not?”
My stomach is somersaulting. This is not the fun-loving Josh I’ve come to know.
He motions to my half-eaten plate of food. “You done with that, PG?”
I nod.
He grabs the half-eaten burger off my plate and polishes it off and then clears my plate of all leftover French fries, too. “You want another drink?”
“Thanks.”
He gets up and puts our empty plates on a table and then moves behind the bar, his glorious body on full, dazzling display. “So, okay,” he says, opening a bottle. “Where the fuck can I find this Garrett Bennett fuckwad? Because I swear to God I wanna hunt him down and beat the fucking shit out of him.”
I don’t reply. He suddenly looks different to me.
“Stop looking at me like that,” Josh says, his jaw pulsing. “See? This is exactly why I don’t talk about any of this shit. Now you’re looking at me funny. I don’t like it.”
“I’m not looking at you funny.”
He scoffs. “This is the real me, Kat.” He motions to his bare torso. “What you see is what you get—a wise and powerful man with a huge cock.”
There’s a long beat.
Josh clenches his jaw. “So, back to Garrett Asshole Bennett. Why do you care if that guy said you aren’t ‘marriage material,’ Kat? He was obviously a total prick.”
I swallow hard. I’ve never talked about Garrett Asshole Bennett with anyone. I’ve always been too ashamed at what an idiot I was. I open and close my mouth, struggling to find words.
“What does it matter what some total douchebag said about you?” Josh persists. He pours something into two glasses on the bar. “You’re awesome, Kat. A beast. He was obviously dead wrong about you.”
My heart is pounding in my ears. Did Josh just indirectly call me marriage material?
“It just freaks me out how utterly clueless I was. I was ready to give my heart to a guy who thought I was a slut.”
“That reflects poorly on him—not on you. You trusted him. He took advantage of you. He was a shit. A cruel, heartless, self-loathing, small-minded, small-dicked little shit.”
“It’s okay. In the end, it was probably a good life lesson.”
“What was the lesson?”
I consider my words. “I think Garrett Bennett is my ‘YOLO’ tattoo. I was one hundred percent sure of something, and I turned out to be dead wrong.” I shrug, trying to come across like it’s no big deal. “Good thing to remember.”
He looks pained. “That douche deserves to get the shit kicked out of him,” he says between gritted teeth.
There’s a loud knock at the door and Josh is instantly distracted. A wide grin spreads across his face. “Oh, damn. Looks like talking about our fucking feelings will have to wait, thank God.” He suddenly slaps his face—really hard—leaving a bright red mark.
“What the hell?” I gasp.
Josh chuckles and slips around the bar toward the front door, a wide smile on his striking face. “I do believe your chariot has arrived, Party Girl.”
Thirty-Seven
Kat
Josh hands the delivery guy a huge wad of cash and gleefully turns back around, a large, hefty-looking cardboard box in his arms, an evil gleam in his eye.
At the look of trepidation on my face, he laughs. “Don’t worry, PG. You’re gonna love it.”
“What is it?”
“You’ll see.”
He places the box on the edge of the bed, opens the flaps, and peeks inside. “Come to papa,” he says, his dick visibly hardening in his briefs.
He pulls out a tarp-looking thing and spreads it on top of the bed.
“Oh, jeez,” I say. “Am I about to star in an episode of Dexter?”
Josh chuckles.
“Why the heck do we need a freaking tarp?”
“Because things can sometimes get a bit messy.” He winks.
“Huh?” I say.
But Josh doesn’t elaborate.
“Did you write about this machine in your application to The Club?” I ask.
He scoffs. “No. Don’t think about that stupid application right now. Just live in the moment, Kat. Just enjoy the ride.” He snickers. “Literally and figuratively.”
“What the fuck is this thing?”
Josh reaches into the box and pulls out a little black machine—a little half-domed box-machine, about a foot long and wide and high, attached to a black power cord and a small control box. Basically, the thing looks like a curved saddle with a power cord.
“It’s an orgasm machine,” Josh says simply. “It was designed to give a woman the most powerful orgasm she’s ever experienced—over and over and over again—for as long as she can stand it.” He places the Sybian in the middle of the bed on top of the tarp. “This baby’s about to rock your world, Kitty Kat.” He smiles greedily. “And, therefore, mine.”