Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113330 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 567(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113330 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 567(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
Man, I’m itching to slide into that bed with Iris now, eat her out, and ask her to stay the whole week with me. Why not? She’s got nowhere to go, and I’ve got nothing on my calendar but golf with Coach Hardy on Friday. It’s not every day a guy has supernatural sex out of nowhere, and what better way to distract me from my current stressors than enjoying a scorching-hot fling in paradise?
Fuck it. I’ll do it—I’ll invite Iris to stay here with me. But I won’t wake her up to do it. I’ll let the poor girl sleep.
My mind made up, I scribble a quick note on a hotel notepad: Going out for a run. Left breakfast for you in the kitchen. I leave the note on the nightstand next to Iris, grab my earbuds and running shoes, and quietly slip out the bungalow door.
About an hour later, just as I’m finishing a pleasant jog along the shore, my phone buzzes with a text from Cameron. When Iris slipped into the shower yesterday, I nabbed her driver’s license from her purse and sent a photo of it to Cameron with a request for a background check. Nothing too detailed, I wrote to Cameron. Just make sure she’s the sweet preschool teacher she appears to be.
I’m not going to win any awards for restraint in this situation, obviously, since I went ahead and fucked Iris before getting the results back from Cameron. But considering the raging boner I had for my bungalow crasher by the time she slipped into the shower last night, not to mention the buzz I had going from those rum punches, I’m amazed I was clearheaded enough to do any due diligence at all.
Cameron: Iris Eugenie Benedetto. Age 26. Preschool teacher at St. Luke’s Preschool in Denver, Colorado, for almost the past four years. No criminal record. Strong credit score. Graduated from UCLA, summa cum laude, with a degree in childhood development & psychology. Won a bunch of Podunk regional horse-riding competitions as a teenager throughout Washington and Oregon. All in all, I’d say she’s squeaky clean and a refreshing change from your usual, other than the one glaring exception which you can find at the link below. Watch the video right fucking now and then call me ASAP. And whatever you do, don’t fuck her, Roman!
I’m flabbergasted.
Is sweet, shy, angelic Iris Benedetto a porn star? I begin typing a reply to Cameron with anxious fingers, asking him where the fuck is the fucking link to the video he’s referenced, but before I’ve pressed send on the message, a link magically appears underneath Cameron’s text for a video entitled, “Horny Runaway Bride Destroys Cheating Groom on Wedding Day.”
Horny Runaway . . . What?
My breathing shallow, I click on the video, and there she is. Iris. Looking breathtakingly beautiful in a traditional white bridal gown. She’s in a church—standing with a guy in a suit who’s clearly her groom, while bridesmaids and groomsmen stand on either side. What the fuck? Also, when the fuck?
My heart thrumming, I check the date on the video and my pounding heart stops on a dime. That can’t be. If that date is accurate, then Iris was a bride mere days ago—on the same day Marco married Nicola. Could it be this is an older video that only got uploaded the other day? Either way, it’s already got over a million views in a matter of hours.
I click to start the video, and Iris the Bride says to her groom, “You’ve always been so much better with words than me, Brandon, so I’m going to use some of your own words to express myself now.” She pulls out a cell phone from her bra, making everyone in attendance titter and chuckle at her cuteness.
Unlike everyone else, however, the groom doesn’t titter or chuckle. On the contrary, the second he sees the phone in Iris’s hand, he looks downright panicked.
“Where’d you get that?” he blurts. “Iris, wait. Stop. Give me that.”
The groom attempts to grab the phone out of Iris’s hand, but she whirls around and holds the device to her chest like a running back protecting the rock. In a flash, two men dressed in suits—an older gentleman and a young, fit dude—flank Iris and warn the groom to keep his distance.
“That’s not mine!” the groom shouts to the crowd, pointing at Iris. “Whatever she’s about to say—”
“It’s Brandon’s secret burner phone!” Iris shouts above him, holding up the device. “I found it last night in Brandon’s toiletry bag, and—”
The person behind the camera recording, or maybe someone sitting very close to them, asks, “Is this a joke?,” so I can’t hear whatever Iris says next. Nor can I hear the groom, who’s throwing up his arms and saying something to the two men in suits. A moment later, however, I’m able to hear Iris again, at which point she’s saying, “. . . a text to a woman identified in his contacts as ‘Allison with the Big You-Know-Whats.’”