Total pages in book: 31
Estimated words: 29952 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 150(@200wpm)___ 120(@250wpm)___ 100(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29952 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 150(@200wpm)___ 120(@250wpm)___ 100(@300wpm)
That must happen all the time.
This whole thing could be an act. A façade. Part of the fantasy.
Otherwise, why would this gorgeous creature imply that she wants me?
My ribcage floods with hurt, but I ignore it, knowing I’m being ridiculous. I paid for a companion. That’s exactly what Petra is. She’s doing her job. If anything, she’s doing it a little too well. But even if she’s an escort for the weekend, I’m not abandoning my morals.
Not even if we’re sleeping in the same bed.
Not even if my dick feels like it’s going to erupt every time she looks at me.
As the son of an unwed teenage mother, I know better than most how immoral it is for an older, experienced man to sleep with someone her age.
Good. Keep that in the front of your mind.
The bathroom door opens and I lunge to my feet, my heart sling-shotting up into my mouth. My plan is to get out of this bedroom as fast as possible. Down to the party where it’s safe and I won’t be tempted to fuck her.
Petra appears and my resolve shatters like a dropped vase.
Oh my God.
Oh my God.
Somehow, she looks classy and sexy, at the same time. She’s wearing this short, flowery little dress with a flouncy skirt, but from the waist up, the material is tight and structured. It lifts her tits and shows off just enough of those creamy slopes to be tasteful, but still mind-blowingly hot. Her legs appear buffed to a shine in the light, her delicate feet slipped into an equally delicate pair of high heels.
My cock is pounding with heat. Wicked, unspent need.
And that’s before I notice her hair, her makeup.
Gone is the copper cat eye. Instead, she’s made up like…a summer day. Hair loose, cheeks rosy and glowing. Her mouth…oh Jesus, her mouth. So pink and swollen.
I want to kiss her so badly, my tongue would roll out of my mouth if I managed to pry my fucking teeth apart.
“I told you I could pass for twenty-three,” she says, her voice a little halting. Shifting side to side, she looks down at her body. “Don’t you think so?”
I can’t speak. Only stare.
After a long stretch of silence, her throat works. “You don’t like it?”
Say something, idiot. “I like it.”
Her exhale of relief makes me feel terrible for taking too long to compliment her. “Oh. Good.”
“You’re perfect,” I all but growl. “I’m just nervous about the party. Seeing everyone.”
“Of course you are.” She comes toward me, one slow step at a time. “I promise everything is going to be fine. I’m your buffer, baby. And I can buff with the best of them.”
Why does she have to be so sweet?
Why does she have to call me baby?
Those two syllables turn my balls to lead.
Am I no better than the man who fathered me?
I attempt to wrestle back my lust and focus on the party. The reason we’re here. “There are going to be a lot of strangers down there. I’m going to make them uncomfortable with this.” I gesture to the right side of my face.
“That sounds like a ‘them’ problem.” She cocks a hip, her expression curious. “What is it about your scars that bothers you the most?”
I’ve never talked so openly about them before. Not with anyone but the doctor.
“The fact that they’re so noticeable, obviously,” I say. “The redness makes them look so angry. The scar tissue is shiny, different from the rest of my skin—”
“Red and shiny?” She reaches for my hand and tugs me toward the bathroom. “I don’t think you should ever cover up your scars, Barry, because they’re a part of you. You earned them being a hero. But…” I follow her into the dim, golden glow of the bathroom, the scent of her perfume invading my senses. The cinnamon aroma distracts me so much, I allow her to position me up against the vanity before I know what’s happening. “Just for the night, maybe we could adjust the parts that bother you most.”
When she unzips a gigantic black bag and it rolls out into a veritable drug store’s worth of makeup, my spine snaps straight. “I’m not wearing makeup, Petra.”
“Shhh.” She reaches up and strokes the side of my face, her fingertips trailing lightly down and around my scar tissue. “Trust me. I made myself look twenty-three, didn’t I?”
“Not really.”
She gasps, affronted.
“Maybe you did. But my brain already knows the truth. I only see nineteen.”
She sticks her tongue out at me.
“See? Nineteen.”
Petra sniffs. “I’m going to let you get away with being mean to me, in exchange for letting me put a little matte powder on your scars.”
“What the fuck is matte powder?”
Instead of answering me, she flicks open a little black dish. I think it’s called a compact, but I’m not sure where I picked up that information. Television, maybe. “It’s a tool to decrease shine and even out one’s skin tone. I want to put on a foundation base first, but I think I’d spook you. Maybe tomorrow for the wedding.”