Chapter 3 #2
I couldn’t quite believe the words that were coming out of my mouth, but once the tap had been turned on, it appeared it wasn’t likely to stop anytime soon.
“I mean,” I continued, waving a hand around to emphasize my point.
“It’s almost like men can smell the inexperience on me.
As soon as I’m in a room with a date, they switch from interested to ‘can I introduce you to my mother? She’d love to have you at church on Sunday.
’ It’s never, ‘let me bend you over the table and fuck you until you’re screaming my name.
’” I began to pace, my hands gesturing wildly.
“And I don’t understand why. It’s not as if I’m rude or have some kind of communicable disease like covid or something.
I’m just a woman in her prime who wants great sex.
Is that too much to ask? That someone brings me to climax at least three times before they—”
Justice made a sound in the back of his throat, interrupting my monologue of singledom woes.
“Too much?” I asked, wincing.
“Um, no?”
I blew out a breath. “What I’m trying to say is that men and I don’t mix.”
He frowned. “I don’t believe that.”
I gestured to my body. “I mean look at me.”
“I am.”
The gravity in his voice broke through the self-pity that had descended.
He cleared his throat. “I’m going to say this as a man who loves women and as your friend.”
“Are we friends?” I asked quietly.
He ignored me. “You are sexy, Hope. You’ve got this quiet beauty which you subdue behind cute outfits and button-up cardigans.
But—and I say this not to embarrass you but to reassure you—those outfits drive a guy crazy.
It makes us want to peel off the layers and see what you’re wearing underneath.
It makes us want to work out if you’re a librarian on the streets and a freak in the sheets. ”
My heart flip-flopped wildly as a warm, pleasant ache began to throb deep in my belly.
He thinks I’m sexy.
I brushed off the compliment. “The evidence says otherwise.”
His grin was slow and sweet like honey. “You don’t believe me.”
“No one has ever said anything like this to me. Or indicated even a word of that might be true.” I crossed my arms over my chest, determined to protect my heart.
“Sweetheart, you’re hanging out with the wrong kind of men.”
I rolled my eyes. “You know where I can find the right kind of guy?”
“Nope,” he answered cheerfully. “But you’ll know it when you find him.”
“And how exactly will I know?”
“He’ll be the guy who makes you realize that there’s nothing wrong with being inexperienced.
You’re a vibrant woman, Hope. Your sexuality and sexual experience are only one part of the richness of your life.
If you wanted to go out and experience sex, all you’d need to do is wear a tight red dress and some cowboy boots down to the bar.
Believe me, every punk farmer and cowboy blow-in would be drooling to take what you offered.
” He stood up from his seat, stepping toward the window.
“But that’s not who you are. You want the candles and rose petals and the silk sheets. ”
I frowned, frustrated by his assumption.
“How do you know that?” I asked. “I’m not sixteen, and this isn’t a Christmas movie.”
He plucked a book off my shelf and my heart dropped.
“Because you read these.”
It was the first in my rockstar romance series. The cover looked innocent with the image of drumsticks laying across a bed, but the interior was filled with all the filthy longings of my heart.
Let’s just say my vibrator and I had gotten intimately acquainted while writing that book and waiting for Mr. Right.
A boldness prompted by years of people—men—assuming they knew best, possessed me. I stormed across my room to him and picked up three of my books, shoving them into his chest.
“Before you judge me for loving romance how about you read what I might enjoy?”
I forced myself to meet his surprised gaze, pleased as punch to see a new glint of interest in his expression.
“You never know,” I said snottily. “You might learn a thing or two about what a woman actually wants.”
His grin sent butterflies fluttering in my belly.
“Now go,” I said, turning him around and pushing him toward the window. “Before Gran wonders if I’ve really lost all my senses.”
“Can’t I use the front door?”
“Did you use it coming in?”
“No.”
“Then no. Not if you don’t want to have the story sold to the papers within an hour.”
Justice froze and I crashed into his back.
“Actually,” he said with a slow drawl. “That’s not a half-bad idea.”
“What?”
He nodded as if to himself. “What are you doing tomorrow?”
“Working. Like I always do. Why?”
“You free for brunch?”
I hesitated, unsure of where he was going with this. “Maybe.”
“Meet me at the diner. I have a proposition for you.”
And on that ominous note, the boy next door climbed out my bedroom window and disappeared into the cool night.
“What in the butthole of the world just happened?” I muttered.
I moved to my computer and froze when I registered that his picture was missing.
Turns out you can’t die from humiliation, even if you wish otherwise.