Total pages in book: 41
Estimated words: 38786 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 194(@200wpm)___ 155(@250wpm)___ 129(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38786 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 194(@200wpm)___ 155(@250wpm)___ 129(@300wpm)
CHAPTER 3
Kelsey
With my heart thumping as fast as my clit, I stare at the stranger I approached before anyone else, confident his laidback demeanor would have him considering my offer more than the pompous men behind him.
His jeans are designer, and I’m reasonably sure his Vans are limited edition, but with his button-up shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows and covering a casual white T, he seemed more down-to-earth than every other Ravenshoe local or tourist hogging the sidewalk.
I was also curious to discover if his generosity was as all-encompassing as his sexiness. Santa walked away with a mini jackpot, but people are more willing to part with their hard-earned money when that’s all that’s on the table.
I didn’t make it inside Valentino’s foyer.
I chickened out before breaking through the entry door—a good two minutes before I remembered I had no means to fund my walk on the wild side.
But instead of going home like a loser, I took the advice of a man in a Santa suit that looked so authentic I’m confident ‘made by Mrs. Claus’ is stitched inside the fancy threads.
He said the ‘help’ I was seeking was inside the restaurant I was darting past. Since I couldn’t tell the man I had a crush on when I was five that a wholesome meal isn’t the warmth I’m seeking, he guided me inside the restaurant without an objection firing from my lips.
The blame for the rest of my foolish ruse falls on my shoulders.
Butterflies took flight in my stomach when I noticed how many single men were lined up to enter the restaurant known for exorbitant menu prices, but they turned into a full-blown frenzy when I spotted the man helming the queue. He was the devastatingly handsome man standing at the taxi rank who almost caused me to trip. If it weren't for Santa's beard, I would have fell flat on my face at the feet of the alluring stranger, whose panty-wetting features kept flashing through my head when I was willing myself to build the courage to enter Valentino's.
He was the very image I was planning to conjure up while striving to bring myself to ecstasy with nothing but my fingers and a handy little gadget I used to store in the kitchen so Peter wouldn’t be made aware of his shortcomings.
I thought it was fate, but then I remembered that foolish notion belongs to the people who think they’re so special, they’ll take a day that’s for everyone, like Christmas Eve, and try to make it their own.
Don’t look at me like that. I was dragged to that date kicking and screaming, my fight only ending when the wedding planner advised the next date available for Peter’s family church was three years away. Peter’s family would have disowned him if he had a child out of wedlock, so I begrudgingly accepted the date on offer since I didn’t want to be fifty with a ten year old.
I swear to whatever religious entity you believe in that I tried to walk away from the handsome stranger with as much gall as I fought with not to steal Christmas Eve from families. I told my libido no, that you can’t walk up to a stranger, ask if they’re single, then if given an appropriate response, hit them up for casual sex.
That’s unkosher and not cool.
So I tiptoed around the idea that I was considering hiring an escort to get the job done, hoping he’d take pity on me and offer his services for free.
I hit the motherload, though now I feel shitty about it.
There’s no way a man as gorgeous as him is single, but he has my head in such a spin that my body has convinced my heart his relationship status doesn’t matter. That two consenting adults are the only things needed for a steamy look-what-you-lost fuck.
But two wrongs won’t make a right.
“I should go. It was wrong of me to approach you.”
Instead of using words to end my flee this time, he beats me to the door before slowly crowding me against it. He smells as good as I imagined when eyeballing him from afar, and although he stands a foot taller than me, our bodies mold together like God himself crafted them to fit.
“The door is unlocked. You can leave at any time.” He exposes the goose bumps his voice trickled across my skin when he drags my hair to one side. “But if you want to revenge fuck him out of your system, I’d rather you turn around.”
After delaying his departure long enough there’s no uncertainty to the murkiness of my panties, he steps back, freeing me.
My body instantly complains. It threatens irritable bowel syndrome for the rest of my life, but my heart is the first to speak.
“Are you married?”