Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 100466 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100466 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
After the grindstone of medical school, Daphne Webb is letting her hair down. Party in Las Vegas. Check. Blackjack and bodyshots. Check. Marrying her best friend's brother in a drunken haze. Wait, what?
Rule-loving, hard-working lawyer Jackson is used to getting what he wants. Which now includes their marriage. He isn't about to let go of his wife. So he makes Daphne a deal. If she gives their hasty decision a chance--three little weeks--he'll accept her choice to walk or stay.
Fine with Daphne. Her new husband may be handsome, intelligent, and impossibly skilled with a tie, but he's not a miracle worker. He can't convince her to settle down. Not when she's this close to achieving every one of her goals.
That's the thing. At the end of their trial run, Daphne is starting her residency in New York. It's everything she's been working for. And nothing is standing in her way. Except maybe those three little words…
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Chapter One
Daphne
Medically speaking, masturbation is all upsides. The act strengthens the pelvic floor, reduces stress, improves libido, and releases positive neurotransmitters.
Unlike partnered sex, masturbation comes with no risk of pregnancy, STIs, or falling for unworthy men. There's no struggle to communicate needs or discuss preferences or draw boundaries.
I don't have to remind a guy to grab a condom.
I don't have to explain no, of course, I didn't come. Like most women, I need clitoral stimulation to orgasm.
I don't have to watch him wither from a simple suggestion, as if a request for more, less, harder, faster is a direct hit on his ego.
And I certainly don't have to worry if he's watched so much porn, he expects me to writhe with pleasure from all sorts of acts most women don't particularly enjoy.
It's not just men, of course. Most people don't understand basic biomechanics. As a future sex researcher, I see the breadth of the problem, and I intend to work to solve it.
In my professional life.
In my off time—
What was I saying about the benefits of masturbation? They're not just medical. They're emotional and mental too.
Sex is like anything, really. I can't count on anyone else to take care of me. I take care of myself.
Why did I ever think this would be any different?
Masturbation is the perfect solution to horniness. In theory. There's just one little, tiny issue.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I tell the issue to dissolve into my exhale. I focus on my surroundings. The low hum of the fan. The warm glow of the sun. The soft cotton sheets against my skin.
I try to stay present in the moment.
I fail.
Instead, I go straight to my happy place: Jackson Steele.
My best friend's brother. The gruff, protective, hard-working lawyer three years my senior. The guy who's been in my spank bank for so long he's worn a groove into my brain.
The oxytocin leads to self-love… and a deeper attraction.
And knowing he's off-limits?
There's a reason there's so much student-teacher porn out there. The things we see as attractive in puberty stay sexy. And taboo is always titillating.
People who claim they want an equal society without power imbalances are more likely to participate in BDSM.
People who preach family values are more likely to partner-swap.
And I, the strictly science, future medical researcher who professes sisters before misters every chance I get, fantasize about my bestie's brother.
I claim I do this for research—
No, I am doing this for research, but the deepening attraction to Jackson is both a wonderful benefit and a horrible consequence.
I pull out my lab book and jot a few notes. Day, time, setting, mood, level of attraction to Jackson.
Will taking the pressure off make it easier to see him in three hours? Or will I want him more?
Masters and Johnson didn't cover that. Kinsey either.
I have to take matters into my own, uh, hands.
But, hey, enough preamble. Time for the fun part.
I set my lab book on the bedside table, I slip under the hot pink sheets, I settle into the mattress.
It's a little too small, a little too firm, a little too obviously the bed in my childhood bedroom. The Matrix posters and the shelves of sci-fi don't help. They pull me toward stressful study sessions and crushes on guys who never looked my way.
Guys like Jackson.
And just like when I was a gawky teenager with braces, I still fail to register as an adult woman in his eyes. He still looks at me like a kid he needs to protect.
It's sweet, really. Or it would be if I didn't want to tear his clothes off.
The reality is painful.
But my fantasy?
It's perfect.
My eyes flutter closed. My world fades to a soft shade of white.
My thoughts drift to a familiar scenario.
A sleepover at my best friend's house.
It's early, so early, the sun is just peeking through the sky, casting a soft glow over the world.
I wake up in her room and slip into my swimsuit. The house is quiet. Dead quiet. It feels like I'm the only person in the universe, like the big, beautiful space belongs to me and me alone.
There's a freedom to it. A thrill. The independence of growing up and taking my own space.
I sneak to the backyard with light steps. Only I'm not alone here.
Jackson is awake too.
Despite the interruption to my solitude, I feel no disappointment. On the contrary, his presence thrills me. Fills me with the buzz of anticipation.
He's sitting on one of the lounge chairs next to the pool in his typical summer outfit, a button-up linen shirt and charcoal slacks, hands and eyes on the paperback book carefully positioned over his lap.
He looks like he walked out of a 1950s detective novel. Tall, but not too tall. Muscular, but not overly built. Handsome, but not in a conventional Chris Pine sort of way.