Total pages in book: 142
Estimated words: 131330 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 525(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131330 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 525(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
My stained Grinch pajamas stare back at me, but that’s not even the worst part. My hair is a mess, there’s a spoon hanging from my mouth, and I’m clutching the half-eaten pint of ice cream like a weapon. I might have felt pathetic before, but this picture sure as hell confirms it.
I’m a fucking mess. No wonder my virginity has stuck around so long. I might as well Google the local nunnery to join. My dad is going to be so pleased, but unfortunately for Mom, she’ll have to wait until Austin undoubtedly knocks someone up to get the grandbabies she’s desperate for.
There are no wild oats being sewn over here. The only wild oats I have are the ones stashed in my cupboard, and to be completely honest, I wouldn’t touch them with a ten-foot pole. I’m pretty sure they went out of date at least two years ago.
“See this picture?” Becs says, a clear warning in her tone, reminding me that I’m supposed to be focused on the horrifying reality staring back at me. “Either you come out with me to this new club I found, or I’m uploading this to a sugar daddy website with your number and the caption Help me, Daddy. This dirty girl needs a spanking.”
I fix her with a hard stare. “I really fucking hate you right now. You know that, right?”
“Trust me, when you find out where I’m taking you, you’re going to love me,” she says, stepping into me and taking the pint of ice cream out of my hand. “Besides, you were only telling me yesterday that you’re ready to start living. Don’t tell me I sat on your filthy-ass couch and listened to that hour-long sob story and it was all bullshit.”
Damn it. I hate it when my words come back to bite me on the ass.
“My couch isn’t filthy,” I say, personally offended. “It’s just got character.”
“Aspen,” she says, fixing me with a hard stare. “I pulled a whole Pop-Tart from between the cushions last night. Your couch is a treasure hunter’s wet dream. Now, tell me that you meant everything you said. That you’re finally ready to pull the Izaac-shaped thorn out of your asshole and start living life like a normal twenty-two-year-old college student.”
I let out a heavy sigh, rolling my eyes. “It wasn’t bullshit,” I groan, regretting my decision to be an open book last night. It must have been the tequila. “I meant every word. I want to start enjoying myself, but I didn’t mean that I needed to start right this very minute. Ease me into it.”
“Ease you into it?” she scoffs.
I nod enthusiastically. “Yeah, ease me,” I suggest. “Because we all know the dangers of going too hard too soon.”
Becs’ face scrunches. “What the hell are you talking about?”
A wide grin stretches across my face. “Remember when you tried anal for the first time? You sure as hell didn’t ease into that,” I laugh. “You went in blind and unprepared, forgot the lube, and nearly tore your ass in half. So, from one friend to another, I’m asking you not to allow history to repeat itself. Ease me into it. Take it slow. Don’t ass fuck me without lube.”
“You are not seriously comparing my ass stitches and a night in the hospital to you going to a club with me.”
“I thought it was a great comparison,” I admit with a shrug and a dorky grin, secretly hoping that the club she plans to take me to isn’t one of Izaac’s. He owns three of them—Pulse, Cherry, and Scandal being his newest—but Becs knows better than to take me to any of those, even if they are the best clubs in town.
Becs rolls her eyes and strides into the kitchen with the ice cream, making her way to my freezer when she stops, spying the other empty container on the counter. “Wait,” she says, glancing back at me, her eyes widening with pure disgust. “You’re already on to your second tub?”
I press my lips into a hard line, not willing to admit what she can already clearly see. I’m also not willing to admit the way my stomach seems to be screaming at me for the afternoon of abuse. “Ummmm . . . no.”
“Aspen! Gross. My lactose intolerance could never,” she says, and the hint of fear flashing in her honey-brown eyes immediately forces an unwanted image into my brain. “This much ice cream would have me redecorating the bathroom for days.”
“Thanks for that visual,” I murmur under my breath, secretly proud of my iron-clad stomach that hasn’t managed to let me down yet, not even with the questionable food truck tacos near campus.
“Any time. Now, go and put your ass through a shower. You’re gonna need it where we’re going. And don’t forget to wash your fanny. And while you’re at it, maybe break out the old razor. You’re gonna want to shave everything from the chin down,” she all but sings, offering me a smug grin. “Make it quick. I’m dying to get out of here.”