Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
It wasn’t the offer of sex, or sex with a man, or even sex at a society function that flustered me. Been there, done that, plenty. My mother might choose to believe I was one purity ring away from heterosexual virginity—and god knew I’d never cared to spell the truth out for her—but in the past ten years, I’d been with men, women, and nonbinary folx in all sorts of configurations across four separate continents. My DMs were always open. In fact, my brother, JT, joked that I was “try-sexual” because I’d try anything once.
But this—the Roman warrior’s erotic vibe of control, his expectation that I’d be good for him, the way my gut wasn’t screaming hell no but, shockingly, rolling over and panting yes? All of that was brand-new. I’d always sort of thought the whole “dark, mysterious, and dominant” schtick was a patriarchal cliché I was too smart to fall for. Yet here I was… falling.
“Room 4187, thirty minutes,” the man said roughly, ignoring my hesitation. With two long, sure fingers, he slid a key card into the breast pocket of my tuxedo jacket, then leaned forward until I was wrapped in the scent of his cologne—something smoky and mysterious and familiar. “If you’re late, I’ll find another plaything.”
Plaything? My whole body broke out in a cold sweat. Sweet fucking Christ, why was that so hot?
“Y-yes, sir,” I whispered.
Those two magic words seemed to seal the deal. The man nodded once, turned, and disappeared into the crowd.
I shuddered out a breath and pushed up my mask in an attempt to provide my lungs with oxygen. Thirty minutes, he’d said? My phone showed it was 11:04 p.m., less than an hour until the champagne corks popped, and suddenly, I was very okay with my plans for ringing in the New Year.
I opened my phone, adjusted the settings, pulled my mask back down, and posted a quick, unedited selfie—wild grin, skewed bow tie, and all. Remember, NYE sets the tone for the year! I captioned as my body tingled with anxious anticipation. So be BOLD! *heart-hands emoji*
I’d barely hit Post when a cloud of Chanel No. 5 swirled around me, and before I could adequately brace myself, Patricia Wellbridge appeared before me like the ghost of New Year’s Past, fanning herself with her mask.
“Reagan, my darling! I sent you to fetch drinks for Lindy and me hours ago.” My mother’s face froze in a wide-eyed expression that might have conveyed disapproval had the Botox allowed it. “I’m absolutely parched.”
I squeezed my eyes shut for an instant, but when I opened them, she was very much still there, in full jeweled-and-feathered regalia, blocking my escape. Damn it.
“Mother.” I slid my hands into my pockets and tried very hard to shrug like a dutiful son… and not like a man who had a perfect stranger’s room key burning a hole in his pocket. “So sorry. I was waylaid by a reporter who wanted to know Dad’s views on Maine’s strategic petroleum reserves,” I lied. “The hazards of attending a press gala, right?”
“The reporter asked you?” she demanded, making a tsk-ing noise. “Was it that vulture who did the hit piece on your father last summer? Mr. Acton?”
I managed not to roll my eyes. The previous summer, my father had flubbed an interview badly, and the reporter had capitalized on the opportunity, but that was his job… and I would have said that even if I hadn’t shared an unwise onetime hookup with the reporter in question—a tidbit that did not make it into the article, thank you—before I committed to being a more mature, professional me.
Thankfully, I was saved from having to reply when my mother promptly launched into a whispered tirade about vulture journalists. The rant might have seemed highly ironic at a gala to raise money in support of the free press… unless you understood that we weren’t actually here in support of the cause but in support of my father’s political ambitions and my mother’s burning desire to marry me off to a “nice young lady” like Lindy, who had impeccable social connections.
After letting Mother rant for a few precious moments of my thirty-minute countdown, I interrupted. “There’s no need to get worked up. I’m twenty-eight years old, and I’ve been doing this for years. I can handle a few questions from reporters.”
My mother’s face contorted into something like a pained smile, and the reek of doubt coming off her was stronger than her Chanel. “Remember the time they asked you about the changes to the state’s school curriculum and you said you supported them?”
“I was seventeen,” I countered, cheeks hot beneath my mask. “And I do support sex education, including LGBTQ topics.”
“But your father hadn’t committed one way or the other, Reagan, and they weren’t really asking about your views. When you’re in public, you’re a reflection of us. Your father and me.”