Total pages in book: 176
Estimated words: 167940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 840(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 167940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 840(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
“Like I said, it’s my first time here. I’m taking it slowly.”
“First times can be special.” I’m not sure he could’ve made that sound any seedier if he’d tried. “I could be your guide.”
Urgh. Hold my drink while I vomit in the potted palm over there.
I lean back inconspicuously to see how Beth and her (sex party) beau are getting along. The conversation seems so normal, the bits I can hear of it. In fact, it all looks so ordinary. Well, as ordinary as any posh party. People drinking and chatting in groups and couples. The men look so dapper in their dinner jackets, women gorgeous in designer wear. The only odd thing about the whole scene are the ribbons. Everyone wears a ribbon. Some more than one.
And I have so many questions about the colour coding for later.
Maybe this is how the rich run their sex parties. Maybe they chat and get to know each other before “retiring” elsewhere to the dirty deed. Because there’s nothing scandalous or titillating going on here . . . until my attention snags on the sight of a gorgeous Amazonian redhead wearing a cream-coloured gauzy dress and nothing else. And if that isn’t strange enough, she’s leading a much older man through the throng by his tie.
That is . . . an odd pairing. And that body has spent a lot of hours on a reformer in a Pilates class. Hers, not his.
“What do you say?”
“Pardon?” My attention snaps back. Oh God, please go away.
“I see you looking at the pastor and his friend over there. Maybe we could join them. I’ll look after you. I’m kind of popular at these events.”
Along with chlamydia, I’d bet.
“I’ll, erm, think about it.” For exactly three seconds while I have another gulp of wine. Ah, that’s good, even if the company is vomit-inducing.
“I’m sure you’ll be familiar with the saying you are what you eat. You know, in your profession.”
Something tells me we’re not talking about macros; carbs, protein, and fats. Or even the importance of micronutrients; vitamins and minerals, and the like.
“I’m familiar,” I answer carefully, steeling myself for the punchline.
“Well, let me put this to you. I must’ve eaten a fucking legend.”
“Ha-ha. You’re so funny.” Funny strange. You know what else is funny strange? The sensation of your nipple covers dislodging themselves from your skin.
Peeeel and pop!
“And I must’ve eaten some donkey dick in a previous life if you know what I mean.”
Or maybe some donkey brain, except that would be insulting to donkeys. And yes, please direct your salacious wink my way. It just makes me want you. And no, that wasn’t an excited shimmy. That was me wiggling my nipple covers down my dress.
“Oh, is that Emma Stone?”
“What? Where?” I point over his shoulder and, as he turns, wiggle those little nipple cover feckers the rest of the way down my body, kicking one behind me before stamping my foot over the other.
“What was that?” he asks, turning back and glancing down.
“Spider.” I smile a little manically, sure that losing your nipple covers is tantamount to whipping off your undies at one of these things. Please, please don’t let anyone turn the thermostat down because my nipples are liable to announce their presence. “Sorry, you were saying?”
“I have a big cock. Wanna ride it?”
“Hmm. Not at the moment, thanks.”
And just like that, we’ve reached the end of our little tête-à-tête. Mainly because I’ve reached the limits of my patience.
“Has anyone ever told you that you have the communication skills of a house alarm?” And just in case he doesn’t get it, I bleat loudly. Twice. “Waa! Waa!”And yes, the noise does draw a bit of attention, which isn’t what I’d aimed for. But the arse steps back, which was my aim, allowing me to squeeze past, albeit a little awkwardly, given I’ve a pastie stuck to the sole of my shoe.
As I hobble away, I glance down at my watch, relieved I’d thought to wear it, given I don’t have my phone. Twenty more minutes until my hour is up. Maybe I’ll just check in with the coat check, then maybe powder my nose . . . which will also subtract a few more minutes out of what remains of my promised hour. I can literally feel relief trickling through my bones as I make my way through the throng on my way out.
Except I’m not really sure this is the way out.
I pause and push up onto my tiptoes. I can see the bar by the window and the amazing view beyond, so that should mean the coat check is the—
I spin around as hands land on my ass.
“Don’t do that,” I say to no one in particular, as my cheeks begin to pink. Both sets of them. I return to pushing through the crowd, thinking no matter where you are, there’s always someone trying to push the en-envelope!