Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 46914 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 235(@200wpm)___ 188(@250wpm)___ 156(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46914 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 235(@200wpm)___ 188(@250wpm)___ 156(@300wpm)
The men move away slowly, hands raised as if they expect me to pounce.
As if I give a damn about her sister’s crush.
Alice’s words return to me when she implied she didn’t want to be just another of my women.
As I climb into my car, I think about the near revelation and her tacit admission of it.
As I was driving away, the thought consumed me, the word kept repeating in my mind.
Virgin.
Did I get it wrong? But why didn’t she correct me?
As I leave the neighborhood, a nasty notion writhes its way with ugly force into my head.
What if she wants me to believe she’s a virgin because she could tell it appealed to me? What if it’s another way to bag herself a millionaire?
Or maybe this town is making me paranoid.
It’s nothing Alice does or says that makes me think that.
It’s the stories I’ve heard from other actors.
It’s the fear that now I’ve found my woman, maybe she won’t want the same things I do. Maybe she won’t want the real me.
Back in my apartment, I sit on the balcony, staring at my glass of whiskey. I’ve never been much of a drinker, and I slowly sip this one, just enough to settle down the fire attempting to send me back to the apartment.
I feel like I’ve become a teenager, waiting for a text, unwilling to text first.
But holding back with Alice is impossible.
It’s getting late.
I can’t go to sleep before I know the truth.
Was I right earlier? I send.
Standing, I walk into my apartment, wishing my old dog was here. His name was Banshee, and a Great Dane, but he passed a couple of years ago.
Everything seems empty, my sleek apartment somehow depressing without something to fill it.
Or someone… preferably with a woman’s touch.
Alice replies as I pour the whiskey down the drain. I’ve had enough, my head buzzing softly.
About what? she replies.
I smirk, dropping onto the couch and putting my feet up.
My manhood tingles with the memory of her soaked slit, and how ready she was to offer me everything.
You know what. But if you want me to make it clear… Are you a virgin, Miss Mystery?
Does it matter, Mr. Hollywood?
Yes, it does, I type. Because, and this is important… you belong to me. Every inch of your young curvy body. Every steamy moment. Every shuddering orgasmic breath you take. It’s all mine. This means if you’re a virgin, you will only ever belong to me – nobody else.
I delete it all, knowing I can’t send it, but it feels oddly good to at least type the words, to bring some sort of life to them.
Is that my new nickname? I type instead. And no, it doesn’t necessarily matter. But I’d like to know.
I figured, if you’ve given me a nickname, I could give you one too.
You’re dodging the question.
She doesn’t respond for several minutes, leaving me to stare at my phone and wonder what she’s doing, if she’s with her sister… the one who apparently has a crush on me.
It would have been awkward for Alice if I’d stayed there, especially after what we did.
But I didn’t even notice if her sister was attractive… or, more accurately, I didn’t even note if another man would’ve found her attractive. There’s no one for me except for the woman whose wetness I’m sure I can still feel on my fingers, whose lust is burning as phantom pressure against my lips.
No part of me wants anybody else.
Her text comes.
You guessed right. Maybe I should call you Mr. Mind Reader instead.
I let out a shuddering breath, my chest feeling as though it was warm, my hands trembling as I paced around my apartment, knowing sleep would be nearly impossible this evening.
My woman is a virgin, her gushing sex made just for me, her curvy breasts, her wide childbearing hips – her hips made for grabbing, for guiding – her lips, her breath, her everything.
She’ll only ever belong to me.
Surely this proves that she’s not going after me for the money or some kind of position.
Surely this means there’s more here than all the paranoid, negative thoughts in my head are telling me.
She’s all mine, only mine….
But I’m not your fetish, she sends. I’m not some box to be checked off, or a unique notch on your belt, or anything like that.
I can’t help but smile at the fierceness in the text, imagining her aiming that same fierceness at anybody who would dare to try and hurt our children.
But at the same time, my jaw goes tight, and my fist clenches because there’s no way for me to disavow her of this notion without telling her the truth…
Isn’t there?
Or could I tell her some of the truth?
Or, at least, I could give her enough, so she knows I’m not using her.
Kennedy would be pissed if she knew what we did, my woman texts.