Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87996 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87996 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
My dress was nowhere to be found.
It was useless anyway, Marksen literally tore it from me.
There was a wooden dresser against the wall. With fingers crossed it had something suitable, I rifled through it. The best thing I could find was a plain white T-shirt. I assumed it was Marksen’s since it was big enough to hit me mid-thigh. The fabric was soft and well-worn, which unfortunately made it a little sheer.
The bra I had worn yesterday was built into the dress, which was destroyed, and the panties I had been wearing were also now ruined.
I took a look in the large mirror over the dresser. The shirt was thin but not obscenely so. It would have to work. My hair was a mess, and there were little black circles under my eyes that were more from leftover makeup than sleep deprivation. I looked like I had been ridden hard and put away wet, which I supposed I had been.
Was it weird that I kind of liked this look on me?
Usually, I was so done up, always wearing professional glam.
My hair was always perfect, my makeup flawless. I was a glamazon whose look had to be impeccable at all times. Sometimes I worried I didn’t look human anymore. With every hint of a pore buffed out, every fine line that may or may not have been on my skin erased, every blemish irradicated, I usually looked like a statue. Someone important somewhere once said that beauty could be found in the imperfections and looking at myself in the mirror, I thought I understood what he meant.
I looked real. My skin had a natural glow I had never seen before, at least without blush and bronzer. My hair had volume in its messy waves, and there was something in my eyes that looked satisfied. With a blush, I realized I looked like that statue I had seen in the park last night, the one writhing in the grass. I guessed I got my answer. Women could be truly sated sexually, it was not always just a performance to make men feel good about themselves.
I thought about the conversations I had with some of the girls at the magazine, and I was sure what Marksen made me feel was not normal.
This may not have been the way I had intended to lose my virginity, but at least overall I could consider the sex to be good. A luxury most women didn’t get.
I decided that instead of being a bitch about everything, or making a fuss that wouldn’t do any good anyway, I needed to just move on.
It was time to get back to reality.
The prank was over, it was time for me to make sure my family wasn’t panicking and get back to my life.
Just because it was Sunday didn’t mean I actually had the day off.
Work-life balance was a luxury the boss rarely got to have.
Cautiously, I crept down the small hallway toward the kitchen where I could hear music playing.
Marksen was standing at the stove, listening to a radio while sipping coffee and scrambling eggs.
For a moment as he rocked his hips back and forth, dancing a little with the beat, he reminded me of that boy I used to know. He looked good wearing nothing but a pair of black silk pajama pants that sat low on his hips.
“You know, if you keep staring at me like that, I am going to start charging you.” Marksen turned and gave me a wink.
My mouth dried up as I tried to think of something witty to say.
“Coffee?” he asked.
“Please, cream, two sugars. So for the morning dance routine, do I pay per song, or is it a general entry kind of thing?”
“I accept tips but only if you tuck them in my pants,” he joked as he started dividing the eggs between two plates already loaded with slices of toast and some hash browns.
“Too bad I don’t have any singles.” I smiled, taking a sip of my coffee.
The relief was almost palpable.
He was teasing me, joking with me, and feeding me.
I had been right; this was all a prank that admittedly had gone a little too far.
We would blame the alcohol and maybe the kitchen fire and forget all about it.
Or at least try to forget.
No. I was a Manwarring. I would go home, get back to work, and forget this ever happened.
No one ever needed to know that I had spent the night in Marksen’s bed, that we’d had sex in the shower, or how he’d had his face between my thighs.
I would go home and pick up a plan B, or have my assistant do it so I wasn’t spotted by the paparazzi or worse, a fan with a cell phone and an Instagram account.
The last thing I needed was for #ManwarringCEHoe to start trending.