Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
I dig into my bag, pulling out a couple of the catalogs Jaxx gave me. Katie and Natasha crowd around one, Daphne takes another, and Sara uses her phone to snap the QR code on the front so she can shop privately online.
Natasha continues, “Did I tell you about my date? Rugby player, hot as hell, able to string together more than three words, so I—”
“Took him home,” Sara finishes. “You really need higher standards. You deserve more than that.”
Not giving a shit, Natasha ignores Sara’s advice. “Went with him back to his place,” she corrects, as if that makes a difference. “It was going well, too—kisses in the living room, pressed me up against the wall in the hallway, then into his bedroom, where he threw me on the bed. I was ready to get my world rocked!” she says wistfully.
“But no amount of using his ears as handlebars and leading him straight to X marks the spot worked. I swear, he nutted in three minutes, climbed off, and collapsed. I mean, rugby requires some endurance, right?” She rolls her eyes and huffs. “Apparently not. And when I went to the bathroom?” She pantomimes gagging. “It was a hazmat zone. I don’t think it’d ever been cleaned, like, ever, which means he was that disgusting too. Can’t get clean amid filth. I left while he was snoring, and when I got back to my place, I scrubbed every inch of my body—and I do mean every single inch and orifice—and ghosted him. Not that he texted, anyway.”
She sounds annoyed at that last bit, but we all know the truth . . . she’s hurt. Sex is intimate by nature. That doesn’t mean it needs to be all roses, sweet nothings, and promises of forever. Hell, it can be a rough, filthy, one-night stand and still be intimate. But if it’s a disappointing experience, it still hurts on some level.
Which is where handling things yourself comes in.
At least for Natasha, because she’s already flagged three different products. “Put me down for these, with whatever STAT shipping I can get.”
“Because you’ve sworn off men,” Katie reminds her.
By the time our group pseudo-session ends, all four women have ordered gift boxes, and I feel significantly better about my decision to become a Bedroom Heaven representative.
Two weeks later . . .
“I cannot believe I’ve sold almost two hundred dicks,” I murmur to myself as I drive down the highway in my rusty, yet trusty, Nissan Sentra. She might not be the most stylish transportation, but she’s dependable enough to get me where I need to go, and today, that’s to the Grand Hotel for the Bedroom Heaven quarterly party.
Most of my sales have been specific items from the catalog, which ship directly to the customer in discreet packaging. But with Jaxx’s help, I’m almost sold out of gift boxes. If I can sell just a few more at the sales portion of the quarterly party, I might still qualify for the bonus.
I send a silent prayer up to whatever sex god is listening that the sales flow as readily as the strawberry flavored lube that Bedroom Heaven is widely known for, because I’ll admit that I’ve got plans for that cash. Exciting things like rent, and maybe a new vibrating treat of my own.
I glance in the rearview mirror at the stash of products in my backseat, considering which one I’d like to try. Definitely not the U-turn, which is girthy enough to concern me, or the Diesel Stroker, which has a thrust mode with thirty speeds and patterns that promises to match or be better than any human male could be from any position, but it costs over two hundred dollars. I’ve got a small clit vibrator and a bare bones dildo already, so maybe something a bit more exciting that won’t break the bank?
Too bad the real thing isn’t an option.
I haven’t dated much recently. Being too focused on school, too distracted by trying to make ends meet, and too selective about partners has left me alone more nights than I’d like to admit. So I’m glad my new gig has the potential to make those lonely nights a lot more ‘fun’.
I pull into the lot of the Grand Hotel, driving down a few aisles before I can find a parking spot. There are a lot more cars here than I expected, which makes a spike of nerves shoot through my gut. Sales isn’t my best skill, but like Kara said, the promise of dead Franklins is enough to get me pumped for this. “Twelve gift boxes and that bonus is yours, Samantha. You can do this.”
I’m not crazy for talking to myself. It’s a valid self-pep-talk method that’s recommended by many professionals.
Right as I’m about to step out, my phone rings. I’d ignore it, but I want to make sure it’s not Jaxx with some last-minute instructions, so I dig it out of my purse.