Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 80495 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80495 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
He shrugs. “I must have done it.”
“On purpose,” I say, crossing my arms.
“Not on purpose. The site has no age restriction. I didn’t realize you did. Your profile popped up. There was nothing about being over sixty.”
“That’s because I have it set so that if you’re not over sixty, you can’t even see my profile. I won’t be visible. Christ. You cheated the system,” I groan.
“I’m sorry that I’m not a geezer yet. If that’s your kink—”
“This isn’t about kink!” I snap.
“No?” He loses all traces of mirth. “Rich guys paying wild amounts of money to sleep in a bed next to a beautiful woman, smell her sheets, enter her most intimate zone, and see her at her most vulnerable…that’s not a kink?”
“Whatever. I know if they wanted something else, they could afford it, and they would get it. Maybe it’s more about companionship for a lot of people. Not kink. Are you lonely?”
“Undoubtedly, that’s why I’m here. I realized my life is sad and unfulfilling.” He sounds about as sad and unfulfilled as a room full of toddlers at a birthday party filled with balloons, toys, and a giant freshly baked birthday cake. “All my money has left a vapid void inside me.” Is this mockery? Why can’t I tell? “When you have this much money, no one is real. I want a night of something real. It’s not about sex. It’s about connection. I could buy it in other ways, but I don’t want someone to pretend. I don’t want to buy love, and I don’t want to buy someone’s body. That is definitely not my thing. I want to buy time. So since I’m here…” He reaches into his suit for a pen. “I’m prepared to renegotiate the contract with you. I’ll give you ten times your normal rate.”
Holy. Shit.
Holy shit to all of that, especially the last bit. That sounded very real.
Also, no deal. This guy wants this far too much. I’m highly suspicious of the suspicious, and he’s all SUS.
Frowning, I say, “I think you’d better find someone else to take you up on the offer.”
“But I want you,” he replies.
Jesus. A normal person would see this stubborn insistence and the way his eyes suddenly zero in and focus way too hard on me as frightening. A normal woman would reach for the pepper spray, back away slowly, and give it to him good before slamming the door in his face and calling the cops.
Then again, a normal woman wouldn’t be in hiding, fixing up her crumbling acreage by renting out her bed to complete strangers and basically just asking to be murdered in her sleep, cameras, contracts, and safety vetting notwithstanding.
His laser focus should scare me, but it doesn’t. Instead, it makes me hot. And, if I’m honest, it makes me wet too.
There’s a reason I did the over-sixty thing.
I don’t find older men attractive. This isn’t about attraction to start, but I did think it was best to avoid temptation at all costs. And this man? He’s basically temptation incarnate. All the parts that are not right about me scream at me to accept his offer. To lay there all night, awake and listening to him breathe. To feel the weight and heat of his body beside me and all his lethal power restrained and doing nothing. If I’m at my most vulnerable, as he said, then he would be too, and there’s a part of me that wants to see this strong, huge, rich, and mind-numbingly handsome man in that position—stripped down even with clothes on.
This is a platonic agreement, and it’s strictly non-sexual.
However, my hormones haven’t gotten the memo.
Clearly.
Because this guy is fully clothed, and I think he might be an asshole, if that smirk on his hot ass lips is anything to go by, and I’m just about having a spontaneous orgasm from a few words and his general smoldering existence.
Okay, also? I haven’t bothered giving myself a single orgasm in over a year, and it seems I’ve been remiss. Withholding orgasms can apparently do strange things to the mind.
I should force this guy to be on his way. He’s not good. Not good at all.
But then…what if he complains? What if he gets me blocked or banned from the site? What if he leaves a bad review out of spite, and I get zero other clients after this? On the flip side of him destroying my life with a single swipe, he’s probably rich enough to make all my problems go away and then some. I could fix the shop as well as the barn, put some money into savings, and plan another bugout escape in case I ever need one. Being broke is a really bad way to go on the run.
Not so smart me knows this and opens the door a little wider. It makes that creaky, screechy noise that all old wood screen doors in all old wood farmhouses make. “In that case, good sir, please come in. We’ll renegotiate the contract over tea and muffins. You’ll pay through the teeth, and I’ll put the money to good use, I promise.”