Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 81947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Just inside the doorway was a rack filled with lovely clothes and another rack with purses, belts, and scarves, as well as boxes of shoes. Taped to the brass railing was a note telling me to select whatever I liked and they’d send someone to retrieve the rest the next day.
There were tops and skirts and dresses and gowns and cute jackets.
And the cutest designer purses and shoes to match it all.
I spent over two hours playing Barbie.
Then, after selecting a classic Chanel tweed that I’d always wanted to own, I glanced between the clothing rack and Var’s closet.
I leaned back to look down the hallway to make sure no one, especially Var, was suddenly popping out of the elevator.
I bit my lip. Did I dare?
Then anger rose in my chest as I remember how he’d burned my paintings.
He owed me.
Going into his closet, it only took me a few moments to find two large Louis Vuitton wardrobe traveling trunks. The amazing vintage ones that cost the equivalent of a car and that were only seen in old black and white films.
Perfect.
Flipping both lids open, I started with the purses.
Later, I called down to Oona. “Hello again. I’m going to need a porter. And a taxi, please.”
“Right away, Ms. Peyton.”
Before I hung up, I said, “Oh, and you can tell Bloomingdale’s there is no need for someone to collect the clothes. I kept it all.”
“Well, don’t you look fabulous!” said Barb as I entered their apartment.
Millie came rushing into the living room, then twirled her fingers. “Give us a spin.”
I obliged, showing off my pink and black Chanel ensemble.
“Very nice.”
“Is this from the new man in your life?”
I shrugged as I placed my Chanel classic leather quilt with chain strap purse on the kitchen island. “Sort of. And he’s not my man.”
Barb shook her head. “We were so hoping you’d finally started behaving like the beautiful young woman you are and lived a little. Sweetie, you need a man in your life. They are a pain in the ass most of the time, but they are good for some fun.”
I lifted my chin. “As it so happens, I met a guy at the club last night.”
There was no point in mentioning it was before another douchebag grabbed me and then Var showed up, kicked that guy’s ass, and dragged me out while I was high on some kind of dancing green alien pot. Or the part about fucking on the kitchen floor on top of a banana split sundae.
Nope. I’d take those details to the grave.
And if I were completely honest, I only sort of met another man.
His name was Bob.
Unfortunately, not Robert—I asked.
It was Bob.
Which I definitely would not mention to Millie and Barb either. I didn’t need another lecture on their correlation theory between a man’s name and his sexual prowess.
Bob had been handsome, accomplished, very intelligent, and mind-numbingly boring. I mean, how much interest was a girl supposed to pretend to have in supply chain management software? Still, Michelle had grabbed my phone and gotten Bob’s number while giving him mine.
He’d already texted me, asking if I wanted to go see a movie.
A movie? What were we? Fifteen?
I inwardly sighed.
I was going to have to try really hard not to compare every man, moving forward, to Var.
What man could compete with an over six foot tall, tattooed Russian Mafia boss, who carried guns as if they were pens and spent money as if it were water?
Not to mention his magic penis.
I could no longer deny it.
That bastard hitting my G-spot was no accident.
Every. Fucking. Time. We. Fucked.
Damn him. A G-spot orgasm was so much better than a vibrator or even an oral sex orgasm.
Unlike with the other ones, I didn’t have to do anything for a G-spot orgasm.
No giving ‘higher, lower, to the left, no to the right, faster, not so faster, harder, not so hard’ instructions. No trying to press invisible silicon buttons and accidentally setting the vibration too high and ruining everything.
A G-spot orgasm was like a man’s orgasm. Effortless.
Damn him.
But I had to resist the temptation. The man was the very definition of toxic male.
I’d gotten back on the horse. Literally, if I considered the size of Var’s dick.
No, stop it.
I’d gotten back on the figurative dating horse. Sort of. It wasn’t like I’d consider my hate fucks with Var dates, but they counted in this respect.
I was finally back on the market after a three-year hiatus. What I needed to do was open myself up to dating. Normal dating. I needed to put myself out there. I realized that now.
Until this morning, I initially had no intention of responding to Bob.
Then Var had pissed me off by just casually mentioning—in that overbearing, domineering, what Me too movement? way of his—that he’d burned my paintings, presumably for my own good.