Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 117574 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 588(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 392(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117574 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 588(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 392(@300wpm)
Laughing, Tessa peeks again. “Ten years, at the very least.” She returns to me, snickering. “But he’d definitely be ‘The Hot One’ in the band.”
“He definitely went solo after their second album.”
She laughs. “Oh, one hundred percent. And the rest of the guys hated him for it.”
“They’ve been trying to get him to do a reunion tour, but he won’t do it.”
“Selfish bastard.”
We both laugh.
“Why is it a bad thing he looks like a former boy bander, when your teenage walls were covered in *NSYNC posters?”
I snort. “If you think, at thirty-two, my type is the same as when I was twelve, you’re sorely mistaken, my friend.”
“Well, all grown up, obviously.”
I roll my eyes. “Either way, it’s a moot point because the guy at the bar is now my mortal enemy.”
“Based on what?”
“The glaring and scowling we’ve been doing since I had the audacity not to smile back at him.”
Tessa giggles. “Hey, don’t knock hate-sex till you’ve tried it, babe.”
Oh, Tessa. My bestie loves to think of herself as an expert in the sport of hate-fucking, but the reality is she’s only engaged in it with one person, ever: her now-husband, Mr. Tattooed Hottie himself, Ryan Morgan. Also, Ryan didn’t even hate Tessa at the time of their hate-fuckery, unbeknownst to Tessa. That man always knew she was The One. But whatever. I’d never deprive my bestie of her sexy fantasies, especially her all-time favorite one, where she spent a week in paradise indulging her wildest, hate-sex fantasies with the man she wound up marrying.
“You keep saying you’re not interested in dating anyone seriously while you’re here,” Tessa says, her dark eyebrow raised. “So why not have some fun with a gorgeous former boy bander you’d never date. That’s one way to chase your blues away, if only fleetingly. Live a little.”
Tessa’s so freaking cute, I want to pinch her chiseled cheeks. Growing up, I was the one urging Tessa to have some fun. To live a little. Oh, how the tables have turned. “I’m gonna be way too busy with the condo and my job search—and, hopefully, a side gig, too, to bother with a fuck buddy.” It’s all true. The other true thing I’m not saying out loud, however, is that, if I were going to waste time with a fuck buddy, I wouldn’t pick one as classically handsome as the boy bander at the bar.
I’ve never told Tessa or anyone else this secret, but I’ve discovered, after years of trying, I can’t have an orgasm with a guy who’s too conventionally hot. It’s weird, I know, but I’m now convinced it’s not a fluke.
When I sleep with a guy who’s objectively more attractive than me, like Mr. Blue Eyes over there, I can’t relax enough to fully let go and get there. I’m too self-conscious about my body—worried I’m not measuring up to all the conventionally hot women he’s banged before me. I’ve got high self-esteem in most areas, even with my clothes off; but put me naked in a bed with a man who’s too hot, and my self-esteem flies right out the window.
On the other hand, however, when I’m banging what I’d call an “ugly-hot man,” I feel like a naked goddess. When I see myself through the eyes of a guy like that, I feel glorious. And the result is sex that’s fire. Well, usually. Not always. Brody wasn’t much to look at and I couldn’t get there with him, even once. But Brody excluded, ugly-hot guys normally work extra hard to please, I’ve found, and the end result is that I come easily and intensely. As a matter of fact, with the right kind of ugly-hot guy, I almost always turn into a box of firecrackers that’s been left near a burning fireplace: pop, pop, poppity, pop!
“Welcome to Seattle, Nut Job!” A booming male voice say, yanking me from my thoughts. It’s Ryan “Captain” Morgan, Tessa’s gorgeous, tattooed husband, descending upon our table with a huge, toothy grin on his chiseled face. After hugging me and kissing his beloved wife, Ryan pulls up a chair. “I can’t stay long, ladies. I have to go to the airport. I just wanted to welcome Char to Seattle and find out if the condo is worse or better than hoped.”
“I don’t know yet. I’m picking up the keys tomorrow.”
“And I’m going with her,” Tessa says proudly.
“Send pics,” Ryan says. “It feels like that game show with the mystery doors. Did you pick the door with a pile of money . . . or a pile of dogshit?”
Tessa swats her husband’s broad shoulder. “Don’t stress her out. She’s nervous enough.”
“Bah. Char knows I’m just teasing her. No matter what shape it’s in, she’ll be fine. The place is right near campus. You can’t lose in a location like that.”