Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 87856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Patrick is the perfect participant. Handsome, talented, totally ready to be used. After a tough year, the tattoo artist needs out of his head and into her… research.
The guidelines are simple. One summer. Weekly sessions. Him, helping her discover exactly what she likes.
But human subjects don't follow the rules. And her hypothesis, the one about separating sex and love? That hypothesis is dead wrong…
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Chapter One
"The Hookup Experiment"
Posted by Hearts and Thorns
Thursday June 16, 9 P.M.
I'm horny.
There's really no other way to say it.
Sure, there are other terms (I'm fond of randy), but they all make the same point: I desire sexual satisfaction.
My hand isn't enough. My vibrator isn't enough. My fantasies of Chris Evans—
Not enough.
I know. It's beyond strange, diving into my carnal needs here. This is usually a space for messy things. But this is messy.
Sex without love?
That's a first for me.
And this is all medication induced.
My new prescription didn't just lift my depression. It left me craving contact too.
I feel my body again.
I feel awake again.
I want again.
Not love or affection.
Sex.
And I know exactly where I can find it.
Chapter Two
IMOGEN
Okay, I don't know exactly where to find satisfaction. That's a slight exaggeration. Otherwise, my online-journal entry is accurate.
It's a strange hobby, offering my secrets to strangers, but I'm completely addicted to the feeling of throwing my thoughts into the universe. It helps me let my guard down, find clarity, and keep a sense of humor.
Yes, I'm a mess, but I'm here. I'm alive. I'm ready to booty call an available man.
How exactly does that go?
It's been a long, long time since I've craved sex this way. Since I've craved sex at all. My last prescription killed my O.
This one might be worse. I'm way too aware of my need for satisfaction.
My ex-boyfriend is off the table.
An App isn't inviting.
Which leaves one excellent option: Patrick Murphy.
The very cute tattoo artist who a) put the hearts and thorns on my ribs, b) left his card with a casual "call me anytime" and c) put his hands on my skin in a way that felt both safe and sexy as sin.
Maybe it's the rush of neurotransmitters from my new tattoo. It's been eight hours and I'm still buzzing. But, for once, I don't want to question my desires.
Patrick has already seen me topless. He knows I'm flat, and he wants to sleep with me anyway. I might as well call.
I channel my roommate's confidence, find my cell, and get straight to the point.
Imogen: Hey, Patrick. This is Imogen. The rib tattoo.
He answers quickly.
Patrick: The gorgeous woman who insisted she didn't need someone to hold her hand?
Imogen: I didn't.
Patrick: I know. How's the piece holding up?
Imogen: Beautiful. Do you want to see?
Patrick: Sure.
Imogen: Here.
No. This is too coy. Men don't understand hints. I need to be more explicit.
Imogen: I need a little help with after-care. In person.
Patrick: Oh?
Imogen: If you're free.
Patrick: Now?
Imogen: Now.
Patrick: You're direct.
Imogen: Why mince words?
Patrick: It's easier, for some people.
Imogen: For you?
Patrick: Not exactly. You said you go to UCLA, right?
Imogen: I live in Brentwood.
I send the cross-streets.
Patrick: Twenty minutes.
Twenty minutes to prepare for my first tryst in over a year.
No problem.
Chapter Three
IMOGEN
Major problems.
What the hell do I wear to host a booty call? My pajamas aren't sexy. I don't own any worthy lingerie. Maybe a trench coach, with nothing under it?
But where would I get a trench coat? This is Southern California. The only people who wear trench coats here play detectives on TV.
No. This isn't for him. It's for me. What makes me feel sexy?
Dark lipstick. Winged liner. Black panties.
There. My skin flushes as I stare at my reflection. It's not that I get off on myself. More the thought of a near-stranger seeing me in only my underwear.
He knocks.
I grab the Fiona Apple shirt I wear to sleep and pull it over my head. I don't feel nearly as sexy in the baggy tee, but I'm not in danger of flashing the neighbors.
The dozen footsteps to the front door feel like a million. My heart thuds against my chest. My stomach flutters. My sex clenches.
Then I open the door and I see him and lust washes my nerves away.
Patrick Murphy is standing on my doorstep in snug jeans, a plain white t-shirt, and a leather jacket.
He's even more handsome than he was this afternoon.
He's super fucking hot.
Sandy hair, freckles, green eyes.
He's tall, but not too tall. Muscular, but not too built. Adorned in ink, but not too—
Well, how could a tattoo artist have too much ink? Really?
"Come in." I pull the door open.
"Thanks." He gives me a long, slow once-over, focusing on my bare legs and the hem of my t-shirt. "Nice place."
"Have you looked at it?"
"No." His eyes meet mine. "Do you want a drink?"
"I'm supposed to offer."
"Might as well mix things up." He smiles.
My heart thuds. He's cute. Way too cute. Cute and sexy is a dangerous combination. A feelings-inspiring combination. And I'm not interested in feelings. Only satisfaction. "Water for me. You?"
"Where are the cups?"
"You're going to serve me a drink in my apartment?" I ask.
"I'm a gentleman."
"Are you?"
"Cups?" he asks.
Okay, sure, why not? I lead him to the kitchen side of the main room then I open the top drawer. (Our place is big, by Brentwood standards, but it's not exactly huge. The kitchen and two-person dining table are on one side. The couch and TV are on the other).