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)
At least, I hope I don't reek of the entitlement people associate with Orange County girls. Not that the stereotypes are fair. I guess that's the through-line, really.
I shouldn't make assumptions about Patrick because he's a tattoo artist who wears jeans. Maybe he pays his mortgage with his trust fund. Maybe he rakes in the dough at work. Maybe he has a side-hustle as an erotica author.
Anything is possible.
His jacket was real leather. I think.
No. No more thinking. I'm here for satisfaction, period, the end.
After I turn off my car, I check my makeup, my dress, my purse. I look cute. No, I look hot. I feel hot. I am hot and I'm ready for this.
Okay, I'm not completely ready. And the stress from dinner is putting a crimp in my sex drive. But, hey, I'm shaking it off.
I read his reply to my text.
Patrick: I hope you're not wearing anything under that.
My cheeks flush. My chest too. My thoughts drift a little further away. And this is just a text. Once I'm actually there, in his space—
It's scary. Not because he's a near stranger I shouldn't trust. Because there's a certain intimacy to being in his space, seeing his life, waking up in his bed.
That's terrifying.
I take another deep breath; I lock my car, and I make my way to his apartment.
He's on the second floor, in the corner, past a gated door and a gorgeous succulent garden.
Seriously, how does he afford this place?
No. That's none of my business. I'm not here to discuss his financial future. I'm here to enjoy his body.
I take a deep breath and I knock.
"It's open," he answers.
It is. I step inside. "Is that safe?"
"Are the hipsters going to jump me?"
"Depends."
"On?"
"Do you have any vinyl?"
He turns to me with a smile. It's a gorgeous smile. He really is handsome. Green eyes, sharp nose, dots of freckles covering his face.
And all his ink; the pieces of his heart on his skin.
I want to trace them.
Because I want to touch him. And because I want to know what they mean.
That is why we're here. Sort of. I'm getting to know his body. He's getting to know mine.
And we do need a certain level of trust for this. A lot, actually. At least, I do.
My shoulders relax. My chest eases.
Bit by bit, I return to my body. I feel the ocean breeze. I smell the salt. And something else, something familiar.
Star anise.
Why does the room smell of star anise and cinnamon? "What are you making?"
"Chai."
"Oh." My cheeks flush. The recipe I promised to teach him. The ingredients I requested. I did send a detailed list, but I didn't expect him to pick up star anise. It's hard to find in normal supermarkets.
Or does he already shop at H-Mart or Woori Market? Maybe he loves stir fry. Maybe he buys sriracha by the pound. Maybe he has a fetish for Asian food and Asian women.
No. He didn't show any signs last time. And those guys never manage to hide the signs. It doesn't happen to me often—they're usually after Chinese or Korean girls, the pale ones with small frames—but there's always one guy at a party who compliments my exotic beauty or assumes I'm either an obedient housewife to be or dragon woman in training.
"You okay?" he asks.
"Sorry. Just remembering this guy who told me he liked spicy women," I say.
"'Cause I bought the star anise?"
"Yeah."
"You asked."
"I know. I just thought—"
"I have a weird kink?" he asks.
"Do you?"
"Not that one." He smiles. "Don't worry, I get it. I've had a few women ask if I'll wear my kilt."
"Aren't you Irish?"
"Yeah. The kilts you see in the movies are mostly Scottish. Irish kilts are less showy. But I get it. Easy access." His eyes flit to my dress.
My blush deepens. "Do you have any skirts?"
"No," he says.
"You'd look good in one."
"I look good in everything."
"Or nothing," I say.
"That's supposed to be my line," he says.
"I know."
He motions for me to come here.
I move closer, close enough to touch him.
He wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me into a soft, slow kiss. There's heat in it, absolutely, but there's something else too: affection.
Is that a normal part of a friend with benefits? Or is it a sign of danger?
After one second with my lips against his, I don't care what it means. I soak up every drop.
He's a good kisser. Tender and firm and completely intoxicating.
I pull back with a sigh. "I was supposed to teach you."
There are tins of cardamom, ginger, and tea on the stove. Plus, a container, the container of almond milk I requested. Somehow, I'm the only lactose intolerant person in my family. Unable to drink milk in a family that sells Vietnamese iced coffee to the masses (it's mostly sweetened condensed milk, though my parents were ahead of the dairy-free curve thanks to me. They have a very popular, very expensive coconut-milk version).