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“Don’t be a hopeless romantic.” It’s disgusting.
All emotions are.
Especially the sappy type that many are surprisingly fond of.
“A romance is the last thing I want,” she purrs. “I’m opening a new restaurant in Paris.”
“Congratulations.”
“Care to take those congratulations somewhere more private?”
No. But I don’t really have a reason for refusal, so I say, “Lead the way.”
I want to stab myself with a ten-inch knife and hope the pain will wake my Sleeping Beauty dick up.
Katerina takes us to a supply room on the far end of the ballroom and locks the door behind us.
Leaning against it, she starts toying with her barely-there straps.
She’s beautiful, hot, with a body I can lose myself in for hours, and she’s a brunette.
Perfect for a quick shag, a forehead kiss, and a rain check for a Paris redo.
And yet, my dick continues his slumber, waiting for another princess’s kiss.
The same princess he almost started a journal to memorize the first time he got to tarnish her.
Take her innocence.
Be inside her.
On the other hand, Katerina does nothing for me.
She didn’t in the past either. None of the other women did.
They were just a necessity.
I’m about to leave, find Nicole, and agree to her condition with my hand on her arse as I fuck her, when a bang echoes in the silence.
At first, I think we’ve been bombed.
Hello, terrorists and world disorder.
But it happens again. A knock on the door. More like a damn fist on it.
“Someone is here,” Katerina whines.
The knocking sound comes again, stronger this time.
“Did you not hear me?” she shrieks.
The bang comes again and I suppress a smile. I think I know exactly what type of terrorist this is.
Katerina opens the door with more impatience than a toddler’s. “You!”
The “you,” a terrorist with the most gorgeous face God has created, is none other than Nicole.
She shoulders past Katerina, her stance tense and face similar to sovereignty on paintings.
