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“Never,” she says.
“How come?”
“I value my sleep.”
“How old are you? Ninety-five?”
She shoots me an unimpressed gaze.
We’re back to being cat and dog.
She lifts her chin up. “A rested mind is a productive mind.”
My eyebrows draw down in confusion.
What kind of answer is that?
“Sleep over fun?”
She nods. “Always.”
“Even on weekends?” I should drop it, but I can’t.
She narrows her eyes. “I gather it’s the complete opposite for you?”
“It is.” Even though my former reckless career is behind me and I sit at the helm of a formidable company, I still like to party hard.
“Why am I not surprised?” Sarcasm laces her words.
My eyes travel down the length of her body, searching for clues.
They’re glaring at me.
She’s young, but she hasn’t lived.
Maybe she’s a virgin.
Her hair is pulled back tight. Too tight. The color is a perfect blend of blonde and brown meshes. There isn’t a strand out of place. The conservative form-fitted three-piece gray suit she’s wearing isn’t something you see often in LA. Her white blouse is buttoned up all the way. No flash of skin or cleavage—not even a hint. At first glance, it all screams, Stay the hell away. A second glance tells a different story.
She’s in desperate need of someone to ruffle and mess up her ordered life. A big injection of chaos into her overly controlled universe, a cocky sabotage to loosen her up.
I take little pleasure in popping a cherry. That said, I’d make an exception for her. I’d sacrifice myself to fuck the prim and proper out of her.
Another time, another place, I’d say I was that guy, but not today.
Thanks for nothing, Rhys, for cock blocking me.
She’d be fun to unravel. Alas, I’m forced to rein in my cock and suppress my needs for the next thirty days.
My eyes are on the prize.
That bike is mine.
Not to mention, she comes across as the kind of woman who would want to break my balls instead of licking them.
Yeah, I’ll stick to my fist.
“You need to let your hair down once in a while,” I say. “You might enjoy it.”
