Shopping for a Billionaire’s Fiancee
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Shannon has a key to my place, and as I walk in the door I see candlelight. Flickering flame is to a man what Ben & Jerry’s is to a woman.
A sign of a sure thing.
“Shannon?” I call out, following the disorganized scatter of lit candles in the living room. Shadows dance on the wall in my hallway, and I round the corner to my bedroom to find her, spread out on my bed, wearing garters, stockings, the red corset, and--
That’s okay. I can work with asleep.
I can’t work with absent.
You’d be surprised how fast a man can undress when under the complete control of testicles so full they look like a case of mumps. I’m out of my clothes in seventeen seconds or so (who’s counting?) and on the bed, my hands taking in her prone body. I’m allowed to touch. We have an unwritten rule. It goes something like this:
It’s a simple rule.
Her skin is so soft, my fingers scraping against the rolling contour of her inner thigh, from knee to heaven. The whorls of ridges on my fingertips feel like raw sandpaper against her porcelain flesh. My breathing slows, eyes adjusting to the dim light, taking in her body. How did I ever get so lucky?
From Toilet Girl to Mrs. McCormick in eighteen months.