Don’t judge me for what I’m about to say. I tried to do things the right way. I wore the big white dress and rode off with Prince Charming. Then Charming changed his mind. See, that’s the part they don’t tell you; he can change his mind. These days, I don’t put my heart in anyone’s hands because I don’t even know where I’ve left it.
Enter Leo. Blue-eyed specimen of a man, stirring me awake in ways I never thought possible. I think I should indulge myself for once. Because one time is all I need. Then he goes and weaves simple, deliberate movements into pure, gilded pleasure. And I’m hooked. I’m so blinded by desire I barely notice the gaping hole opening underneath me, the one that’s sure to swallow me entirely. Because every time I’ve dared to get close to someone, they’ve cracked me wide open.
Why should this time be any different?
Watching Leo in an unscripted moment of frustration is amusing to me. I like seeing him shed the enigmatic veil he typically wears. He’s hard to read; I thought so the moment I met him. Reserved, but not quiet. Polite, but short of friendly. While he’s noticeably confident and sometimes abrasive in the way he states his opinions, he doesn’t strike me as egotistical.
I can’t decide if I like him or not, but I guess an opinion would be premature at this point.
My eyes sweep over the back of his white button-down shirt and gray slacks. Both of which fit him impeccably. His physique can’t hide under layers of clothes. I can almost hear the sound my gaze makes as it rakes against his hard body.
“Come on. You piece of shit,” he says under his breath as he bangs the side of the machine with an open palm. He is slapping it into submission.
Suddenly he stops and glances back, his blue-gray eyes narrowing as he notices me for the first time.
“How long have you been standing there?”
I hesitate for a moment because I’m not sure how long I’ve been watching him.
“Long enough to witness you harass the machine. And call it a piece of shit.”
I’m sure my tone is matter-of-fact, but the corners of his lips twitch. He finds me to be playful.
“Heard that part, huh?”
“I did. That piece of shit costs an arm and a leg.”
“My apologies.” He doesn’t seem embarrassed; he looks amused and puts up his hands in surrender. Despite his gesture, there is nothing yielding about him. His gaze is tenacious in a way that makes me feel alert. “I know what that must of looked like—I assure you, I don’t typically hit things when I’m frustrated. Only coffee machines. And sometimes computers.”
I smile because I can’t help it. I have to remind myself to keep my tone professional, which is strange for me. I typically don’t need reminding.
AUTHOR Bio and Links:
Veronica Larsen is a novelist who enjoys writing emotionally rousing stories laced with potent sexuality. She particularly enjoys writing about intelligent and independent women who give the male lead a run for their money. When Veronica isn’t writing, she is working on graphic design projects. She enjoys losing herself in a good book and spending time with her husband and young son.
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