“I've only been with fuckface for the last four years. What if I get stage fright? Or what if he has a weird-shaped dick, and I laugh so hard he murders me in a fit of rage?”
My lips twitched.
Oh, darling. If only you knew.
“Or what if—”
“That asshole slapped you around for a year because he couldn't hold down a job and treated you like a fucking doormat. No—a doormat gets more respect than you did. You sit on that man's dick and get over it.” Sadie stabbed a finger in my direction.
“God, keep your voice down—” Ivy shoved Sadie's arm down, her face burning. “If I die tonight, that’s on you.”
“Sure, but at least you will orgasm before you die. He doesn't look like the 44% of men who can't find a woman’s clit.”
“How can you be this drunk and remember useless statistics?” Ivy muttered as they locked arms and began to walk toward me.
“It is not a useless statistic. It is a growing concern for women everywhere.”
I pocketed my phone, savouring the moment.
The decision was made.
Chapter 2
Ivy
Ifumbled with my keys, the metal slipping through my fingers like they’d been greased—stupid vodka hands.
Nicholas plucked them from my grip with a quiet chuckle. He slid the key into the lock on the first try and pushed the door open in one smooth motion.
Show-off.
He handed the keys back but didn’t cross the threshold. We stood there staring at one another. What was he waiting for—
Oh. Right. Manners.
“Please, come in,” I said, then hiccuped.Shit.“Unless you, uh, have to go? Your driver’s probably waiting.”
His eyes glittered in the dim hallway light, amused.“I can message Daniel. That isn’t a problem.”
The way he said it, like he’d planned for this. The thought sent a shiver down my spine. Or maybe that was the booze.
“Uh. Make yourself comfortable.” I blurted, then bolted down the hall, with the bathroom door slamming behind me.
What’s the protocol for a one-night stand?
I pulled out my phone to text Sadie, then caught a whiff of myself—a mixture of smoke, stale vodka, and the unmistakable eau de skanky pub.
Fuck it.
The dress hit the floor. I leapt into the shower, cranking the water hot enough to sterilise my poor life choices. A frantic hand checked my bush—thank God it was not a jungle yet. I avoided getting my hair wet like a pro. There was no time for a full wash when this was a strategic freshen-up.
Outside, I heard a faint creak—the couch? The fridge? Or him, prowling?
Shit.
Was I supposed to offer him a drink? A snack?
I turned the shower off and grabbed a towel. The towel hung from my hand while I glanced at my sexy dress on the wet floor. The only thing I could walk out of the bathroom with was my Spongebob and Patrick beach towel. The fabric screamed at me in neon yellow, Patrick’s dumb starfish grin mocking my life choices. I closed my eyes for a moment.
