Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Orgasms and dinner? I’m not going to argue with that. Ever.
CHAPTER 10
CHANCE
“I think your bathroom is fancier than any spa or gym one I’ve ever been in,” Samantha says, noting the walls and floor covered in swirled marble slabs, the light wood vanity, and the huge shower enclosure with more heads than a car wash. “Not that there’s been many, mostly just the gym at school and the spa I treated myself to when I finished undergrad.”
“It works,” I reply modestly. I take pride in my home, and I enjoy luxury, but my needs are also relatively simple. I’d be fine with a locker room shower as long as it was lukewarm. Thankfully, I don’t have to be, though.
Because I wouldn’t want Samantha in some jockstrap infested locker room. She deserves the best, which is why I’m washing every inch of her body, making sure the scented body wash lather gets absolutely everywhere.
“I could get used to this,” she moans as I work shampoo through her hair.
“Warning or threat?” I ask with a smile she can’t see because her eyes are closed in bliss.
“Both?” she answers, cracking one eye and peering at me cautiously.
I bet her eagle eyes don’t miss much. But unlike last time, I’m not having second thoughts about what we did or how we did it. This time, I feel . . . great.
Maybe it’s because of Samantha’s positive reaction? Or maybe it’s because I can’t be too upset at anything that makes me come that powerfully?
“How about omelets for dinner? I make a mean spinach and feta version.”
Samantha bats her lashes flirtatiously. “You cook too? How has nobody snatched you up?”
“Maybe I didn’t want to get snatched,” I counter. “Really, it’s that the club has been my focus, priority, and obsession, so I haven’t spent much time fighting off women.”
That’s not the whole truth, which has a lot more to do with my being an asshole teenager, a fuckwit college kid, and an adult with standards so ridiculously high that most women don’t pass my first consideration.
Until Samantha.
Who doesn’t meet any of my checklist, mostly because she took it, wadded it up, and lit it on fire. Metaphorically speaking. Though she’d probably do it literally if she knew there was such a list.
She tilts her head back to let the water rinse through her hair, and I press up against her, helping to sluice the suds out. “Tell me more about it? The club.”
I gather my thoughts, wanting to give her more than the elevator speech I give most people, especially since she already knows the basics. “I was in college, surrounded by guys who were half-ass stumbling through every day, assuming they were going to be big shots after graduation, but they wanted to be treated like they already were.” I chuckle, remembering one of the guys whose Daddy was a rich CEO-type and how he’d lead with that as if he had something to do with it. He’d literally introduce himself as Max Winston, of the Winston Warehouses. It’d worked okay for him until he pulled that shit on an actual prince who was at school on a diplomatic student visa and answered with, ‘Prince Pietro, of the crown’. Max deflated pretty quickly at that, and no one would let him live it down, laughing and mocking him anytime he tried that shit again, especially if it was to get a girl.
“Competition for a place in the hierarchy is weird at that age. When I graduated, Evan and I talked a lot about how to have a positive impact. We came up with the club and the podcast and have been working our asses off ever since. He’s the realist, the planner, and I’m the dreamer, the connector. We balance each other so that we can give guys a place to become their best selves. A little guidance, a lot of positive peer experiences, and a sprinkling of learning opportunities disguised as fun.”
“Still sounds a bit like a cult, ya gotta admit,” she teases, and I can’t help but laugh.
“And you’re still saying it wrong . . . club, not cult,” I over-enunciate dramatically. “We have basketball courts, so it can’t be a cult.”
Snorting at my declaration, she disbelievingly clarifies, “That’s the defining factor?”
Turning the water off and handing her a towel, I feign certainty and reassure her, “It is. You can trust me. I’m one of the leaders, so I wouldn’t lie about an important distinction like that.”
“Wanna know a life hack?” she asks, grinning so widely that I know this is a joke, not something serious. I nod, and as she dries off, she continues, “If someone tells you that you can trust them, nine out of ten times, you can’t."
I press my lips together, fighting an answering grin of my own because, to be honest, I think she’s right. But she’s not done dropping a dose of her brand of wisdom on me, and I can’t wait to hear the rest.