Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86828 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86828 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
After trudging across my living room floor, I pull open my door and thrust my hand at the 17B brass lettering on the door. “Apartment 17B.” I yank my driver’s license out of my purse before highlighting the address next to the dreaded ill-timed, not-allowed-to-smile photograph. “17B.”
“Um.” His skin is already pasty, but it whitens more when he moves for a wad of papers next to his phone. “17B,” he mimics while dragging his finger across the address cited on a recently approved tenancy agreement.
“What the hell?” I snatch the document out of his hand so ruefully that ripping shreds through my ears. “This can’t be right,” I gabber out after scanning the document’s first page. “This is my apartment. I’ve lived here for years.” It is actually decades. I just don’t want him to mistake my inability not to frown as old-age wrinkles.
“That’s not what the building supervisor said while showing me through my apartment.” His arrogance lowers a smidge before he mutters, “And while changing the locks.” A serious expression crosses his face. “Were you given an eviction notice?”
“Yes, but they don’t count.” When he scoffs, I talk faster. “We have court orders”—I droop like a picked flower on a summer’s day when he arches a brow—“in the process of being lodged.” When my backflip loses me his trust, I say, “I’ll prove it.”
My stomach gurgles when my attempt to contact my lawyer is thwarted by a voicemail message. Their office is closed until the new year, and I don’t have a leg to stand on since I forwarded all the documents about my wrongful eviction to my lawyer last week.
3
CHRISTIAN
“You can’t honestly expect me to share my apartment with a stranger because you made a mistake four days from Christmas.”
The blonde who kept my towel knotted to my body without the need for hip thrusts her hand at me during the “stranger” part of my reply. I dressed while she demanded an immediate meeting with the building supervisor, but my cock is still acting as if not a piece of clothing is wedged between us.
“I have a lease.”
“That has been contested for over three years,” Mrs. Richler replies. “I also saw you sneaking out of the underground garage with a box, an extremely large moving box. So, understandably, I assumed you had finally moved on.”
“SexMart was having a sale. One hundred dollars per box.” The blonde kicks the box she arrived with. “I took a big box. Luckily”—Mrs. Richler’s cheeks inflame when she pulls a massive flesh-colored dildo out of said box—“or where would I have hidden these during my thirty-mile bus trip home?”
When she waves around a dildo not firm enough for penetration, for some stupid reason, my eyes shift to her ears, and then laughter bubbles in my chest. It is ridiculous of me to do and highly immature, but you can’t see the images filtering through my head as I imagine her trying to shove the gigantic lifelike dildo into her ear.
“Christian.” Mrs. Richler chastises me like she’s my mother, barely controlling my laughter.
My chuckles can’t be helped, and I’m not the only one amused. The blonde only strays her eyes my way for half a second before a cheeky grin stretches across her gorgeous face.
Her mind is as deviant as her body—cheekily corrupt.
This is proven without doubt when she mutters, “Fortunately for me, the strap-on needed to test out this big boy on an unwanted houseguest slipped between the cracks of the many other emasculating toys I brought home with me.”
The burning of my throat is heard in my reply. “There are hotels close by, right?”
The blonde smiles in victory.
Mrs. Richler is on the opposite end of the scale.
“There is, but with Christmas only four days away, they’re all booked out.”
The blonde folds her arms over her chest, highlighting her fantastic tits. “Not my problem.”
When shown through this apartment, I pictured a lady in her mid-sixties with a hundred stories of her youth. The furniture is dated and covered with plastic, the bed sheets are floral, and the one towel I found had a hand-stitched lace edge.
If you had told me someone in their early twenties lived here, I would have never believed you. So saying I was shocked when Mrs. Richler announced my target recently turned twenty-four is an understatement. I was blindsided.
Mrs. Richler sighs. “Have a heart, Angel.”
Angel? Is that her name, or because she is too fucking perfect for any other nickname? She has ruddy lips, perfect tits, and a face that would have any man with a pulse checking for the scars the removal of her wings would have caused. She is a stunningly beautiful woman.
Considering my objective for flying halfway across the world on a whim only days out from Christmas, that is the last thing I should notice.