How to Stay Out of Prison: A Modern-Day Woman's Guide

Chapter 11

Lyrical~

My conscience was screaming at me that we'd respect ourselves in the morning better if we really were drunk and could play this off as a stupid, reckless, drunken moment. It screamed at me to go take a few more shots, so that we'd have a legitimate reason behind the decision to be a hussy, but my body was yelling at me to do no such thing and go out and be the best hussy that we could be. My body wanted to experience everything that Nixon St. James was going to do to it stone-cold sober. Plus, when was I ever going to get the chance to experience someone that looked like Nixon?

Uh, never.

Then that thought brought me up short. I knew that I wasn't ugly by any stretch of the imagination, but I also knew that I wasn't in this man's league. Drunk or sober, it made no sense that he'd be attracted to me. My attraction to him was different; any woman with a pair of working eyes would find him sexy as hell. However, him attracted to me?

Nah, something was up.

Now, stop!

This was the part where you might let your insecurities reach up to start strangling you, but you don't want to go there; you wanted a clear head while you were in this game. If you started to analyze every flaw that you had versus every perfection that he had, then you'll start to cry, turning into an emotionally unstable lunatic, forcing him to call the police, and because your family never takes anything seriously, when the cops called them to verify your identity, they'd probably believe that this was some kind of elaborate hoax and encourage the cops to lock you up in the looney bin.

Well, no thanks.

No dick-no matter how long my dry spell-was worth ending up in a straitjacket, trying to prove my sanity. Besides, it was quite possible that the prosecution might have more witnesses to the contrary than the defense would have, trying to claim that I was sane; I wasn't exactly the friend-making type.

I shook my head, trying to dislodge all the craziness in my head, and focus on the issue at hand. "I think you need to leave," I said as sternly as I could.

His perfect hazel eyes blinked, and I could tell that he was surprised by the sudden change. "I thought-"

I waved away what he'd been about to say. "I know what you thought, but I'm coming to my senses," I informed him.

Nixon's brows shot upward. "And those senses are telling you to kick me out?"

My nose started to tingle, and I was instantly pissed that he was making me feel inadequate, though it was really just me making me feel that way. "It's telling me that this has to be some kind of joke," I snapped, feeling a bit foolish. "I stand by what I said earlier. There's no way someone who looks like you would be interested in someone who looks like me."

Nixon's face went from surprised to pissed. "Oh, really?"

I planted my hands on my hips, then leaned into the jackass. "Yeah, really."

Then my brain short-circuited with what happened next; it was the only excuse that I had for what I let happen. Nixon's hands ran up my jaw until he had handfuls of my hair fisted in his grip, and then he slammed his lips down on mine.

Holy. Shit.

Not knowing what else to do, my hands went to his wrists, then I held on for dear life as Nixon St. James kissed the hell out of me. It was mere seconds before I opened for him, and the instant that his tongue swept in to play with mine, I knew that I was a goner.

The jerk could kiss.

He was kissing me the exact same way that every girl had ever wanted to be kissed; the same way that every female had ever fantasized when watching those horrible romantic comedies. Nixon was making me weak in the knees with the kiss that he was taking-owning.