I'M NOT YOUR WOMAN. (✓)

01. crashin' into you.

|◁ II ▷|

sza — drew barrymore.

EBÉN CÁSTRO DIDN'T do soft — he loved the feeling of his athletic form imposing itself over desperate women; making sure to torment them with his essence. Their whiny voices would scratch hard against their throats, with their holes ruptured by the famous man's nine-inched stick. He never felt the need to be kind to those same women, when kindness wasn't a gene etched into his genetics.

He also liked to take staycations in the cores of what's-their-names, conquering and immortalising the canals of London's elite — just because he wanted to. The man whore never kept tabs on the women he fucked, neither did he care to.

None of them were that important to compel his mind to remember them, or the sexual bonds they had spent knitting in his bed.

Whimpers of women who had stuck it on him with the belief that they could take it; staggered out of lounges, hotels, private jets and toilet stalls — red-faced, as their cores bore the brunt of the full power of his infamous stick. His big-knuckled hands smothered windpipes and caused eyes to jut, as his deep strokes had women at his complete and utter mercy.

Women were misguided in thinking that he was romantic... or nice. Or kind, or even friendly.

It was well documented that Ebén didn't have a heart. He had a need, an insatiable one, that rid the athlete of his compassion. Nothing elated the lothario more than having his dick sucked.

For all his faults and the absolute lack of any redeemable qualities, he still attracted the interest of women riddled with daddy issues and girls who wanted to add their names to his dirty black book — a campaign that the press had fronted which stood as a running log of all the women he'd ever been with. Each one still wanted to press their luck, as the chance to party and subsequently bed London's hottest bachelor was too great of an opportunity to pass up.

His net worth which stood in the millions could change the trajectory of their lives if they succeeded in getting the athlete to love them in return. But, the odds weren't great, in fact, they were awful.

But, Maya St. Thomas didn't run after such men.

Or any man for that matter, gladly championing the title of a modern day spinster. It suited the brown curled cynical woman who didn't let the mirage of a man's looks deceive her. She had been on the wrong side before and knew the burn was bound to sting worst than the first time she had been bit.

Maya's bemoans sounded childish in the fuzz of mild, adult chatter and lacked any kind of patience.

"Blaze?"

She purposely dragged her words in her tantrum mouth, not too fond of the glitz and the glam that was Mayfair, a completely different world away from what she was used to.

"I can't believe you dragged me to this shit hole?" were the next set of words that left Maya's mouth. She didn't hide her disdain, (not that she wanted to) making it a point to let Blaze know that she had not consented to partying here. HEVN, the Mayfair joint, was an exclusive club only open to those with clout, those who used their bodies as a currency or those who had the money to pay their way.

Nobodies, like Maya and Blaze, didn't fall within any of these categories but tonight was different.

Tonight, entry tickets had been significantly slashed to allow everyone the atypical experience of partying at HEVN, the hotspot for the rich and famous.