I Blame Wattpad for My High Expectations of Men
She wanted to test a theory. He wanted to win a bet. What could possibly go wrong?
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Why was this shit so much easier in the books?!
The Macy Anderson in me would spit out the alternatives to every curse word known to man.
The Ruby Buchannan in me would knee him in the groin.
The Mia Hastings in me would lunge at him first, taking him on that table right there and now.
The Haley Geller in me would confuse the fuck out of him by asking way too many questions.
Hell! Even the Tessa Young in me would do something, like beg him to come at me with her desperate but wild ass...
But the Lola Dino in me -aka the me, me- just stands there frozen, contemplating a very important decision in her head: fuck, fuck, fuck! Who do I act as next?!
Um, how about yourself for a change? My conscience decides NOW to be a smartass.
Yeah, right? Like that's ever worked before.
Not even having the slightest clue of what to do, I wait for him to make the first move instead, and then I'll just go from there. So, I wait.
And I wait.
And I wait.
And I wait.
I wait as we remain staring at one another -I like a deer in headlights and he like a predator stalking his prey- for what seems like forever. But when his ripped, muscular frame finally charges at me, his strong tattooed hand instantly meeting the back of my head, he crashes my lips onto his so forcefully that I'm now just left with one thought and one thought only: Lola Dino, what the hell did you just get yourself into?
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*WARNING: Contains mature content including language, sex, violence, and drugs. Reader discretion is advised.*
