"That was great," Ethan said while zipping up his fly and latching his belt with a 'I-just-got-laid' grin. I was still on my back trying to catch my breath and the little dignity I had left.
Letting some guy fuck me on the first date wasn't my style or thing. A kiss maybe, but never sex and I couldn't help feeling like an easy lay, which in honesty, I was.
A few drinks ago I only planned on the obligatory kiss at the door, a touch here and there, but on seeing his porshe and the bottle of chanteau lafite he ordered during dinner, all my standards went through the door along with my morals.
"I'll call you tomorrow when I'm off shift."
Did I mention he was a neurosurgeon? I was going against my own advice I had given my fellow readers: It's not about the money or the looks. It's the way he treats and reuspects you for who you are and what you stand for. So much for that.
It was a big, fat lie even to my own ears. No woman wanted a man who was broke, unable to give you a good time in bed and not plan to ring the finger. I was one of them, a gold digger, tramp or whatever you called it.