The Virgin Replay by Lauren Blakely
Her Prologue
Some women collect postcards from their travels. Some collect colorful apothecary jars.
Me? I have a thing for . . . pretty little things.
Scraps of lace.
Bits of satin.
Snippets of silk.
I don’t even believe in saving them for dates, or for men, or for, gasp, sex.
I wear sexy matching lingerie every damn day of the week.
Red, black, pink. Striped, polka dotted, floral. Bring on the hip-hugging, breast-boosting secret luxuries.
They make me feel so many things—mostly like a badass babe in charge of my own destiny.
That’s not something I had when I was younger, but I’ve craved it over the years. I’ve sought out control in nearly every aspect of my life. Control over my choices, control over romance, and I suppose, control over men.
I don’t mean dominatrix-style control.
All I mean is that I’m picky. I don’t trust easily. Trust is hard won, and when it comes to romance, I haven’t experienced it at all.
Trouble is, I’d very much like to have the other things that come with romance. The red-hot tangles in the sheets. The wild, sexy nights.
And I’d like to have them with a certain someone.
Admittedly, I’ve been weighing the option of this guy for the last year.
As in, every time a certain tall, dark, handsome, and charming man walks into my bar, I imagine his face if he undressed me and glimpsed what I wore next to my skin.
Which tells me . . . it’s finally time for this badass babe to make a daring proposition.