He walked up to me on the beach and said, “My aunt knows you. I’m sure she doesn’t think you’re as hot as I do.”
I took in his chiseled body from head to toe, scientifically analyzed his biceps, mounded shoulders, smooth stomach, and the deflated package between his legs.
Edith Fuller’s wealth was unbelievable. Think Hiltons. Think Trumps. The Fullers were right up there, which meant that the guy standing in front of me—that young man who kept watching me and made my private parts vibrate with a s****l sensation—was rich as hell and didn’t have to work a day in his life.
“A lot of people know me. And obviously you want to know me.”
“You’re cocky,” he said, doing a once-over of my bronze body in the beach chair. “I rather like cocky guys.”
“You like c**k. That’s what you like.”
His sm
