I never really gave two shits about what anyone thought of me.

Did I cuss too much? Fuck yes.

Did I have too many tattoos? That depended on your preference of skin to ink ratio.

Were my nether regions pierced? Only on days that orgasm ends in an M.

I had always been the rebellious girl whose give a damn busted a long ass time ago. I loved adventure and excitement. I would try just about anything once.

Except settling down.

Just the thought of it was giving me hives.

I was a conundrum really. My favorite thing on this entire planet next to orgasms? Romance novels. One of my least favorite things on this entire planet? The idea of spending the rest of my life with one person.

I blamed it on all the romance novels I had read over the years. The heroes were perfect.

Muscles? Check.

Chiseled jaw? Check.

Smooth talker? Check.

Had a job? Check.

Amazing in the sack? Double check.

I just hadn’t been able to find someone who fit all those categories. I dated a guy once who may have been the hottest guy I had ever seen, bright blue eyes, covered in ink, and a panty-dropping smile, but he had absolutely no clue what to do once my panties fell.

I could probably find Atlantis before he found my clit.

Then there were all the unrealistic ideas of love at first sight and being one hundred percent sure that he would be the one I was meant to spend my life with.

I mean, come on!

It took me a good ten minutes just to decide what toppings I wanted on my pizza.

I couldn’t imagine meeting someone, some magic fucking love dust being sprinkled over my head and thinking “mine.” My vagina had that thought sometimes, but not my heart. Definitely not my heart.

But my heart wasn’t on my brain at the moment, only my vagina, and how that girl was about to go on strike if I didn’t let her visit someone besides my own hand.

I jumped onto my bed and picked up my phone. I ignored the hundred plus emails that were going to remain unchecked, and my finger hovered over my Kindle app before I finally decided to open my contacts.

I scrolled through my phone.

Eric.

Too clingy.

John.

Too small.

Luke.

Too much saliva.

Mark.

Just dirty enough.

I clicked on Mark’s name before hitting the small camera icon on the bottom of the screen. Mark was not my happily ever after, but he could easily make me happy for a few hours or so.

He had accomplished that goal several times before.

Laying back in the bed, I positioned myself just right before holding my phone above me and taking the photo.

I looked at the picture of me from my neck down. My breasts were fully on display, the studs of my nipple rings shining in the flash, and I knew that Mark would absolutely love it.

He would know it was me without even having to read my name.

I hit send before throwing my phone down on my bed and heading toward the shower.

If I knew Mark, he would be on his way over here in about fifteen minutes, and I needed to be ready. God, I was so ready.

It had been four weeks and three days since the last time I got laid, but who was counting.

I was.

I was counting the damn minutes.

Because I became a total bitch when I didn’t have sex for a long period of time. Even I became annoyed with myself.

I never understood how other women could do it. I had so many friends who felt like they had to be in a relationship to be sexually active with someone, and while I understood their reasoning, I couldn’t understand how they could go without enjoying mindless hot sex with someone who you wanted nothing more from.

It was the best kind of sex in my opinion.

No strings attached.

No expectations.

No false declarations of love as you raced to reach your orgasm.

You both knew the score, you both knew the goal, and I was a firm believer in no false promises.

I scrubbed myself down with my loofa before stepping out of the shower and spreading lotion across my skin.

Relationships made you too complacent. They made you too worried about the other person.

I didn’t have time to worry about someone else. I had too much going on, on my own. No way did I need to add someone else’s shit to the mix.

I just needed them for a few hours, tops.

I wrapped my towel around me and picked up my phone.

Exactly the reaction I was looking for.

I watched as those three little dots danced across my screen.

What was he talking about? Mark had been to my house a dozen times. He knew his way to my house and around my body.

Those three little dots only appeared for a second before I got a response.

I huffed in frustration and ran my hand through my wet hair.

I was about to reply back and tell him to forget it when my eyes caught the name at the top of the screen, and my heart stopped.

I read it over and over. Praying that my eyes were playing tricks on me.

Mason. Not Mark.

Mason fucking Connor.

I sent a nude photo of myself to Mason fucking Connor.

I sat down on the edge of my bed and tried to breathe through my panic. My fingers gripped my soft sheets so hard that I thought they might rip as I thought about what to do.

I could count on one hand the things I knew about Mason.

1. He was my best friend’s brother. Strike one.
2. He was my boss’s best friend. Strike two.
3. He was a manwhore. Strike three.

But he was also super fucking hot.

It wasn’t that I would have minded his overall manwhorieness in a normal

situation especially with his hotness, but combined with the others, he was one hundred percent off limits.

My finger bounced over the screen of my phone, but I wasn’t sure how to respond. How did I explain that my sexting was meant for someone else?

There. That should take care of it. No harm, no foul.

My heart drummed to the beat of those three fucking dots.

I stared at the screen in disbelief.

I was going to kill him.

I screamed out in frustration.

I held the phone in my hand but didn’t respond.

I felt my body start to tingle as I read his words and told that bitch to calm the fuck down. We did not want Mason Connor.

Nope. It definitely wasn’t happening. I may not have been the most wholesome girl around, but I did have standards. And fucking my best friend’s brother was one of them.

He just needed to delete the damn photo, and we could forget the whole thing ever happened.

But I should have known that Mason Connor would mess up my plan.

Shit.

I only had two options. I could break into his house, steal his phone, and delete the photo myself, or I could pretend it never happened.

I had a feeling that I was going to regret my opposition to burglary.