I'm Your Man
Joanne Rawson
Summary:
Ruth Jones loves her boyfriend Justin. He is
handsome, has a killer body, and the sex is awesome. He does have one major
fault though. He travels so much with work that she only gets to see him once
or twice a week, and that is his reasoning for always wanting to . . . stay in.
At first she’s happy that he only wants to be with her, but over time, his
habit of jibbing out at the last minute for every family occasion, work
function, or any bloody occasion that involves socialising, really does her
head in. All she wants, for goodness sake, is for people to get to know her
boyfriend. Okay, so she wants them to see she has a hunk of a boyfriend, but is
that so wrong?
When
Ruth wakes up in a hotel room one morning suffering from a major hangover, she
tries to piece the events of the previous night together. Feeling let down by
yet another no-show by Justin at a work function, she headed to the bar and
ordered a drink. The last thing she remembers is sitting next to an
average-looking guy with a nice accent and large hands, and wondering just what
those hands could do given half the chance. When the bathroom door opens and
Mr. Average walks out, she realises that at the ripe old age of thirty-three,
Ruth Jones has experienced her first one-night stand.
A
one-night stand that is about to send her world into utter turmoil.
Formats:
ePub, mobi &PDF
Novella - 20,000 words
Excerpt:
A WAVE
OF nausea ascended from the pit of my stomach to my throat, not sure if I was
annoyed more with myself for getting so drunk or the recollection of what I had
got up to last night. I rolled over, curling myself up in a ball. I am Ruth
Jones, for goodness sakes, Recruitment and Training Officer, a respected cog in
the company for her hard work and dedication to one of the UK's top high street
fashion stores. How many times had I told new young managers that even though
they were technically off duty at company social events, eyes would still be
watching them? But that was precisely what happened to me. Last night was a
work function, in a sense, a big retirement party for the company’s Managing
Director.
It was
one thing getting shitfaced at the weekend, waking my neighbours at four in the
morning trying to get into their apartment with my door key, or giving a taxi
driver my address, then waking up twenty miles later and finding myself at my
parent’s house, which I’d moved out of fifteen years ago. Maybe, just maybe, my
philosophy of life—to work hard, play hard—had gone seriously wrong this time.
You see, it started with Justin saying he would meet me at the hotel. An hour
before the party, he called uttering his usual pathetic excuse; well actually,
this time no excuse at all, just, “Sorry babe, something has come up.” With
that he’d hung up and, when I tried to call him back, conveniently his phone
was off.
You
would think after four months I would have grown accustomed to the sneers of my
colleagues as I made my solitary entrance, after guaranteeing Justin would be
accompanying me for sure this time. Last night, however, I was well and truly
pissed, not only from the amount of wine I had consumed to blot out the pain of
being publicly dumped again, but also the humiliating cracks of, “Justin not
with you again?” and “I’m beginning to think he’s a figment of your
imagination, Ruth.” It was acceptable, to a point, from my family and friends,
but from my colleagues, come on, really? So I had no alternative; I left, in
shame, and headed for the public bar.
I could
remember seating myself at the only vacant stool and ordering a glass of wine.
At that point—I had still been coherent then and therefore still able to recall
it—the man to my left turned and gave me one of those healthy-teeth smiles that
said, “my dentist advised Colgate toothpaste,” and in an accent I knew that was
not from London, said, “I hate drinking alone too. May I buy you a drink?”
Obviously,
I had the just-been-stood-up look yet again—one that my friends told me I
achieved so splendidly. I accepted. He thrust a large hand towards me, and I
couldn’t help thinking how big and chunky his fingers were, and what delightful
stimulation they could give, given half the chance. Oh hell, have I gone
totally mad? Undoubtedly! You see, last night, at the ripe old age of
thirty-three, I’d experienced my first one-night stand.
Yes, I
know it’s amazing in this day and age, with equality and all that. Perhaps that
is why my friends all call me Miss Prude, but, I’m sorry, I have strong
principles. No man will see me naked until at least the third date. One has to
prepare so much for such an activity. I mean there is all the shaving,
exfoliating, and moisturising, not to mention the right lighting and underwear.
Having no time to consider last night’s lighting effect, or what underwear I
had worn, least of all cheating on my boyfriend, the bathroom door swung open
and through a mist of steam emerged the Colgate Man.
Feeling
as if someone had thrown a ten thousand-piece jigsaw in front of me, I
frantically began to try to put the pieces together, all the while scrutinizing
my conquest. Had I been a character in a Jackie Collins book, my hero, who had
broken my vow of the three-date rule, not to mention leading me to betrayal,
would have been a six-foot gorgeous Adonis. A tightly toned bronze body
glistening with droplets of water would appear as he rubbed his hands through
his thick black hair. Tingling sensations of arousal would erupt through my
loins like a burning inferno. Fuelled with passion, I would pull back the silk
sheet, slide down the bed seductively, rubbing my hands up and down the burning
flesh of my inner thighs. Determined to extinguish my raging passion, he would
rip off his towel, and like a true professional fire fighter, he would slide between
my thighs to douse my burning loins until they smouldered.
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