Page 3 of Pretty Broken Doll

Okay, then. See, Doc, this is why I don’t try because I’m frickin’ weird.

Luckily, we’re pulling up to his destination, and I don’t have to stew in my awkwardness for long. The address leads to a luxury high-rise, and I expect him to hop out here. Instead, he gives me a gate code.

We drive into a parking garage, and I park in his designated spot. As he opens the passenger door, I give a half-wave, relieved to finally escape.

But then he pauses and raises a brow at me. “Are you coming?”

“Wha-huh?” I gape at him in confusion.

Sighing heavily, he tilts his head back before reaching over to grab my junk.

“Do you want to get off or not?”

I jolt with a yelp, glancing down at his hand cupping my hard dick through my sweats. A flush creeps up my neck because, holy shit, I didn’t even realize I had a boner.

Oh, jeez, what the hell?!

“Let’s go.” He climbs out of the car, his tall frame unfolding like some kind of Greek god, easily over six feet. I stare for half a second, watching those powerful legs stride toward the elevator, before my feet kick into gear and I follow, still in a daze.

Holy smokes. Well, Doc, you said I should do something unpredictable and spontaneous, right? Put myself out there?

I don’t think this is what you had in mind, but... here we are.

Fingers crossed it doesn’t blow up in my face.

Ryann

He’s a fidgety little thing.

As the elevator slowly crawls up forty-one stories, the boy messes with his hoodie strings, sneaking glances at me from under long lashes. His purple hair keeps falling into his bright blue eyes, and he’s standing way too close, practically pressed into my side. I shift away, needing some space.

He’s cute, if I was into the whole shy guy thing—which I’m not. Especially not tonight. My patience is hanging by a thread, and I’m halfway drunk. All I want is to bury myself in a pretty twink, ride out this buzz, and pass the hell out.

Tossing him a sideways glance, I take in his smooth, porcelain skin and delicate features as he stares at his shoes. Definitely pretty, like a little doll with those soft pink lips. He seems younger than what I usually go for, but he has to be over twenty-one if he’s driving for Uber. Old enough to drink, at least. And judging from the feel of his rock-hard dick under those sweats, he’s definitely down for some action.

Perfect for a night of fucking away my frustrations. The bar had been a bust—no one caught my eye—so this couldn’t have come at a more opportune time.

The elevator dings as we reach the penthouse, and the doors slide open to reveal the opulent entryway spilling into the dining room. Tossing my keys onto the console table, I glance over my shoulder to see him blinking up at the crystal chandelier like a deer in headlights. Still too close.

“Wow, this is your place? Are you rich or somethin’?”

I scoff. Somethin’ is right.

“Wait,” he continues, squinting up at me with one eye in a way that might be adorable if I could actually feel anything. “You’re not like… a drug dealer, are you?”

“Do you want a drink?” Ignoring his question, I head for the bar in the corner of the living room, leaving him to scurry after me.

“Y-yeah. Sure.”

He sounds overly nervous, like he’s trying too hard, and I roll my eyes as I pour a finger of bourbon. When I was younger, that coy innocence might’ve been intriguing, but at thirty-seven, it just pisses me off.

We’re both adults here. We know what we want.

The way he eye-fucked me when I got into the car earlier tells me he definitely knows what he wants, so he can drop the act. I’m not in the mood.

“What do you want? Scotch, bourbon, vodka?”

“Uh, yeah, sounds good,” he answers distractedly, clearly not listening.