The No Sex Rule- Chapter One
It’s the third date.
And you know what that means.
Isla spares no expense for tonight’s big moment with Ben.
I mean she scrubbed her body raw with the newest and probably most expensive — for the median income range fems, anyway — body exfoliant from OSEA’s new Undaria Algae collection.
Because, nothing says seduction like smelling faintly of seaweed.
Once she’s lathered, rinsed, and moisturized you could already hear her saying, “If this man fumbles me tonight, I swear I’m becoming a nun with a wine problem.”
The third-date routine isn’t foreign to Isla.
She’s been using the same steps since college with any person she hasn’t maimed by then.
So by the time she completes her ritualistic steps and exfoliates herself into a perfectly polished gem.
Isla’s confidence was so inflated someone could bottle it up and sell it alongside Baccarat Rouge with a mix of Chicken Soup for The Mid-Thirty Year Old Soul.
She styles her chestnut locks into effortless beach waves which scream I woke up like this for tonight.
Even though we all know it took twenty minutes, a diffuser, and the right amount of salt spray to get it there.
Makeup, you ask?
There’s only one word…
Perfection.
Highlighter sculpts the highest points of Isla’s cheekbones into razor-sharp glory.
Her jawline looks like Michelangelo personally chiseled it.
A touch of dark charcoal liner frames her emerald eyes, knowing damn well the sparkle they’ll emit under the moonlight.
Once she completes the finishing touches, Isla winks at her reflection in her bedroom mirror because, DAMN, who wouldn’t?
If you asked her, she’s the walking THIRST TRAP she very much set out to be for Ben tonight.
Ben.
Poor, unsuspecting Ben.
He had absolutely no idea Isla Monroe had spent the last two hours exfoliating herself into near divinity.
This sex kitten is on the prowl.
And, seeing she didn’t think there would have been a date number two with the guy — she’s now invested.
Ben had that dangerous combination of nice guy and filthy thoughts. The kind of man who looked like he’s held the door open for your grandmother while simultaneously possessing the ability to ruin your life in bed.
Not for nothing, but this is date number three with Ben and she feels that it should come with a neon sign and pointing arrow screaming MANDATORY SEX NIGHT.
Not that she has a schedule or anything.
Ben is a mystery though. She’s still trying to figure out if he actually likes her or just the idea of her.
Even from the first date that ended in disaster and barely receiving the mandatory make-out session she requires on every first date, Isla still proceeded with the second ten days later.
To which Ben made up for quite well in the kissing department. But stayed gentlemanly in all other aspects.
His hands never wandered. Not once.
Isla has a requirement for the first date.
There has to be a kiss. No kiss? No second date.
Non-negotiable.
She has had her fair share of tongue-related tragedies to last several lifetimes. Men who attacked her mouth like malfunctioning dildo machines and others who kissed like dehydrated Labradors.
She refused to continue any kind of romantic involvement if they didn’t know how to knock her socks off with a great make-out session.
So once Ben texted her for a third date just three days after the second, she knew it was on.
Ben provided her the information on the swanky downtown restaurant he was taking her to tonight.
The fireplace in the main dining area is larger than her bedroom closet.
When scrolling through the rest of the website Isla realized she needed a quick and prompt update on wardrobe.
The only person that can and will help in this situation is Ari.
Roommate, best friend, fashion consultant.
You name it. She does it all.
“Classy. Elegant.” Ari nods in agreement when she views the place online, never visiting the hip new spot,“I got it.”
She hands Isla her three inch peep-toe Loubs with the perfect black and simple cocktail dress.
With accessories and the matching Prada shoulder bag, Isla is giving Rich-Bitch energy.
Obviously.
And now, while giving herself a once over in the mirror, her cell dings with a text notification across her screen.
Here. -Ben.
Isla grinned as she slipped her phone into the borrowed bag.
Third date.
Mandatory sex night.
At least, that had always been the rule.
She had no way of knowing that before the night was over, Ben was about to hand her an entirely new set of rules.
And Isla Monroe hated rules.
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Isla hasn’t even made it twenty-four hours into her No Sex Rule before Arie drops a Category Five bomb: Ellis Mann is moving in.
Temporarily.
Allegedly.
Now Isla has to survive emotional-support grapes, a best-friend truth bomb, and the inconvenient reality that Arie’s brother is far too attractive to be sharing their apartment.
The rule was supposed to be simple.
No sex.
Apparently, no peace either.