No sex.

No make-out sessions.
One good kisser and Isla is done for.

No heavy petting.
One brush anywhere near her nether regions and she might as well rip this whole thing up.

Dating is allowed.
If she wants to torture herself.

Masturbation is okay.
Under controlled circumstances.

No sex!

No Sex!

NO SEX!

Isla thought she knew exactly how the third date would end.

A handsome man. Manhattan cocktails. Dangerous dimples. And enough chemistry to fog up the windows overlooking the Hudson.

What she didn't expect?

A bedroom disaster so spectacular, she'd be telling the story for the rest of her life.

Some women get flowers.

Isla Monroe got trauma and a future stand-up routine.

Because apparently, the universe had jokes.