Saturday, April 5, 2014

Reasonable Doubt by Whitney Gracia Williams

My cock has an appetite. 
A huge and very particular appetite: Blonde, curvy, and preferably not a fucking liar...(Although, that's a story for another day.)
As a high profile lawyer, I don't have time to waste on relationships, so I fulfill my needs by anonymously chatting and sleeping with women I meet online. 
My rules are simple: One dinner. One night. No repeats. 
This is only casual sex. Nothing more. Nothing less. 
At least it was , until "Alyssa"...
She was supposed to be a 27 year old lawyer, a book hoarder, and completely unattractive. She was supposed to be someone I shared law advice with late at night, someone I could trust with details of my weekly escapades. 
But then she came into my firm for an interview--a college-intern interview, and everything fucking changed...

Book 1 in a three part Erotic Romance Serial.

Teaser 1:
“No, thank you.” I walk over to the mirror on the other side of the room. “I have someplace to be.”
“At three in the morning? I mean, if you just want to skip the HBO and go for another round instead, I can...”
I tune out her irritating voice and begin to button my shirt. I’ve never spent the night with a woman I met online, and she isn’t going to be the first.
As I adjust my tie, I look down and spot a tattered pink wallet on the dresser. Picking it up, I flip it open and run my fingers across the name that’s printed onto her license: Sarah Tate.
Even though I’ve only known this woman for a week, she’s always answered to “Samantha.” She’s also told me—repeatedly, that she works as a nurse at Grace Hospital. Judging by the Wal-Mart employee card that’s hiding behind her license, I’m assuming that part isn’t true either.

Teaser 2:
“Then you’re not a very good lawyer. I’ll find someone else to chat with now. Thanks.”
“You’re going to lose that case tomorrow.” I typed before she could end our session. “You have no idea what you’re doing.”
“Are you really that upset about me not giving you my phone number? What are you, twelve?”
“Thirty two, and I don’t give a fuck about your phone number. I was only asking for it so I could call and tell you that the brief you sent me is littered with typos, and the closing argument reads like a first year law student wrote it. There are too many mistakes for me to sit here and type them all.”
“My brief isn’t that bad.”

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