Deviant Prince [Romano Brotherhood, #2]

2 | Vivienne

"Clitoral sucking licking vibrator. G-spot tongue vibrator with eight suction modes, ten vibration modes, and five... licking modes, sex toy for women oral stimulator nipple clit anal—"

I choke, immediately becoming acquainted with how unpleasant it is to snort wine through one's nose. "Shiv, please—"

My best friend, sprawled across my couch with a bottle of wine in one hand and her phone in the other, does not stop. The light of her screen illuminates the evil little grin on her face. "This one is forty-six percent off and it can be here by Saturday. Weekend shipping, babe."

"I don't want it," I protest. "That sounds ridiculous. What is 'nipple clit anal?' I don't want that."

"I'll tell you what it is. It's exactly what you need after the week you've had. There. Arriving on Saturday. You'll thank me later."

Raskolnikov—Nik for short—hops onto the back of the couch with a narrowed, golden gaze. He lifts a paw and begins swiping at Shiv's messy bun. It's his way of telling us we've been camped out on the couch for too long and he wants his living room back.

One look at my bitchy, entitled cat has me bursting out in sudden laughter. And it doesn't stop. This is also because of the wine.

"Mhm. This is okay. This is good. Let it out."

"I'm not upset," I sober suddenly, sitting up so fast it feels like someone shoved me in the dryer and flipped it to the highest setting. "I'm literally fine. You're the one who's been obsessively looking at sex toys on Amazon for the last thirty minutes."

"Be that as it may, you just got dumped. That does not constitute fine."

I give an almighty affronted gasp. "I was not dumped!"

The guy I'd been sleeping with called off our arrangement. There was a difference.

"Regardless, I don't get it," Shiv scoffs. "He's lucky you even gave him the time of day for so long. I know I don't see whatever you saw in him."

I roll my eyes. "Of course you don't. I just have a thing, okay? We know this." A thing with dull, strait-laced, good guys. David perfectly fit that bill—until he started catching feelings. Growing up, my mother used to warn me that I'd sufficiently overwhelm whoever I got into a relationship with, and I've found her to be right about at least that one thing.

I need predictable, reliable, right on the cusp of boring. I have what my family has so diplomatically deemed "a strong personality;" I just don't work with someone who's not on the opposite end of that spectrum. We clash. My impulsivity and mercurial tastes need to find a balance somewhere.

"Still, your M.O. is essentially finding the only guys in this city who have absolutely no personality. You're selling yourself short, Viv."

"David had a personality," I argue weakly. 

"David Jones, financial advisor, lover of khakis and perpetual wearer of polos that were always done up to the top button did not have a personality."

Okay, she's right. 

It may sound awful to some, but at least I know what I need. And I'm sure to make abundantly clear to the men I get involved with exactly what they should be expecting. It's a system that's been working for me thus far, despite Shiv's concern. 

I, for one, am grateful that David called things off. It's worlds better than him trying to fight pesky emotions and feelings, secretly hoping they go away and waiting for something that will never happen. That being me returning said feelings.