Throttled (Dirty Air, #1)

by Lauren Asher

My hand itches to twirl a piece of my hair, but I resist the nervous tic.

I have to pull it together eventually. And I most definitely will. But like a fine wine, I’m taking my time.

Some consider me nice. I made sure she came multiple times before I did, because my nanny raised a gentleman after all, no thanks to my parents.

I try my best to disregard how good Noah’s ass looks as he walks away, but I take a peek because a woman can only have so much restraint.

I try my best not to listen in on what happens in his suite. And by trying my best, I mean I currently have a cup held up against the wall to try to amplify the noise.

I sneak glances at Noah because what is a girl to do during the rest of a boring meeting?

My body lies on a lounge chair on the front deck of the McFloating Mansion.

Plus, he’s lost his shirt somewhere between the cocktail hour and now.

Is it possible to die of a heart attack at twenty-three? What are the stats? I pull out my cell phone, desperate to check.

I lie to myself, chalking up my goose bumps to the cold sunscreen. Not because of Noah rubbing sunscreen all over my back. Nope.

How is it possible to get turned on by sunscreen application? There should be a warning label on the back of the bottle for this.

How can he be so hot yet so cute at the same time? Troubling.

Surprisingly, he sends me off with three Hail Marys, two Our Fathers, and a bottle of holy water to cleanse myself whenever I have impure thoughts. Confessions come with goody bags. Who knew?

right, I got her a ticket too. But you both have to behave because I won’t be out there protecting you from the old men.” “But I’ve always wanted a sugar daddy!” I whine while throwing my hands up in the air.

run a hand down the silky material of my blue dress. Looking at it now, I realize the blue matches the color of Noah’s eyes. Fuck me. A fashion equivalent of a Freudian slip.

The man’s hand creeps its way toward my ass at the same moment as I conveniently step on his toes. Hard. He lets out a yelp while I fake an apology.

I would buy a few bottles and spray it on my pillows at night, not creepily of course.

“Hmm, weird. It looks like the same color as my eyes. But maybe I’m wrong, just seeing things.” “That’s often a sign of narcissism. You should get yourself checked out when you have a chance.

Try to go my fastest. You know, the basics.”

“Seeing as you tap anything with two legs and fake boobs, why are you giving me advice right now?”

Is this what it feels like to be ghosted? I’ve done it to girls in the past, but I’ve never been on the receiving end. And to be honest, it totally sucks. Karma really is a bitch after all.

F1 drivers don’t retire until, like, forty years old. Basically, you’ll be ancient once you leave here.

I’m nervous because I don’t know if Sophie will hold up her end of the deal. Hell, she concocted half of the plan after she deemed my original one unfit.

I never did find out the recovery rate for having a heart attack at twenty-three. Regrets.

“Do you always cry during sad scenes?” I pull her into a hug. It’s cute, endearing even. But I don’t want her to cry over something not real. “I have a lot of feelings. Okay?”

My skin wants to crawl off my body and take up shop somewhere else.

if I learned one thing in therapy, besides the fact that crying makes my face puffy as fuck,

Seeing as Noah has slept with enough women to populate a small island, he can sit and handle this conversation.

My dad grumbles under his breath. “What’s that, mi amor?” She smiles at him. He looks Noah in the eyes. “If he breaks her heart, I’ll run him over with the car he loves more than anything.”

“Stupid, pushy, entitled men.” She frowns at me as she closes the door.