Nevaeh sighed as she looked at the tudor-style house that seemed to have fallen out of a Christmas décor magazine, and it was only November. Her breath came out in large clouds of vapor. She had been avoiding this for years and, yet, here she was.
“We can turn around and just leave,” a deep voice said.
She looked over at the man beside her: James Miller, otherwise known as Matchbook. Ever since their first fateful meeting, he had become something akin to a leech, but oddly enough, she had no desire to shake him off. Scarlett had been right about his proclivities. He refused to touch her unless she said it was all right, and he was quite well-endowed.
He had laid in her bed grinning like a boy on his birthday while she rode his shaft until dawn. All it took was a biting insult or a well
