“I imagine Hunter sitting at a poker table in a Vegas casino. He's resplendent in black jeans, a black shirt, and a Stetson. His poker face is beautiful; intriguing. I feel my body heat again as I think about kissing his lips. I wonder if the women there fall all over him. I bet the escorts would pay him to take a tumble.”

“It's kind of surprising, considering he spends most of his time in Vegas, playing poker (professionally, of all things), man-whoring, and tossing back his family's infamous Louisiana bourbon. That was his great-grandfather, Willard West's legacy. Hunter's father, Conrad West, after a long life in politics, is Secretary of State. He disapproves of Hunter’s lifestyle, or so I’ve heard.”

“Something's wrong with Hunter. I can tell the moment he steps into the ring. I've been watching him from afar for years, and I'm an old pro at his body language. Hunter West is a guy who's used to setting the agenda. His limbs are usually loose and relaxed, carried with the kind of self-assurance that comes from knowing you've got it all handled.”

“I think of him as part tiger. He's languid to the point of appearing almost lazy, and yellow or green, those eyes are framed by ridiculous lashes, set in a strong face with prominent cheekbones, full lips, and a sensuous smile.”

“ A good twenty percent of this idea's allure is in my eagerness to get rid of my V-card so I can stop saving it for Hunter. I need to be freed of that idea. Freed of my crush. I hope that after spending some time at Love Inc., I never blush in the middle of a sexual encounter ever again. No Hunter West or anybody else will be able to knock me off my feet, and I like that idea.”

“Instead I go to the vineyard and jerk off in my bed. When I'm finished, I call Marchant. I can't tell him about Priscilla's threats...”

“With the exception of Hunter West, who's been my own personal porn since that fateful night Mom's Porsche broke down, I don't find that many men attractive. Maybe I am a lesbian, but I don't think so.”