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I’ve got a big d*@$ and an even bigger bank account. That’s pretty much where my bio ends.
Honestly, I don’t need to say anything else. I’ve just sold 99% of women on going home with me.
Do I sound like an a-hole to you?
That’s because I am.
And guess what? It works for me just fine.
Or at least it did.
Until I met her.
Books talk about sparks flying. With her, it was like emergency flares mixed with jet fuel. Or maybe just straight up napalm.
Only one problem.
She wouldn’t tell me her name or her number when she disappeared from the hotel room after the hottest fucking night of my life.
Now I’ve had a taste of unicorn p*$$#—the sweetest, rarest of all p*$$#—and I need it again.
So what’s an a-hole to do?
I took this problem to the street. A missed connection gone viral.
And when I find her? I’m keeping her.
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