Read Yours: A Standalone Contemporary Romance for Free Online Page A

something worthwhile with your life, Lachlan.” Trust Mom to get the last word in, and to make it a scathing parting shot.
    “Probably,” I say. “But I didn’t. I wasted it enjoying the limited time available to me.”  

    *   *   *

    Two months later
    The party is everything I imagined it would be, and worse: Massive. Elaborate. Sophisticated. Expensive. There are fireworks, and some famous pop band with fancy hair and great teeth and shitty singing voices. Swans. Fragile globes of light on delicate strands of silver wire strung across wrought iron pergolas. Cloth-covered tables. Open bar, top-shelf liquor and wine. Men in tuxedos and women in evening gowns. Lots of fake tits and expensive noses.  
    I show up in ripped jeans and a Bullet For My Valentine T-shirt. Mom loves it, of course, and praises my exquisite fashion taste.  
    Hah. Right.
    She scolds me for dressing like a degenerate, and then tries to take the bottle of whiskey from me; it’s a limited edition Michter’s Celebration Sour Mash, worth over four grand, with a label made from 18k gold. And I’m drinking it straight out of the bottle. I thought about taking the Dalmore 64 from Dad’s collection, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it; that’s a whisky that deserves fucking respect and proper treatment, thus I leave it where it is.
    When I make it clear I’m not giving up my prize, which is my birthday present to myself, she tries to introduce me to the well-heeled, well-groomed socialite daughters of her friends.  
    Don’t get me wrong, I’m not above a tumble with a rich bitch or four, but they’re annoying when they’re not naked and their mouths otherwise occupied. The trick with chicks like them is to keep them busy so they can’t talk. Know what I mean?  
    Flirting is fun, though. They’re all pretty, of course, and they all like me.  
    I’m dangerous. I’m a bad boy, a real rebel. I mean, I sold off my 50% share of Dad’s company to the highest bidder the day I turned eighteen. And, believe me, I got the highest bidder because I’m no idiot. I could have been a hell of a businessman had I chosen to do so. I used the proceeds to build the Vagabond, and had enough left over to fund my adventures for the past twelve years.  
    Yeah, Dad’s company was worth a mint. And I sold it off to sail the world and live in idle luxury. Real Prodigal Son, I am.
    I get bored, though. I cap the bottle and carry it with me to the helipad on the far end of the east wing, a ditzy heiress named Lana under one arm, and a rowdy communications major named Morgan under the other. I have the family pilot, Robby, take us to a deserted beach I know about, a good forty minutes by air north of LA. Robby brings us down right on the beach, and I help the girls get out, and then I signal to Robby to be back in two hours.
    We waste no time in getting naked and, for once, I let myself be pleasured without giving back.  
    Usually, I’m adamant about making sure whoever I’m with gets theirs first, usually more than once, before I get mine.
    But tonight it’s all about me, and only me.
    I’m thirty-one, motherfuckers. I made it to thirty-one.  
    I let them touch and kiss and go wild, let them show me that, yes, if I gave them enough high-end whiskey, they’ll do things to each other, and to me, that…well…are best left to the imagination, and my memory.
    Moonlight, whiskey, breasts, mouths all over me, the ocean crashing and the surf licking at my toes—and…what’s her name? Oh yeah, Morgan. She’s licking me elsewhere…it’s a good way to turn thirty-one.
    Until shit conspires against me.  
    Too much whiskey, and too much vigorous sex doesn’t mix well with a congenital heart defect. Who knew?
    Combine that with being in the middle of nowhere without any meds, and spotty cell coverage?  
    It started with finishing my third climax in—well, mostly in, partly on—Lana’s mouth. Your heart hammers pretty hard after a wicked awesome orgasm,