Your entire childhood up to the present time has been spent reading novels. Your head has drawn images of moments from books, characters, and your vocabulary has grown considerably. And how many great books you had on your shelf, mostly romance. Oh, yes. You were a fan of that kind of genre.

In the very same printed letters on pleasant-smelling paper that smelled like wood, you learned about these problems with the protagonists. And how wonderful the men who were written were. They would bring you this, buy that, lift you up in their arms or tell you that they were Aphrodite's daughter (while the protagonist had just woken up).

Wish the same, but having entered the literary, you continued to read and prepare for the entrance exams. All this was tiring, and you did not notice that in his twenty-two you remained a virgin without a man's shoulder.

Guys were throwing themselves at you, there was no denying it, but you were waiting for something more, as if your brain had overplayed your subconscious and you yourself were the protagonist of a cheap novel.

That one boss's brother at the store you work at and dating him is wrong, then the other would recoil and leave you to vomit after a bout of nausea after alcohol and watch someone else gently tidy your hair. That "someone" was Leon.

Albeit older by almost ten years, but experienced, rich, handsome and sexy, and literally the hero of your re-read novels. The actions he did were almost endless to list. He was just perfect. And, of course, you were looking for a catch. And there still wasn't.

You let him be the very first (and probably the last). He took your first kiss, you know what, and surrounded you with nothing but love. "You're gorgeous. About the Chanel bag.. yeah, okay. And don't you dare say no." - He purrs in a whisper, not wanting to let you go after a wild night.