Free How to Punish Your Playboy (DommeNation #3) by Mina Vaughn Page A

and paperwork again, deciding I should read through them thoroughly this time. It was all pretty self-explanatory—pay for airfare and hotel yourself, waivers and whatnot, but details on the last page startled me into action.
    The last day to register was Monday and the contest was less than two weeks away.
    I fumbled through my glove box to find a pen, and then furiously began scribbling out my information. I didn’t have the luxury of thinking through this—I had to act now. Adrenaline helped my pen slide across the page and within a minute, it was done. I hauled ass to the post office and express mailed it to the pageant headquarters.
    Vegas, I’m coming for you.

After the post office, I headed to the garage instead of going back to the apartment. It was the weekend and nobody would be there, so I could lose myself playing with a car while thoughts about my future marinated in my mind. I’d heard once, that when faced with a tough decision, you ought to do something to get your mind off it and your brain would figure it out subconsciously. So I hoped my brain would do all the tough travel planning like plane tickets and the hotel, but then I realized I didn’t have a built-in Expedia app so I just let my mind wander and fantasize about this new beginning for me.
    I liked the idea of putting myself on autopilot, so I pulled my hair back and decided to get greasy. I ran into the back room where I kept some key supplies—namely, rollers to set my hair and keep it out of my face—and threw on some dirty jeans and a tank top I didn’t mind destroying.
    When I came back into the garage, a Thunderbird awaited me. A ’67 classic, fifth generation, racing-green beauty. It was a hot car, a fast boy, and part of me hated that it reminded me of Aston. It had a rich, raw swagger about it that nagged at the corner of my mind, which made me miss him just hours after we parted. And parted poorly, I might add. So I opened the hood and went to a place where things made sense. Pistons, carburetors, fuses. Nothing about sexy socialites in these lines, just a little grease and some rust. This car needed some love, and that was something I could certainly give it right now.
    I lost myself in the restoration. In the wrenches and the spare parts. It was only after the fifth loud knock at the door that I realized I wasn’t alone.
    “We’re closed,” I shouted. I wiped my forehead with my wrist, since my fingers were caked with engine grease.
    The knocking continued, firm, slow, and insistent. This person wasn’t going anywhere. I glanced around at the other cars and realized that some were very high-end, and this was probably an impatient owner who wanted his baby back. I knew the feeling, so reluctantly I caved and approached the door, hair in rollers, covered in grease.
    This better be important.
    I pushed the garage door opener and adjusted the red kerchief that was covering my hair. My jeans were already covered in oil so wiping my hands on them one last time to try and appear decent wasn’t going to ruin them.
    “What’s the trouble?” I asked the person who must clearly be in need of some serious repairs if they were showing up at my garage like this. The door scrolled up, and revealed dark jeans, then a tight white tee. Damn. If only Aston would dump the J. Crew look for something more like this. If only he’d stayed—
    “I’m actually looking for trouble. Can you help?” a cocky, low voice asked just as the door revealed his face.
    I gasped and wanted to hide behind the Thunderbird. “Aston?”
    “Hey, Mistress,” he said, walking in with a slow stride. This wasn’t the Aston I met yesterday—this was Aston 2.0. His hair was mussed and his long bangs hung over his eye the way I’d imagined, and it looked like he’d ditched his preppy look for a decidedly more punk feel. No Chucks, no wallet chain, but the skinny jeans and tight-ass tee were a definite upgrade.
    I put my hands under my kerchief and began