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To anyone who has ever crushed on someone so hard it made them do stupid things. And to Henry Cavill’s right testicle. Some might say it’s his best testicle, and well, we agree.
The explicit book I wrote about myself and my editor while he has no freaking idea he’s the protagonist is the best book he’s ever read? That’s what I was afraid of.
This. This is great literature. It’s not highbrow or intellectual, but it’s an experience. It makes the reader live and breathe and cry and mourn the losses of its characters before they celebrate the victories. It touches on passion and personal poignancy. There’s a reason romance is one of the most popular genres in the world, whether snooty-falooty people want to believe it or not.
“She’s nice, okay? Funny.” I pick up my head from the back and meet her eyes again, shrugging. “Very funny, actually. Both in her writing and in person. And she’s…well, she’s beautiful. Big, honest, green eyes and perfect skin and teeth. Everything I know about her is pretty much…perfect.”
But first, I need to find a bottle of water because my mouth is drier than the pussy of a woman who’s been married to a narcissist for twenty-five years.