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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.
my knees bounce with the kind of nervous energy that threatens to catapult me into outer space without needing Jeff Bezos’s penis rocket.
“You look great in purple, Brooke.” “T-thank you.” Your tongue would look great on my nipples.
At this point in my monthly hormonal cycle, I could easily cry. My period is just one big sneeze away,
whoever raised Chase Dawson—or my future mother-in-law, as the psychotic part of me likes to refer to her—did a mighty fine job.
I think that’s somehow done a better job than just telling me to relax. And as we know, that’s the reining cure for anxiety recommended by medical professionals!”
“What we need to talk about?” I repeat, my voice trailing off on the last word. Your smile? How good your eyes look right now, even beneath this shitty lighting? How good your penis would look inside me?
Just like Farmers Insurance, he knows a thing or two, because he’s seen a thing or two.
Dear God, how did you make this man? How? I must know the full recipe with instructions for how to complete it. I mean, if I can’t have Chase, I may as well attempt to bake a man just like him from scratch, right?
“It’s my pleasure,” Chase responds with a smile. “Really.” I shake my head. “You’re clearly too nice, and perhaps, worked at Chick-fil-A at some point in your life.
“Good,” he remarks, pulling me away enough to place a kiss on the top of my head where his chin used to be. Um, excuse me? What is happening? Did his lips just touch me? Your forehead, honey. Just your forehead. Relax.
Love hurts. But losing it before you’ve even really had it? That burns like a bitch.
“Brooke, tell me what’s going on so I can help you. Do I need to make funeral arrangements or plan a hit? Give me a clear path to work.”
