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Most people marry for love—and most divorces happen within five years. Love is overrated. Life is meant to be filled with hobbies, like traveling, Netflix, and reading. When it comes to love, the book is always better.
I avoid asking people questions about their careers. It’s something that’s always irritated me. As if your job is indicative of the type of person you are.
This place makes killer fucking muffins, and I wait all goddamn year for the pumpkin ones. Call me a basic white boy, I don’t give a fuck.
“Try doing it with seven bars in your cock,” I growl, submerging. “Acts like a fuckin’ heatsink.” “Hard pass. How do you jack off with that shit? Your dick looks like Inspector Gadget.” “Very happily.” I love my ladder, and so do all the women that climb it.
Maybe because my brain gets off on breaking pretty things.
He’s naked. Completely naked. Dropping my gaze to his pierced, Pringle-can dick, I gasp like the wind has been knocked out of me.
Seeing her in my shirts at home is one thing. It makes me want to fuck her. But seeing my name across her back? It makes me possessive. Makes me want to keep her.
