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Knowing you were on the same team as someone else, that another human had your back and was your biggest, loudest, most steadfast cheerleader forever and ever became less a blessing and more a given as the years wound on. Until death do us part.
I can’t imagine wanting to touch, or be touched by, a woman other than her.
Madeleine. This girl who’s engaged my lizard brain. And girl is the correct term, because she’s barely even a woman. Twenty-fucking-three. I mean, for fuck’s sake.
Can you see why a too-young sex goddess colleague may not be the right person for me to pop my widower cherry with? Jesus Christ.
I think my new purpose in life might be to get Zach French grinning as much as possible. For, you know, both altruistic and intensely selfish reasons.
I’ve always known it’s the quiet ones you have to watch.
One thing I’ll say about grief is that it gives you a fuck-load of aggression and useless energy that requires an outlet.
It’s quite another for our sexy-as-fuck little social media manager to sit there in our morning meeting and regale me with her love of being demeaned and dominated.
This woman is a temptress in the office when she’s fully dressed. Out here, in that pathetic excuse for a bikini, her siren’s call is so loud it’s practically cracking my head open.
What is it about this quiet man, who is in a world of pain right now and whom I have
no business noticing at all, that gets me flustered like a schoolgirl?
He’s not my type. My type is kinky and insatiable. I’m looking for Christian Grey—or a whole roomful of Christian Greys on rotation, if you pleas...
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Holy fuck. What the hell was that, and why is my pussy clenching beneath these skimpy AF bottoms? It was his sternness, I decide. He was unequivocally stern just then, and it makes me want to earn a delicious scolding from him.
Don’t make me put you over my knee, Madeleine. Don’t make me pull down those pretty panties of yours and spank that bottom till it’s sore and pink. Don’t make me tease that wet pussy with my strong fingers and edge you into fucking oblivion because you’ve been a bad, bad girl. OMFG.
take back the Gilbert Blythe comparison. This guy could definitely be a spankier version of Captain von Trapp.
‘Daddy kink activated,’
Oh hooooly fuck. I’ve always prided myself on having a high-maintenance pussy but low-maintenance ovaries. I mean, who the fuck has a ticking biological clock aged twenty-three? Not me, that’s for sure. But as I watch Mr Stern Nerdy Sex God stand there in all his bronzed glory as he holds his little girls tight, I get it. I mean, I really, really get it.
The things I could do to cheer this poor man up. He has no fucking clue.
Despite the opacity of his sunglasses, I’d put a great deal of money on the fact that he’s standing there fantasising about coming all over my tits right now.
She was unhappy with her circumstances, and she was unhappy with the person those circumstances made her, and she took action to change those circumstances.
Nobody gets to tell you what to believe. Nobody gets to own your mind, your heart or your body.
You own them. You get to decide.
But for a hedonist like me? Alchemy’s what I imagine when I think of heaven.
‘Honestly, if you ever end up with one guy, I pity him trying to keep you satisfied.’
It’s that, with every cell of her being, she shimmers with wellbeing and good health and life. I don’t need to pay my therapist to explain just why that’s so compelling to me right now.
What would it be like to be Maddy? To exist solely for the present moment, to enjoy the shallow, fleeting pleasures of life in all their superficiality, whether they’re the glass of champagne she’s sipping or the imminent prospect of sweaty, anonymous sex with strangers next door?
‘She’s all yours, mate,’ he says to me. ‘Go for it.’
‘Please make me come,’ she moans. ‘I need to come. I want you to fuck me.’ Jesus fuck. ‘We’ll see,’
Touching her, drowning in her, is just as pleasurable, if not more, than touching myself.
Because as soon as Zach’s girls saw the logo and identified me as a fellow Swiftie, we were instant besties.
‘Christ, you’re pretty.’ Her eyes widen. ‘Thank you.’ ‘So pretty,’ I repeat dumbly. I really need her to know how true it is. ‘Last night you looked so fucking beautiful.’
‘Touching you is the only thing he wants to do,’
‘It’s the only fucking thing on this planet that will stop me from feeling
like utter fucking shit. Serio...
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‘Come on,’ she says. ‘You need to get to bed, and I need to get home.’
‘I don’t want to go to bed,’ I tell her, sliding my hands down to her arse again and yanking her to me, hard. I register the heat of her core probably around the same time she registers that I am
rock fucking hard, because her jaw falls open and she grips my shoulders. ‘Zach.’ ‘This is wha...
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‘But Sober Zach was pretty fun last night.’ ‘I don’t remember him being fun in the slightest,’
‘Sober Zach made you come very fucking hard by licking that delicious pussy of yours. I’d call that pretty fun.’
‘Was that you? Did you—did you go down on me last night?’
saw you,’ I say, ‘and you looked so beautiful. All those tassels. That twat was feeling you up, but then he said it was my turn, and…’
‘And I couldn’t resist. And fuck me, sweetheart. You were fucking everything. All day today, all I could think about was how good you tasted.’
‘Are you saying you came in to find me?’
‘I was just going to have a look. But then I saw you, and I’d been thinking about what that
dress of yours was covering up all night.’
‘I couldn’t resist you. I was never going to go after anyone else in there,’ I finish. ‘I didn’t have eyes for anyone else.’
‘Because you thought I’d say no.’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘I wouldn’t have.’
‘It’s true,’ she says. ‘I would have been totally gobsmacked, obviously. But I would have said
yes to you doing whatever you wanted to me. Obviously.’
‘It’s specific. To you. No matter how fucked up my home life still
