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I’m confrontation’s bitch and avoid it at all costs, therefore—raises hand—here I am, doormat, at your service.
Oh my God . . . you’re going to be murdered.
No way. The dude is meeting me at Chipotle. He’s not going to murder me at a place where you have to pay extra for guac.
“No, but there’s something so sexy, so possessive, about being able to hold your girl at the nape of her neck.” “Possessive, are we?” I ask, trying to feel this man out. “I prefer to claim what’s mine.”
“If I found the right woman, I’d be far more interested in fucking her against every surface of my house rather than answering monotonous emails or buying a business partner a drink.”
“I’m also going to need your ring size. My fiancée will be properly adorned with a ring.”
She swallows hard. “Fine, but I’m going to need to know your dick size before you leave.”
“I need to know if I have to act like a happy fiancée, or a truly satisfied fiancée.”
You might be a lost cause to your sister, but you could be my victory.
“Wow, wouldn’t have guessed this would be the immaculate proposal I’d get one day. Just ‘put it on your goddamn finger and don’t take it off.’ So romantic.”
“Let’s get one thing straight,” he says, his voice menacing. “I don’t have a wandering eye, never have, never will. And I signed a contract with you. That means I belong to you and you belong to me until our obligations are fulfilled within our agreement. Do you understand?”
I keep my touch light, allowing the gentle pressure I have on her to drive her nuts. Slow circles. Round and around.
“Fuck me. I want you to fuck me.”
If I let you come, you will still think the worst about me.”
