He doesn’t get it . . . If I wanted to fuck, I’d find someone without the laden baggage to scratch the itch with. A few lusty glances here, the crook of a finger there. I could have some faceless male in a darkened corner in no time, parting the tendrils of my skirt and giving me what I need without the pressure of leaving with our fates intertwined. This is not about . . . that. All I want from this slumber is to allow myself to love. Or at the very least try.
Okay? Doesn't this go without saying?
