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“C’mon, Mrs. Brodie. The quicker we get through the formalities, the quicker we get to the fun stuff, like my ring on your finger and you in my bed for the rest of our lives.”
But Jesus Christ—and I say this with the utmost respect—at least 75 percent of the men I talk to have me thinking: Really? You were the fastest sperm?
Normally, I consider myself a logical man. But if I were logical, I might not have taken one look at the prettiest woman I’d ever seen in my life, declared her my future wife for absolutely no reason other than that it felt like I’d spent my entire life blind until she graced my vision, hid in a bathroom until everyone left, then surprised her in the kitchen and, well … done what people do in kitchens. Eat.
If I have to tattoo mine on his hip, or his fucking forehead, so that every damn puck bunny trying to get his attention behind the window thingies knows he’s mine, I’m not above it.
“Boys like ours don’t forget how to love us when our minis come along. They just figure out how to open their arms a little wider, because their world got bigger.”
“There is almost never a good reason for a man to be talking. Not when there are much better uses for their big mouths.”
“Breathe, baby. Breathe with me. Because I can’t breathe without you.”
These boys are a rare breed. Nobody can convince me otherwise.
