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“No straight guy could stay away from that rack,” he said quietly. “Just saying.” “Not everyone’s a tit man.” “Well, they should be,” he scoffed. “Breast is best.”
Primitive man might have worshipped the sun, but I’m pretty sure the sun worshipped Vaughan.
If the fight had been between women, I’m pretty sure hostilities would have carried on for months. Which just goes to prove my point regarding women being the superior species, and having more commitment to things in general. We stick.
His eyes were as big as … well, my boobs.
“I didn’t like you trying to hide parts of yourself from me.” Vaughan stared at the wall. “I’m not like that asshole, picking and choosing which bits of you suit him and expecting you to change the rest. I’m into you, Lydia. All of you.”
“When something is no longer working, changing your plans is not giving up. It’s not failure.”
Someone once told me that when people pass in assisted care facilities it’s common for men to be found holding their penises. Women, however, grab hold of their handbags. Our money, our identities, our lives, are stuffed into those things. All of the bits and pieces we’ve collected over the years. Everything we might need to make it through any minor, or major, emergencies. Men are so much less reliable than handbags.
“I just want you to know, I will not be falling slave to your devil dick and demon tongue. No matter how good they are.”
Apparently, the French refer to an orgasm as the little death. However, that didn’t cover it. Try the mass murder of all of my hopes and dreams. It shouldn’t have felt so astonishingly mind-numbingly superb to fall for a man who’d never be mine. But it did. Love sucks.
Screw men and their devil penises. I had a future to plan.
“Trust me, never mock a romance book,” said Mal with all the zest of a manic street preacher. “You have no idea the amount of good they can do for you between the sheets and on the streets. If you love your girl? Buy her books.”
