But she said, “Your type doesn’t usually fall for my type in popular culture.” It struck me hard. Painfully. I sent a narrowed look over my shoulder. “Why wouldn’t my type be into you?” She rolled on her side, pink sheet draped over the curve of her wide hip and belly. Wavy brown hair frizzed wildly around freckled cheeks. Her small breasts exposed and nipples perked—and my cock twitched with an aggressive, primal hunger. If she was a lion, then I was the animal that wanted to mount the fuck out of her and play around with her until she was one beautiful whimpering mess. Spent and safe and
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