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Nana looks at me as though she, too, suspects this is bang her and knock her up money. Or I want to be your sugar mama money. Or possibly I need to take you into a secret lab for official government research money. I read a lot. Don’t judge.
Yes, he was so hot the sun has to wear shades to look at him. His smile could steal a thousand virginities and his dancing suggested he actually knew how to get a woman off in bed.
And if I ran the world, sexy jungle studmuffins would fall madly, desperately in love with book-smart but sexually-insecure world rulers, and they’d prostrate themselves at my feet and beg for a chance to be the one to prove to me that their thick, hard, throbbing loins held the magic elixir of transcendent orgasms.
Autocorrect just autocorrected to autocunnilingus. I just told Tarzan I’m eating myself. What have I done? Does that count as sexting? I don’t know.
“I don’t want this to be about money.” “You…don’t?” That’s it. There’s something wrong with him. He has a secret turkey baster fetish or likes to lick strange women’s toes. Or he wears his loincloth on public outings. Or he’s actually a robot.
And my nipples, damn them—if they could fire sexy-man-snaring missiles, they would. They’re already aimed right. But knowing my nipples, they’d misfire and I’d have to explain to Judy’s now-former boss that I’m not hitting on her, it was a misfire, and yes, she’s a perfectly lovely lady worthy of being hit on, but middle-aged women who wear Christmas sweaters in July aren’t my type.
Did I say full-mast? Because now I’m picturing myself showing her exactly how not fake orgasms can be, and my cock’s trying to show the whole fucking navy how you raise a flagpole.
Nana’s right. I get off on being someone’s hero. And I’m going to hero the shit out of saving Parker.

