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“I woke up in a morgue. I had to sneak out of said morgue. And I’m pretty sure you were announcing some kind of situation when you broke into my aunt’s house and decided to dick me down.” “Your way with words is truly so eloquent,” he counters with a sly mocking smile.
He was going to go to war for me. I’d died and he was going to burn it all to the ground, fed up and ready to dish out some much deserved retribution. Well, if that isn’t the most romantic damn thing.
“What happened?” I finally ask when Marx steps away and starts quickly inspecting his handiwork.
I DON'T TRUST MARX. I DO NOT.
“I wouldn’t actually eat your gorgeous face, but I would like to dine on that pussy. Table for one,” he announces, lifting a hand like he’s calling for a waiter.
I know what I think, but I don’t want to dismiss anyone else’s instincts around me, mostly because I have no idea what I’m doing. Winging it doesn’t even begin to cover how I’m rolling these days.
Rogan moves closer to me with the umbrella to make sure I’m fully covered. “That’s very sweet of you, thank you,” I tell him warmly. “Yes, very sweet of you,” Marx grumps as he tries to crowd the door to keep from getting wet now that Rogan moved the umbrella so it’s only covering us.
“You guys are so fucking weird,” I hear Prek declare on a resigned sigh. I smile even wider as Marx and Elon both coo a high-pitched, dreamy, “Rogan Kendrick,” as though he’ll be the name they doodle all over their notebooks this year.
“No, I want to come in that pussy,”
Gross. 😂
