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“Women aren’t action figures, man. They don’t lose value ’cause someone got in their box.”
But from that moment on, it’s been Zita Graziano. That’s the answer. A shrink might be able to explain it, but I can’t. Some men have Jesus. God and country. A dream. Ambition. I have Zita.
Some men have hearts. Souls. Walls. I have Zita Graziano. I’m not ashamed. I look at her, and something inside me chants “thank you” into the void like a hallelujah. I’m weightless. Superhuman.
“Just because you make me come, doesn’t mean I want to marry you,” she mutters sleepily, making no move to escape my arms. I tilt her face and kiss her stubborn chin. “You can’t blackmail people into happily ever after,” she says. I brush a kiss across her sweet lips. “You need therapy,” she says against my mouth. “I need therapy.” She sighs. I kiss her again. “You’re so weird.” She’s drifting off, but I’m hard again now. I kiss her while I hike her leg higher over my hip and slip into her from behind. And when she comes, she’s kissing me back.
Nicky fucks like he’s lost his mind, and he’s trying to find it between my legs. He fucks like I’m hiding something that he’s desperate for. Like I’m the holy grail, and he’s an infidel, so he doesn’t want to worship me, he wants to convert me, despoil me until I belong to him.
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We are how we were made, walking the path we’ve been given. Trying to be brave when we’re outnumbered, outgunned, and fighting uphill. All of us.

