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Was I willing to die to have great sex? The answer was yes, apparently. Less than ten minutes after Hutch told me he loved me (He LOVED me! No layover in Likeville.), I was on the precipice of plummeting to my death. Because the only way to sneak into his bedroom was by climbing a freaking tree like we were in some deranged buttsex-flavored Romeo and Juliet redux.
I looked up at the window. Pure ecstasy waited for me in that window. Time to Romeo and Juliet the fuck out of this.
I shimmied myself down the branch, one stressful inch at a time. “You’re halfway,” he said. “Relax, Famous Amos. I won’t let anything happen to you.” “I know you won’t, but gravity is another story.” Little by very little, the window got closer. Hutch came more into focus. My fingers maintained their white-knuckle grip around the branch. “Okay, in the homestretch.” He held out his hand and motioned me to come forward. I reached out to take it and lost my balance. I felt myself sliding down the side of the branch. I was in such shock I couldn’t react. No screams, no sassy remark. Only the
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Once I sensed that I wasn’t going to die, I scowled at Hutch, but his sweet, scared look made all my fear dissipate. He wasn’t going to let anything happen to me. “This had better be the most mindblowing, incredible sex of my life. No two pumps and done. I demand stamina.”

