“The Birkin didn’t work then?” I glance behind me to see Rory has joined her husband at the top of the stairs. “Which one?” I grunt back. Aside from being one unsatisfying fist-fuck away from breaking my dick, the only frustrating thing about living in simp-mode is that I haven’t found that thing that makes her eyes light up yet. No, the fucking Birkin didn’t work. The next three didn’t work either. Or the Cartier bracelet, or the Benz that’s been collecting parking fines outside her apartment.
