My body doesn’t care at all that she’s too young. Or that she was at the bar to meet my fucking son. My body only cares about the fact that she seems to have everything I’d look for in my perfect match. If I were looking for such a thing. Which I’m not. But if I were, she’s exactly what I’d want. She’s smart, witty, a little shy, the flawless mixture of innocent and sexy. And my inner neanderthal likes the sadness in her eyes. It’s fucked up, I’m well aware of that, but I like feeling needed. And I haven’t felt emotionally needed in a long, long time. Stopping at my door, I tip my head back
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