And I’ve been trying everything I can think of since to make up for it—short of tattooing her name on my ass and streaking across Yankee Stadium.”
I was saving that for next week.
In that same year, NYU conducted its own study. With rats. They implanted electrodes in the brains of male rats and put two buttons in their cages. When the lucky little bastards pushed the blue button, the electrodes triggered an orgasm. When they pushed a red button, they were given food.
Care to guess what happened to all the rats?
They died.
They fucking starved to death.
They never pushed the red button.
Need I say more?
My office door slams open, leaving a dent in the drywall.
Here we go.
“You are driving me crazy!”
Her cheeks are flushed, her breathing’s fast, and she’s got murder in her eyes.
Beautiful.
I raise my brows hopefully. “Crazy? Like you want to rip my shirt open again?”
“No. Crazy like the itch of a yeast infection that just won’t go away.”
I flinch. Can’t help it.
I mean—Christ.
Did you know that if you put a frog in boiling water, he’ll jump out? But, if you put one in cold water and heat it slowly, he’ll stay in. And boil to death. He won’t even try to get out. He won’t even know he’s dying. Until it’s too late.
Men are a lot like frogs.
Flowers. Lots of women say they don’t want them. But every woman is happy when they get them.
Which is why I’ve arranged to have them delivered to Kate’s office, every hour on the hour. Seven dozen at a time. That’s one dozen for every day we were apart.
Oh, and I’m never going to lie to you again.”
Ever.
I mean it.
Ten years from now, if Kate asks me if a certain pair of jeans makes her ass look fat—and they do? I’m going to take my life in my hands and say yes.
I swear.
Every healthy man in the world wakes up with a stiffy. A fatty. Morning wood. I’m sure there’s some medical explanation for the phenomenon, but I just like to think of it as a little present from God.
A chance to begin the day with your best dick forward.
But I don’t follow Kate. And the reason is simple: Have you ever tried to run with a boner staring up at you?
No?
Well, it’s damn near impossible.
Well, then we’re a perfect fit, ’cause you’re a first-class bitch most of the time.”
Fire dances in her eyes as she raises her half-filled glass.
“Don’t you fucking dare. You throw that drink at me, I’m not responsible for what I do after.”
I’ll give you a minute to guess what she does...
I am a bad, bad boy. Think Kate will punish me if I tell her how bad I am?
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