He’d gone three months without sex and functioned nearly fine. But forty-eight hours without Rayne and he was climbing the walls. Was the ball still in his court? He went over to her place and screwed her brains out.
No, that’s not what it felt like. It wasn’t cheap. It was amazingly wonderful…hell, might as well sign himself up for a pedicure at the spa to help sop up the PMS oozing out of him. Sex wasn’t wonderful. Sex was great or freaking awesome. He needed to get himself some right now.
Deciding the caveman act would be the only way to build his gonads back up to par, he picked up his cell and dialed Rayne.
And then hung up. No, calling still reeked of estrogen. A simple text listing his demands would be better.
My bed’s getting cold. Come warm it up.
He hit Send before he could analyze it. Damn, he should have waited. He intended for the text to sound demanding but it sounded too poetic to him. He should have said, Give me some sex.
But that wasn’t the type of guy he was. He’d never demanded sex from a woman before. Hell, he never had to ask. Women just offered.
Allowing his inner female to take over--damn you, Rayne for thinking I was gay—he changed his sheets and took a shower. Settling into his recliner, he turned on ESPN and popped the top to his beer when his doorbell rang.
Like Pavlov’s dog, he sprang out of his chair, and nearly his shorts, and pulled open his door. Like a mystical creature she stood on his front porch haloed in the streetlight, a light mist falling like shimmer on her hair.
Forget the mani/pedi, he needed to get himself a box of tampons.
No, that’s not what it felt like. It wasn’t cheap. It was amazingly wonderful…hell, might as well sign himself up for a pedicure at the spa to help sop up the PMS oozing out of him. Sex wasn’t wonderful. Sex was great or freaking awesome. He needed to get himself some right now.
Deciding the caveman act would be the only way to build his gonads back up to par, he picked up his cell and dialed Rayne.
And then hung up. No, calling still reeked of estrogen. A simple text listing his demands would be better.
My bed’s getting cold. Come warm it up.
He hit Send before he could analyze it. Damn, he should have waited. He intended for the text to sound demanding but it sounded too poetic to him. He should have said, Give me some sex.
But that wasn’t the type of guy he was. He’d never demanded sex from a woman before. Hell, he never had to ask. Women just offered.
Allowing his inner female to take over--damn you, Rayne for thinking I was gay—he changed his sheets and took a shower. Settling into his recliner, he turned on ESPN and popped the top to his beer when his doorbell rang.
Like Pavlov’s dog, he sprang out of his chair, and nearly his shorts, and pulled open his door. Like a mystical creature she stood on his front porch haloed in the streetlight, a light mist falling like shimmer on her hair.
Forget the mani/pedi, he needed to get himself a box of tampons.
Do you think I should have gone to jail for this? I rather like seeing Trent in a state of lustful confusion.
Amazon:http://amzn.to/23nWRe9
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Amazon:http://amzn.to/23nWRe9
Amazon UK: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Sweet-You-Wilde-Sisters-Book-ebook-x/dp/B01AMSYBYK/ref=sr_1_6?ie=UTF8&qid=1453062483&sr=8-6&keywords=sweet+on+you
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