Page 85 of Sweet Animosity

Unfortunately, not Robert—I asked.

It was Bob.

Which I definitely would not mention to Millie and Barb either. I didn’t need another lecture on their correlation theory between a man’s name and his sexual prowess.

Bob had been handsome, accomplished, very intelligent, and mind-numbingly boring. I mean, how much interest was a girl supposed to pretend to have in supply chain management software? Still, Michelle had grabbed my phone and gotten Bob’s number while giving him mine.

He’d already texted me, asking if I wanted to go see a movie.

A movie? What were we? Fifteen?

I inwardly sighed.

I was going to have to try really hard not to compare every man, moving forward, to Var.

What man could compete with an over six foot tall, tattooed Russian Mafia boss, who carried guns as if they were pens and spent money as if it were water?

Not to mention his magic penis.

I could no longer deny it.

That bastard hitting my G-spot was no accident.

Every. Fucking. Time. We. Fucked.

Damn him. A G-spot orgasm was so much better than a vibrator or even an oral sex orgasm.

Unlike with the other ones, I didn’t have to do anything for a G-spot orgasm.

No giving ‘higher, lower, to the left, no to the right, faster, not so faster, harder, not so hard’ instructions. No trying to press invisible silicon buttons and accidentally setting the vibration too high and ruining everything.

A G-spot orgasm was like a man’s orgasm. Effortless.

Damn him.

But I had to resist the temptation. The man was the very definition of toxic male.

I’d gotten back on the horse. Literally, if I considered the size of Var’s dick.

No, stop it.

I’d gotten back on the figurative dating horse. Sort of. It wasn’t like I’d consider my hate fucks with Var dates, but they counted in this respect.

I was finally back on the market after a three-year hiatus. What I needed to do was open myself up to dating. Normal dating. I needed to put myself out there. I realized that now.

Until this morning, I initially had no intention of responding to Bob.

Then Var had pissed me off by just casually mentioning—in that overbearing, domineering, what Me too movement? way of his—that he’d burned my paintings, presumably for my own good.

Fuck him.

Why not go on a date with Bob?

And a movie would be perfect.

There was no talking in a movie. No stimulating supply chain management software talk.

“He works at a software engineering company downtown. We might go to the movies this week.”

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