Page 17 of Accidental Husband
No wonder the powdered green tea makes her groan like she's coming. She's not finding bliss in other places.
It's sad, really.
But it's got nothing to do with height.
I discuss sex with a lot of women. I always ask about the nights burnt into their memories.
No one ever mentions their partner's height. It's not like a woman gets going on a story:oh my God, this make up sex with my ex was crazy. We were in Vegas and we were sharing one of those balloon shaped cups from The Paris. Then we snuck into the bathroom at the steakhouse, and he pressed my dress to my waist, and you know what? It was only a little hot, because he's five nine. I'm five four, sure, but I need a guy who's six feet tall, minimum.
It's ridiculous. Like a guy who needs big tits or a small waist.
Women are gorgeous. Doesn't matter if they're tall, short, thick, thin, white, black, Hispanic, Asian, loud, quiet, bossy, obedient—
There's something good about every flavor.
Fuck, I sound like my dad. I'm a slut, yeah, but I'm not a pig. I don't treat women like ice cream.
I'm upfront with every woman I fuck. It's a short-term arrangement. Maybe a night. Maybe a few weeks. Maybe a regular thing.
Depends on the woman. Depends how well she understands my inability to fall in love.
I make women come.
I'm good at it. Really fucking good at it.
Hell, after tattoos, it's probably my biggest skill.
What a résumé.Excellent tattoo artist and skilled fuck. I want to make you come, sweet thing. I don't care if it's on my face, my hands, or my cock, so long as you're screaming my name when it happens.
Shit. I'm losing track of my point.
My head is off today. Maybe it's all the coffee—I insisted on buying Jules a matcha for the road, but she'd only agree if she could buy me a latte.
Maybe it's the late dinner—I went straight to the beach after work.
Maybe it's the book.
Cinderella hits a little too close to home. Her asshole father is the spitting image of mine.
Jules must notice.
But she wouldn't do that to me. She wouldn't recommend this book to make some bullshit point. She knows I don't appreciate that kind of… I'll be generous and call it subtlety.
Yeah, she appreciates themes. She's always trying to get me to see the messages in works of fiction. But not because she wants to brainwash me into discussing my philandering father.
Because she loves books more than she loves breathing.
Fuck, it's one of my favorite things about her. She lights up when she talks about her current read. It's what makes her happy.
The last time I saw her happy, really happy, was when she was applying to MFA programs. She applied to a dozen, got into most of them.
She never told me what happened. Only that she and Jackson agreed it was best if she go to the program at UCLA.
I'm sure the asshole decided he couldn't stomach her being away from him for months at a time. I'm sympathetic, really. I don't like it any more than he does.
But fuck him for clipping her wings.
Nobody is clipping her wings. Not on my watch.
