Birthday Girl

I want a life I never want to take a vacation from. That’s my goal.

“Now I’m simply terrified for every woman I see you with,” I continue, “but also secretly smiling, because I know after they fake how much they love your cock in bed, they’re in the bathroom, fingering themselves to a mental image of any guy in town who’s not you.”

You’re so tight,” I groan.

“Oh, I may be out of practice, little girl,” he bites out in a threatening tone, “but I think I’ll figure it out.”

And while I don’t want to be thinking about him, I really like knowing he’s trying not to think about me.

I shuffle next to Teresa as she places everything on the table. “How long have you and Dutch been married?” I ask.
She sighs. “Fourteen years.” She looks over at me. “And three kids later, I still want to kill him every day, but he makes good spaghetti, so…”

“Where the fuck is my loofah?”

“This alpha, possessive, keep-your-daughter-locked-up-with-a-shotgun thing is insulting! I’m not an idiot, and you…” She bares her teeth. “Are not my father.”

Yeah, believe me, I know that. The thoughts I have about you aren’t the least bit fatherly.

Cramer is a twat, but his kids aren’t bad.