Chapter 7

“God, you’re beautiful,” I said.

He grinned. “I thought that was my line.” He turned my way. Butterflies took wing inside my belly as our eyes met.

“There’s no better word for it,” I replied.

He squinted, seemingly thinking it over. “Gorgeous, stunning, dazzling,” he ticked off before grabbing his mast of a prick. “Bountiful.”

I took hold of it. It throbbed in my grip. Here too we were so different. Dicks, I surmised, were like snowflakes: no two were alike and they felt wonderful when stuck to your tongue. “All those adjectives and more,” I said. “But your ego is already sufficiently massive, so we’ll stick with beautiful.”

He reached across the gap and took hold of my own eighth wonder of the world. “Pot, kettle, black,” he said.

He had a point. He had my dick. He had my heart. He also had something else, hidden under the bed.

“I have something to show you,” he said so sheepishly that he could’ve tacked a baaon to the end of it. Oh yeah, sheep, chicken, yada, yada, yada