Page 10 of Dock

I hate how he has somehow magically turned me into some bumbling airhead bimbo that can’t seem to complete a thought or idea or sentence without her brain overheating due to one look from the well-built – most likely has a cock to match his size – biker.

Forfucksake, I’m thirty-eight!

Not eighteen like him!

I need to be acting my age not the number of butterflies that are fluttering around the pit of my stomach from his touch.

His much too gentle giant touch.

Hogan gently caresses the wound he just cleaned, gaze glowing, holding mine hostage, similar to the way his hand is.

Tight but not suffocating.

With care yet not controlling.

How does someone so young seem so masterful at everything?

I damn sure wasn’t.

Still am not.

Ugh.

Even that was terrible phrasing.

Thinking.

Both.

Sadly…both.

“Thanks,” eventually escapes right above a whisper.

“Of course,” he coos back on another stroke. “I don’t like seeing you hurt.”

The single breath I had managed to claim gets stolen by his words as much as the lingering stare attached to it.

Seriously.

Who has this much game fresh out of high school?!

Hell, I’m looking at forty through the peephole and can barely stay connected to a date through a cup of coffee.

You know.

When I can get a date.

And that’s rare.

Too rare according to the voice of Gam Gam that has a habit of haunting me at all the worst times.

And typically – when I do have a date – they wanna talk about finances or cyber security or golf – because heaven forbid anyone wants to discuss Beowulf or their favorite Otis Redding song or fresh baked banana bread recipes.

Okay.

Yeah.

I know those probably aren’t the sexiest topics, but neither is the rise or fall of your portfolio.