Parker S. Huntington

Just as I expected, he turned our home into a library. Every inch of wall space is covered in floor-to-ceiling shelves. The living room. The halls. The theater room. Even his study. My legs carry me from room to room at the speed of light. Though I hurry about it, my eyes don’t miss a thing. How he catalogued everything by genre, by spines, exactly the way I envisioned it. Horror and mystery in the study. Travel and cooking in the kitchen. Romance and erotica in the bedroom

Men are more basic than a little black dress.

“While I’m not a fan of your personality, I’d pay good money to watch you sit and breathe,” he admitted, his voice roughening.

“I would let him ruin me as thoroughly and impressively as Elon Musk destroyed Twitter.”

“I know what your daughter’s pussy feels like, sir.

“If you sit on my face and let me eat you out through your nightgown, I’ll buy you the Astor Opera House.”

I was pussy-whipped.

“You’re rich. We get it.” She yawned. “The only billionaires I like are fictional.”

Why did it take me until today to realize I enjoyed her voice? Her sound? Her general existence?

I was in love with Dallas Costa.

In love with her, with the ground she walked upon, with her laugh, with her freckles, with her obsession with books, her messiness, her joy, her unapologetic personality.

Every bit and piece of her, I adored.