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I think she called them boy shorts?
Not sure what kinda dudes she’s seen in that shit, but I’m hoping that’s some sorta fucking misnomer.
Awkwardly adjusting my crotch is followed by an even toned demand from Kipp, “Get all three, baby.”
Bunny sassily shoves her hands inside the red and white patterned thing she called a hobo dress.
Or maybe it was boho?
No.
That can’t be it.
That’s not even a real fucking word.
“I don’t need all three, Kid,” she sweetly insists, oversized mountaineer hat adding something – but I don’t know what – to the outfit.
“I think you do,” he argues without hesitation as he scoots to the edge of the chair he’s been occupying.
The same fucking one I can’t believe I mentally saw myself sucking his dick in a minute ago.
I don’t know what the fuck is going on this weekend.
I think Rabbit may be spiking my coffee in the morning.
How else do I fucking explain suddenly wanting something I’ve never wanted before?
Or letting him touch me in ways he never had before?
Or wanting him to do it again?
Counting down the literal moments until he can do it again.
Until I can try it?
Fuck. Me.
I know if I start being a little less tinted window honest with myself, I’ll see that I’ve wanted that shit for years. And if I stay fresh off of the lot clear about the situation, it’s also apparent that anytime before now…before her…would’ve been wrong.
She’s not the duct tape that magically holds us together.
She’s more like that limited supply missing part we’ve been waiting on.
And fuckkkkk has she been worth it.
Rabbit does her best to maintain her polite demeanor. “I don’t.”
“You do.”
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
“I. Really. Don’t.”
Kipp’s sharp retort is more growled than spoken, “You. Really. Do.”
And what the fuck is that shit?
