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“Only his.”
She shook her head. “Then trust me, John’s pecker is small.”
“How would you know?”
“That man oozes small dick energy. Remember when he picked a rose for you, called it a rosy with a baby voice, and placed it in your hair?” She gagged. “Instant ick detected. I played nice for years because I loved you, but he’s a total small dick dick. You’re better off.”
“I know.”
If only my heart could believe that, too.
“Anyway, to me!” I cheered.
“To you!” she celebrated. Whitney downed her drink and then smacked my butt. “That’s my girl.”
“I’m going to find a boy to make out with tonight.” I said the words, but I hardly believed them.
Whitney shook her head and locked her blue eyes with mine. “No, dear friend. You go out there and find a man to make out with. Not a boy, a man.”
“Yes,” I said, hopping back and forth like a boxer about to enter the ring for their first match. “But before I go, can I tell you the Freud quote?”
She smiled. “Of course.”
“‘Out of your vulnerabilities will come your strength.’” I smiled. “Freakin’ Freud, am I right?”
“The man, the myth, the legend,” she agreed, snickering as she shook her head. “Never change, my weird friend.”
I wasn’t sure I could even if I wanted to.
Whitney headed off to probably dance on a table, leaving me to dump out the cocktail in my red Solo cup. I hurried over to fill it with the fruit punch juice on the island. Maybe I wasn’t drinking that night, but I made it to a party. That had to count for something. As I turned around, I stumbled sideways after stepping into something sticky and losing my footing. Before I could crash and fall, a person instinctively reached out and wrapped his huge, calloused, firm hands around my upper arms, steadying my position. The heat from his hold and the roughness of his hands sizzled against my soft skin. The contrast of the warmth and roughness of his touch to my smooth skin heated my blood. My eyes inquiringly studied his hands on my arms before I tilted my head to take him in. As my eyes met him, cataloging every inch of his being, he swiftly released his hold on me, tucking his hands away.
I didn’t stop my observation because I couldn’t. My heart rate intensified as our eyes locked once more. He was the most attractive person I’d ever seen, with eyes packed with such sorrow. I wondered if he knew that his eyes looked like that—so painfully sad. Still, he was beautiful—the kind of beautiful I’d only seen in magazines.
The mysterious rock-hard man might’ve been one of the most striking individuals I’d ever seen in my twenty-one years of existence. He dressed like midnight and moved like stone. Everything seemed concentrated about him. Even though his touch was warm, his spirit felt ice cold. It took a few moments for me to realize I’d spilled my juice against his shirt, but once I noticed, I couldn’t stop staring. His damp black T-shirt hugged his chest tightly, showcasing his toned arms. He towered over me, easily at least six-foot-three, and had the kind of mouth that looked as if it never crafted smiles, only grimaces or frowns. His beard was perfectly trimmed, too, making the grimace even more pronounced.
His lips were full, though, and his skin was flawless. Either he had a fantastic skincare routine or he was one of those lucky jerks who never had a day of acne.
Then there were his eyes.
I’d never met a gaze that hypnotized me, yet I felt frozen in place.
Those eyes sent a flurry of sensations straight to the pit of my stomach, creating a pool of heat as they locked in on me. Green orbs with sparks of brown intertwined within them. Or maybe they were brown with dashes of green. It was hard to tell with my semi-tired mind and my semi-broken heart. All I knew was I liked looking into them, even if they seemed cold.
No, not cold.
Maybe dejected?
Dejected eyes had a way of appearing somewhat chilled.
His looked like they were hurting as much as my heart.
You noticed that in people when you were hurting yourself—how their pain mirrored your own.
“Crap, I’m so sorry,” I stuttered.
I placed the red Solo cup on the countertop and then, without thought, rubbed my hands up and down the strange man’s chest, trying to remove the spill from his clothing. He stayed motionless, as dark and foreboding as a gargoyle statue on a parapet, his eyes locked on me. His stare was penetrating yet oddly aloof. Like he could see my every thought but didn’t wish to.
I discovered his rock-hard abs as my fingertips caressed his chest. I wasn’t helping the situation, yet I couldn’t stop wiping him down for some reason. My hands weren’t a drying machine, yet I moved them across his body as if the quickness would result in dried fabric.
