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I walk into the Friday Night Weekenders Meeting and immediately start salivating at the finest piece of eye candy I’ve ever laid eyes on. Classically gorgeous with a chiseled chin, broad shoulders, dark curly hair, baby blues, and a lethal smile, the guy is an animated fantasy.
So much for my newfound awareness. The familiar compulsion to wrap my arms and legs around a stranger and call out his name (a name I won’t remember in the morning) rises up from my Sacral Chakra, as ripe and juicy as an orange. I bite into it and let the sweet, sinful nectar drip down into me. Paul’s here too, grinning at me from the front row, but I can’t be bothered with a reformed bad boy. Not when the real thing is available.
We don’t even bother to conceal our motives. As soon as the meeting ends, I gest
