What was I thinking, falling in love at nineteen? 
I was thinking with my vagina, that’s what I was doing. 
Physically speaking, he’s every good girl’s dream—All-American, blond hair, blue eyed, Marine, and business owner. 
Strip him of his finery, the friendly smile, and the manners, he’s every bad girl’s walking orgasm. 

He’s mine.

I wanted him ten years ago—I needed him.

A soul can only go so long without it’s mate. 


This is rich, coming from the girl who can’t go ten seconds without making a comment about poop shoots, cum dumpsters (my ex-wife), inappropriately dancing, making lewd jokes, yet tries to give you a flowery description about our love story… 

What? You thought you’d get the whole story here? 

Naw, you have to read the book to find out about our epic love story—the trials, the intrigue, the sex (which is hot BTW) and my wife’s completely whacked sense of humor. 

“Hey!” my wife yells. 
“What? Fuck, don’t scare me like that. This is my portion of the blurb.” 
“Fiancée! You haven’t gotten my sexy ass down the aisle yet, big boy.”