I ♥ being 35.

I ♥ men. I laughed outload at the message on my cell.

“Oh. My. Gawd.” The exaggerated drawl tickled my funny bone once more. “Shelly, Nine o’clock hottie,” hissed Trish.

I glanced with careful casualness and felt my breath leave me in a rush. Hottie was right. Broad shoulders and arms that spoke to more than time spent at the gym or at a computer. Jeans hugged hips that I bet could keep a good rhythm on the dance floor or in other venues. His polo, unbuttoned at the neck, revealed a glimpse of chest hair that I was certain led to hot southern climes.

“You should ask him out,” my friend whispered. I laughed.

“He’s too young for me.” My friends seemed to forget my age but I felt every bit of my thirty-five years at times like these.

She scoffed. “Fuck age.” Trish was eloquent as always. “Here he comes, ask!”

He entered my vision, a notebook cradled in one large hand. Veins stood out along his arm and I wondered what the vein of his cock would taste like. My pulse fluttered.


Trish pinched me and I jerked my eyes up. A lone dimple nudged his cheek, lines crinkled about his eyes, and silver streaked hair escaped his ballcap. My pussy flooded with hope as my cheeks flared with heat.

“Hi.” He sat down and Trish slipped away.

I ♥ college.


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