Page 49 of Man Flu

“Well, what defines a pretty dick?”

“I don’t know. Jesus, what kind of question is that?” he asks.

“I think a pretty dick is shiny, firm, smooth, and soft. On the contrary, it has no wild hairs, colors, or veins.”

Logan presses up on his elbow, giving me either a “confused as hell” look, or a “Shit, that’s what my cock looks like,” look. “Wow,” he says. “I mean, I didn’t realize there were so many guidelines to having a pretty dick.”

“Well, if any of the latter descriptions apply to you, you can always just tie a bow around it, and call it a day.”

“No, I don’t need to tie a bow around it. According to your standards, I have a pretty dick, I guess.” He looks slightly amused and mildly proud, yet his pants are still on.

“Great, so what’s the problem?” Oh, I know. Men are so sensitive about their asses sometimes, and I don’t understand why. “It’s natural to have hair on your ass. Is that it?”

“No, I don’t have a hairy ass.” Thank you, God. I couldn’t do that again. Rick’s ass has scarred me for life. I could braid the shit out of that lion’s mane. Rick was what I once considered to be hot … on the outside, at least, but then when the darkness was revealed, so was a whole lot of hair.

“Okay, I give up.”

“Can we just cuddle tonight?”

“Cuddle? Like, spooning—spending the night in bed and waking up next to each other?” So, normally, I’d get down on my knees and beg a man like him to cuddle with me, but my curiosity of why he won’t sex me is clouding my desire to be held in his arms. At thirty-three, I need sex, then cuddles. There’s no rearranging the whole desire for events in that order, even if it makes me sound like a whore. I have needs, and they haven’t been met, seen, heard, or thought of by anyone in over a year.

“I can go if you want,” he offers, despondent expression and all.

“You need to just be honest with me because right now, I’m getting a complex.” I tug at my blanket and cover my naked body.

“You don’t need to do that,” he says, grabbing the thick material from my hand.

“I don’t want to be lying here naked while you’re hesitant to take your pants off. It’s weird. Don’t you think? Especially after you saw me in my most vulnerable state yesterday.” It’s more than freaking weird. I’m not a model posing in front of an oil-painting class. Nor would I ever be chosen for such a job, unless it was for idolizing the effects of motherhood and how it wreaks havoc on a once perfect body.

“Tell me your wildest fantasy,” he softly suggests.

Another loud laugh bucks from my throat. “I don’t know, eating ice cream in a bathtub without a child screaming, ‘Mommy?’”

“That’s not the kind of fantasy I meant.” I know what he meant. I don’t have an answer because what the hell have I had to fantasize about lately?

Logan leans over to the nightstand and hits the light switch. “Never mind. Let me see if I can correct this fantasy issue.” What? He just asked if we could cuddle.

Why are men so confusing? How in the world do they get away with calling women—

Oh. Oh, okay.

His hands are colder than I realized, and they’re around each of my thighs, urging them apart. A breeze sweeps up the insides of my legs as movement encircles my body.

I don’t have a moment to wonder what his plan is because his tongue is tracing a line up my right thigh but suddenly stops.

Did you wax? Brielle’s voice echoes in my head. Oh no.

I place my hands on Logan’s face and pull him up. “Cuddling sounds good,” I tell him.

“What?”

“Just—let’s take things slow.” My dark hole is pruning at the moment, closing in on itself and pulsating with anger. I was just about to experience the most incredible moment of my life, and I didn’t freaking wax.

“I can go slow,” he says.

“From up here?” I counter.

His fingertips glide up toward my center, and I’m clenching my eyes and teeth in preparation for the recoiling of his hand when he meets the wooly mammoth I’ve allowed to grow in down there. I’m debating if I should stop him. I could ruin everything right this very second.