“Rubbing herself against a sleeping man just wasn’t on. It was morally questionable. Probably illegal. Definitely icky. But why oh why did bad things always feel so damn good? Just once more, she promised herself as she pushed back into him again. “Addie, I am not made of stone.”

“Peter was the current someone she used to keep from relying on herself, the crutch to hold on to, to promise herself that if she only had him to love, she would have it all come together. Why did she keep throwing men up as smoke screens between herself and herself?”

“So she forgave him. And instead she berated herself for her suspicion, for her snooping. For the things she promised herself she wouldn't do, the feelings she wouldn't have.”

“she poured herself into him wordlessly. Unable to stop, she emptied her very core into him, and yelled and sobbed and laughed and promised and begged, and explained why and why not, and why they must and why they couldn’t, and why there was no life without and how everything is always ripped in the same place and how she curses the moment and is resurrected over and over again endlessly.”

“But damn it, if he could be nonchalant about a woman rubbing herself against his giant erection like it was a stripper’s pole, then so could she.”

“It’s not something I can control, damn it. Every man I know wakes up with a hard-on.”“Maybe so, but they do not – repeat, do not - rub it on me.”“‘Every man I know’ wasn’t rubbing it on you! It was just me!”“And it was just your hair that I pulled, wasn’t it?” she asked sweetly.”