Laughing behind my hand, I followed him out to his motorcycle. “I like to think I’m hot enough that I don’t need to flirt well.” “Do you? Fortunately, I agree. In fact, this time when you walk in front of me and think I’m checking out your ass, it’ll be true.” “Cooper, you have such a way with words. A real poet.” “Don’t I know it,” he said, sliding on his bike.
Bijou Hunter, Damaged and the Beast
cooper-and-farah, poet