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A diary entry full of moans, giggles, and not nearly enough sleep.

I wanted to stay single.
Honestly.
Forever.
Or at least until my sheets met someone who could bring the damn coffee in bed.
Instead… I met him.
Him. The guy who was supposed to “just stay for one drink” – and now my toothbrush is emotionally attached to him.

He walked in like a summer storm with a cocky smirk,
probably thinking he’d be the kind of guy I’d forget by dessert.
Wrong, baby.
You made me laugh, lick, and fall,hard.
(Also: that little black dress? Still in rotation. Barely lasted the night.)

We didn’t have a first date.
We had a first “Where the hell have you been all my life?”
And a second climax right on the kitchen table.
With olives.
(Don’t ask.)

He makes breakfast naked.
He curses while brushing his teeth.
He kisses me in public like it’s the last time, and whispers things in my ear at 3 a.m. that would make my nightstand blush.

I laugh more.
Moan louder.
And haven’t worn underwear in weeks. (You just never know.)

He’s so perfect.
He reads my mind when I tilt my bra slightly.
He makes me scream when I just meant to say goodnight.
And he kisses me like he knows my heart is just as wild as my tongue.

We’re not a fairytale.
We’re a chapter you read with hot fingers.
A playlist of messy sheets, wine glasses, and that one text:
“Be right there. Better be naked.”