I had sex with Oliver Queen last week, but the thing is, I didn't know who he was until this morning.
I opened the Inquisitor up- don't ask why I buy it- and saw his pretty face plastered across the top- 'Play boy bunny hunted'.
I didn't bother reading it partly because I was afraid that the article would hold some truths in it, but mainly because I had no interest in his love life.
Whatever, right?
Wrong.
He called tonight asking to take me to dinner in Paris.
"I'm sure you've smoothed over other ladies Mr. Queen, but I'm certainly not one of them." He laughed at my remark.
"If you're hungry, we go out to Chinese and you can tell me all about your fortunes."
I didn't mean to sound rude, but that man just burns something in me. And no, before you create some fiery romance image in your mind, it is definitely not love.
She had some fire in her. Not the boyish gruffness that some women seemed to adopt, but like hot flames licking the sides gracefully. I had to have her one more time, just to see if her engine was well oiled all year round or if she had her MOT done very recently.
He rented the restaurant out for the entire evening. I could have argued and demanded we leave at once, but I didn't. It felt comfortable. Plus, the hot mess in front of me was pretty interesting to talk to. Under all that expensive cologne and alcohol was a decent man with a fairly high moral ground.
We ended up in bed again, and I can tell you now that she's the more efficient engine I've come across since, well, forever. Miss. Sullivan wasn't clingy or shy. She was practical and very desirable when she didn't make witty remarks. I liked her.