Unleashed: The True Story of a Recovering Serial Monogamist

The Best Game You Can Name…


I’m a girl who loves to cook and I happen to be very good at it. However, like many of my gifts, I don’t share that information with just anyone because I just don’t like doing it all the time. It’s what you’d call a hidden talent. Anyway, just recently, I got into a small fender bender (which might have been partially Hockey Guy’s fault since we were fooling around in my car)… Regardless, Hockey Guy has been a real sweetheart, calling and texting me to see how I was doing, how’s my car, and generally being a good guy. I know the reason for that could be him wanting to stay on my good side (since I put out and he likes my very naughty side), but in reality, he’s a really sweet guy who genuinely likes me as a person. So, because I am a sucker for sweeties (who happen to be cute and in great shape), yesterday I went grocery shopping to purchase all the ingredients to cook my famous manicotti.


I was planning on baking it for Guy as thanks for trying to help with the situation… I know how men feel about their food and am familiar with that old (yet true) cliché about the way to a man’s heart, but hell, I also just wanted an excuse to spend more time with him. My manicotti takes at least an hour to cook so I picked up a variety of cheeses and crackers, strawberries and blueberries for an appetizer. I ended up preparing the entire dish at home (excluding the baking) and bringing it to his place. Unfortunately, I had forgotten the crackers at home so we went out, very casually, and bought more. I mention this because that simple action was TORTURE for me – it gets very difficult to control yourself, your hands, and your mouth when your body temperature goes up and you have certain thoughts racing through your head before you even arrive at his place.


Upon finally returning to his place, we watched a bit of television and ate the manicotti – delicious as usual (though more torture). In fact, Guy is such a gentleman that he didn’t initiate anything for the first half of the evening. He told me that I’d have to be in charge of that…


No problem!


The man is smoking hot. Tall (6’1″), blond, and still in a-mazing shape from his NHL days. I may have mentioned before that he was a hockey player… What I meant was National. Hockey. League. Professional hockey. Hello! And let’s just say he’s most definitely not lacking anywhere else either. Long, firm, broad and solid. Like a brick wall – or a good right winger. Wink. The epitome of oh-my-goodness. Maybe not as big as Irish (who is?), but a very very close second.


Most of the time was spent closely examining his (ehem) muscles, yea.. muscles… and heating up his leather couch. Despite being a sweetheart (on the outside), the man has an extremely wicked and wide naughty streak – enough to match me, which I found both intriguing and impressive. And worthy of thorough testing and re-testing. Needless to say, we didn’t quite make it back into his bedroom until it was time to sleep, where we promptly passed out from lack of energy (a good night).


It must have been the spent energy, because I slept pretty well with him (an unusual circumstance even alone!). He even warmed up a banana nut muffin in the morning for me (literally). In exchange, I left him some of my delicious manicotti to eat later. I’m hoping I’ll get to see him again soon since he is quite delicious and enjoyable, in more ways than one. Food, sex, and breakfast… does it get better than that?


Amalie Paris


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