Mel is like a permanent rainbow in a city that’s eternally gray. From her flashy earrings to the line of bracelets up to her elbow, she clinked and clanked her way into my room in an explosion of colors, trying to cheer me up when my world had just walked out my apartment door and it took all my willpower to keep from running after him. Mel took the merest second to assess the situation before taking action. She spotted the bawling mass on my bed, which was me, and she quickly pried my pillow free and replaced it with her big-breasted chest, and now her designer top is soaked from my tears as she waits for me to run out of them. It’s been at least a half hour, or more, and I’m still going strong. Every couple of minutes, I just seem to need to pause for air. Now, in one of my breathing moments, she pushes me away to stare into my eyes with a saucy curve of her lips. “You weren’t lying when you said Riptide Tate wanted you to be the mother of his sexy babies, were you?
