CHAPTER 239

In celebration of his first year of sobriety, Colt McKay climbed on the back of a bull and rode for a full eight seconds.

In celebration of his second year of sobriety, Colt McKay climbed in an airplane and parachuted out.

In celebration of his third year of sobriety, Colt McKay had hoped to climb on a woman and end his self-imposed sexual abstinence of the previous thirty-six months.

He imagined soft candlelight, soft kisses, a woman’s soft skin and a soft bed beneath him.

At least that part of his fantasy had come true. Colt was in bed.

He was even laying face down on a puffy tie-dyed quilt with a woman beside him. However, he was not basking in the afterglow of red-hot sex, rather, he was grimacing in pain from the sensation of a red-hot poker jabbing him in the butt for the millionth time.

“Fuck. That hurts.”

“Almost done. Two more quick stitches and you’ll be good to go,” Doctor Monroe trilled in that annoyingly chipper voice of hers.

Go. Right. Where the hell was he supposed to