But he’s so fucking hot, it was so fucking hot with him last night, that I can’t seem to pull myself together. My restlessness last night was two percent fury that he thought he could pull a stunt like he did on Thursday and ninety-eight percent agonising over the deliciousness of the memory of being astride him. Of the picture he made beneath me, his bowtie undone, top button open, my fingers raking through that lustrous, thick hair.
