Maximoff tries to relax, his hand sliding back in Farrow’s hand. “Who was it? What’d they do?” His tone is sharp, so it sounds like he’s asking for a culprit and a motive. I take one breath. And I say just it. “I walked in on Paul Donnelly giving Luna great head—the great was her assessment, though from my vantage it did look very pleasing…” I trail off, so sweltering hot that I can barely think straight. Farrow’s jaw has dropped. Shock slowly washes over his face, and he swings his head to me. “Donnelly?” “Yes.”
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