He’d told me about it last night, while we were in his bed. True to his word, he didn’t try to push anything. He just talked. Temple propped on a fist, gazing at me as his fingers skated down my chest, he told me about how difficult it is to get good food. “That’s why,” he’d said, eyes dark as they traced the neckline of my tank top, “When I find real food—quality food—I make sure to stock up. So you can have some, too.” In his own twisted way, that’s probably a significant declaration. It’d be really sweet, actually.
