A few hours later, Anton and I are fairly sprawled over the bed, pillows knocked everywhere. And, obviously, that’s all my fault, because I’m the only one who can touch the pillows. But considering the expanse of his long boy limbs spread everywhere, I feel that it’s fair to make him share the blame.
“Laila’s gonna kill us,” I murmur, tracing a line of red wine that I spilled – completely by accident – on the pretty green comforter. “We’ve ruined her nice bedding.”
“Kill you,” Anton sighs, laying limp and pleasantly drunk across the end of the bed. “I haven’t touched a drop all night.”
I laugh and move towards him, laying out on my belly and holding the half-full glass of wine over his head, just starting to barely tip it. “Open up,” I say, “I’ll dribble it in, maybe you’ll get a taste
