Angelo
It took me a long time to go up to bed after Rosalia walked out of the office.
I didn’t trust myself not to go to her room. She wanted me—I could feel it in every trembling line of her body, the way she shuddered when I touched her hip. I saw how wet she was, and it made me feel half-insane.
I can’t want her. I can’t have her. I shouldn’t. But it’s harder and harder each day when she makes it so clear that she wants to break my resolve, and my only defenses are my own principles and my belief that she’s not thinking clearly. That later—much later—when she could, she would regret the choice.
Instead, I’m relegated to another night of self-pleasure in my office before I even dare head upstairs. It’s almost more frustrating than pleasurable at this point—more of a necessity than so
