Angelo
Leaving Rosalia on our wedding night feels like the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I lay awake that night in my own room, sleepless and exhausted, far more sober than I would like to be and thrumming with unfulfilled desire. My every thought is plagued with imaginings of how beautiful she looked in her wedding dress, how much I wanted to take it off of her, to feel that heavy satin sliding between my fingers as I lifted the skirt up to her thighs and pressed my mouth between them for the first time. A dozen images like it fill my sleepless imagination—Rosalia on her knees in her virginal wedding gown, bits of her updo coming loose around her face as I guide her through sucking my c**k for the first time. Sitting on the edge of the bed with the skirt around her hips, obediently sprea
