Rosalia
By the next day, some of my fear has receded, but I can tell that Angelo is still tense. I wake up before him in the morning—like I have most mornings—and slip under the sheets, tracing kisses up his thighs and all the way to his half-hard c**k, teasing it with my lips and tongue. It’s soothing to me, a routine that I love, but this morning, when the sensation finally stirs him awake, he reaches for me instead.
“Come here,” Angelo says softly, and for a moment, I think he’s going to pull me atop him, but instead, he moves me so that I’m curled up against his chest. “I’d rather lay here with you a little longer instead,” he murmurs, pressing his lips against my hair, and I don’t argue. As much as I want him, I can feel that he needs this instead, and I find it sweet. I can tell he
