“This is futile,” Cristal grumbles, agitated that her husband is sleeping while she tosses and turns beside him. For the umpteenth time, she rolls on her side, staring at Dante’s serene face. His expressive brows, thoughtful eyes, and laugh lines are boyish in slumber. An hour ago, his mien wasn’t so innocent, but filled with mischief when he murmured in a husky voice headier than a glass of wine, “A sweaty, heart-pounding cure is what you need, babe.”
“A sweaty, heart-pounding cure is what you need, babe.”Cristal sweeps hair from Dante’s forehead and kisses his brow, recalling the energetic foreplay that sailed him to sleep and left her wide awake, gazing at the ceiling most of the morning with haunting thoughts and images of spectral dust coiling around Skylar in the backyard.
She bani
