Thirty
“I always sleep like a baby afterwards.” — Francesca BoyleBailey eased into consciousness slowly and lazily, teased awake by the faint smell of Lancôme “La Vie est Belle” perfume. Someone else’s Lancôme “La Vie est Belle” perfume.
As she lay on her back with her eyes still closed, she could feel that someone else’s body snuggled warmly up against her side, their arm draped lazily across her own torso, their slow and even breath delicately brushing her shoulder. She opened her eyes and turned her head to take in the still sleeping, and still achingly beautiful, form of Doris Ackland, Ph.D.
Bailey closed her eyes again and let it all — the smell, the touch, the remnants of the now six hours old post-coital bliss — wash over her. Saturday mornings simply didn’t get any better than t
