Chapter Thirty-Five
It was eight in the morning. Chenkov rolled his head over and tried to focus on the clock. God! All that vodka! It felt like someone had used his brain for a doorstop. Then he heard the whimpering.
Oh Lord. Still!
She had been whimpering when he had rolled off her thighs hours ago. And she still sounded like a leaky steam-pipe. He looked over. The kitchen girl was curled up at the side of his bed with her back turned toward him, trembling as she sobbed.
Virgins! Why did he fuckin’ bother? More trouble than they were worth. But the look on their tiny faces when you told them what you were about to do to them; when you bent them over and explored.
But what he craved now was a good woman, one who knew how to work it without getting all prissy about a little c*m on her
